[048] The Fox Borrows the Tiger’s Might

Because the two days before the start of the semester happened to be Saturday and Sunday, classes followed the Monday and Tuesday schedule. Today was Monday once again, so classes resumed according to the Monday timetable.

He paid close attention during English class—since he couldn’t afford a tape recorder, being able to borrow the old lady’s recorder to listen to English was a precious opportunity. After all, outside of class, he’d have to rely on Shen Mo.

There was no need to listen during math—he continued his self-study. History wasn’t worth listening to either, but he had to appear attentive; otherwise, he might get kicked. Fang Chang’an desperately hoped for a unit test—just one perfect score would give him the confidence to do other things during history class.

Political science wasn’t worth listening to; he could read the book on his own. Chinese class wasn’t necessary either, but he could listen openly—Teacher Cheng was truly beautiful. He wondered what Shen Mo and Wang Ke would look like when they grew up…

After five happy and fulfilling lessons, Fang Chang’an went outside the school gate to look for lunch and indeed found a small eatery selling rice bowls. It was set in a plain residential house, unfinished and unpainted, with a big round table where some regulars were already eating.

Ordinary rice bowls—a serving of rice topped with some vegetables. The rice cost fifty cents, and you could choose vegetables for thirty or fifty cents. He took a bowl of rice, picked thirty cents’ worth of vegetables, found a seat, and tasted a few bites. The flavor was passable—not particularly delicious, but certainly cleaner and more reassuring than the school cafeteria, where, as he recalled, the potatoes were never peeled, and he had no confidence they were even washed properly.

After lunch, Fang Chang’an returned to the classroom to fetch his rice bowl and chopsticks, worried Wang Ke would return first, so he left her a note. Back in the dormitory, most people had already eaten. The room was full; Liu Yan and Liu Cheng were sitting on the vertically placed bed, chatting, with three or four others he didn’t recognize—probably from other dorms.

When Fang Chang’an entered, Liu Cheng was about to greet him with a smile, but his cousin suddenly stood up. Startled, he paused, and the others, caught off guard, fell silent. Laughter and chatter vanished, leaving the dorm in an odd, tense silence.

“Uh… you’re back?” Liu Yan fumbled for the right words, stammered twice, and then settled for a friendly smile.

“Yeah, carry on,” Fang Chang’an replied with a smile, grabbing his towel and washbasin and heading out to wash his face.

“Yan, who was that? Why so polite?” A blond boy, legs propped on the bed rail, sitting on someone else’s pillow, asked from the bed placed crosswise on the right.

Another blond, toothpick in mouth, blew his bangs out of his face as he commented, “Looks like a goody-two-shoes. Pale as a girl.”

“Shut the hell up!” Liu Yan snapped. Liu Cheng, who was about to speak, was so startled he forgot what he’d been about to say.

The two blonds looked a bit annoyed, but Liu Yan was well respected—someone who could call Brother Wei by his first name and had even visited his house. After a moment’s hesitation, neither retorted.

“You punks don’t know anything!” Liu Yan, his earlier fawning demeanor gone, now radiated the swagger of Brother Wei himself. “Yang Wei, if Brother Wei heard what you just said, he’d slap you upside the head—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

After his tirade, Liu Yan glanced outside the dorm, then lowered his voice, “That’s Fang Chang’an.”

Yang Wei and the others suddenly understood, “So that’s Fang Chang’an?”

Still somewhat disgruntled from the scolding, Yang Wei pressed on, “Brother Wei never says why—what’s so special about this Fang Chang’an?”

“You punks don’t know anything!” Liu Yan repeated, now determined to make Fang Chang’an sound as impressive as possible—so his own deference wouldn’t seem cowardly, but rather prudent respect. “Let me put it this way: if you mess with Fang Chang’an, not only Brother Wei, but even Brother Wei’s father would be in trouble. Not even a few thousand yuan could set things right—got it?”

The little gangsters fell silent, awe-struck.

Liu Yan, pleased with himself, went on, “We might not be good students, but we need brains. Without brains, you won’t get by anywhere.”

“What does it mean to have brains? At the very least, you need to know who you can and can’t mess with.”

“Yesterday at noon, right outside the school gate, Brother Wei, Zhao Xu, and I all saw it—a BMW came to pick him up. Do you know who was driving?”

The others exchanged looks, shaking their heads, eager for the answer.

The dorm quieted completely. Even Wang Hao, Li Dongfeng, Hao Mingci, and other students from Class Four were listening; the dorm had become Liu Yan’s own teahouse for storytelling.

With the whole room expectant, Liu Yan raised his chin, curled his lips, and said, “The mayor’s son!”

Silence continued.

Liu Yan pressed, “Now do you understand?”

A sense of invisible pressure seemed to settle over Yang Wei and the others. They nodded, exhaled, and finally sighed, “That’s really something… What do his parents do?”

Someone else added, “He doesn’t look like he comes from money, though.”

“It’s not about money,” Liu Yan said dismissively, as if their understanding was too shallow. “It’s not about his family either. The point is, he’s someone you just don’t mess with. Remember that, and don’t cross him.”

Everyone nodded.

Liu Cheng looked at his cousin, still a little dazed. How had Fang Chang’an suddenly become so formidable?

Wang Hao, Li Dongfeng, and the rest from Class Four were even more bewildered—especially Wang Hao. Just yesterday, he’d shared a bed with Fang Chang’an, and that very morning, Fang Chang’an had brought him breakfast. How had he, in the blink of an eye, become someone as influential as a character on TV?

When Fang Chang’an returned, he could sense the odd atmosphere. He glanced at Liu Yan, then at the others’ expressions, and guessed Liu Yan must have been talking about him.

He couldn’t be bothered to get involved. He set down his washbasin, hung up his towel, asked if anyone was heading back to the classroom (no one was), and left alone.

He wondered if it was just his imagination, but as he walked out, it felt as if the air pressure in the room subtly shifted.

“Tsk, tsk. Now that’s what you call a boss!” Fang Chang’an congratulated himself inwardly, feeling so light he was almost floating as he returned to the classroom. Wang Ke was reading at her desk.

He glanced at her book—it wasn’t “Fortress Besieged.” A second look confirmed his copy of “Fortress Besieged” was on his own desk.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

Startled, Wang Ke patted her chest, then showed him the cover: “The Little Chick’s Adventure.”

“What’s that?”

“‘The Little Chick’s Adventure.’”

“Is it good?”

“Mm-hmm!”

Fang Chang’an pursed his lips. “Where’s ‘Fortress Besieged’?”

Seeing his expression, the little girl whispered, “I couldn’t get into it.”

Fang Chang’an smiled, “That’s normal. Read it when you feel like it. When you finish this one, let me read it.”

Wang Ke’s eyes sparkled and she nodded eagerly, “Okay, I’m almost done!”

It was clearly a children’s story—the book was thin. Fang Chang’an nodded and returned to his seat to continue reading Lu Xun.

He was rereading “Diary of a Madman,” for the fifth time. His only reaction, as before, could be summed up in one honest phrase: “Damn!”

He really couldn’t think of a better way to describe it.

Shen Mo entered the classroom after two o’clock. Many students were napping at their desks. She didn’t say a word, quietly read her book, and waited until the preparatory bell rang. Only then, when everyone was awake, did she gently poke Fang Chang’an with her fingertip.

“Did you practice your handwriting?”

Fang Chang’an nodded earnestly, “I did.”

She smiled sweetly, pleased with his diligence, and whispered, “Then show me.”

What?

Fang Chang’an hadn’t expected her to be so serious—to actually check his work. But he didn’t panic. With great composure, he flipped through his notebook, then as if suddenly remembering something, leaned closer to Shen Mo and whispered an explanation, “I just used it up in the restroom.”