That effectively brought the practice to an abrupt end and stopped the swaying of the willows in the spring breeze.
“What’s wrong with you?” the teacher asked, glaring at the boy.
“Can’t we scrap this? It’s hard to do and it’s ugly,” the student said.
As his face darkened, the teacher ordered, “Get over here.”
So Sun Jianqiang stepped out of the formation and did not pass up the opportunity to make a face at Pang Fenghua along the way, which did not go undetected by the teacher. Since he always made a point of passing the ball to the teacher whenever they played basketball, the boy did not take the teacher’s annoyance all that seriously. He knew how to deal with the teacher; they were like friends. So he walked up and struck a casual pose, rocking back and forth to express his “I don’t care” attitude.
“Tell me, what do you mean by ugly?” the teacher demanded.
“It’s too girlish and sissy-looking,” Sun said with a red face. The boys laughed; so did some of the girls. The homeroom teacher sent a look to the music teacher that really was ugly before he turned around and roared at Sun, “Get out.” He pointed to the warehouse door.
Momentarily taken aback, Sun realized that he’d been executed, and the loss of face was more than he could bear. He spun around and walked off, pointlessly muttering something under his breath. The teacher pointed a finger at the boy’s receding back like a pistol—the coup de grâce for Sun Jianqiang. The teacher screamed, “You’re no longer on the athletic committee. And don’t ever come back here.”
Now that Sun was out, there was a gap in the chorus line, and as the teacher continued to fume, the singing practice came to another halt. Facing the chorus as the conductor, Pang Fenghua signaled the teacher with her eyes, asking what to do about the empty space. The Section Three students were well aware of the teacher’s decisive nature; he meant what he said and said what he meant. It would be impossible for him to backtrack now, especially since the outburst had occurred in front of the whole class. With his hands on his hips, he walked over to Fenghua.
“Keep practicing,” he said. He was still angry, but it was clear that he was thinking as his eyes lingered on the empty space left by Sun Jianqiang’s departure.
The students started up again; after gesturing with their hands, fists, and elbows, they began to sway to the left then to the right. They swayed with renewed effort, but without producing the desired effect. The earlier harmonious motion could not be recaptured, and with it went the imposing air and the spirit of resolve. The teacher’s eyes swept over each student’s face before landing on Yuyang, whose awkward movements were lackluster at best. With her eyes downcast, she looked ashamed; not only did she fail to look off at a forty-five-degree angle with deep longing, as required by the choreography, but she bit her lip. And she forgot to sing.
The teacher walked up, grabbed her by the elbow, and yanked her out of the formation. Then he gestured for the remaining students to close up ranks, returning symmetry to the chorus and filling Sun’s space at the same time.
“Good, very good. Now you’re making progress. Keep it up,” he said, clapping his hands and sighing happily.
With two students having been “executed,” the rest of the team increased their spirit and morale; they raised their voices as the veins bulged on their necks. From where he stood behind Pang Fenghua, the teacher also began to gesture, a sort of de facto conductor. Yuyang remained off to the side, knowing that she’d been executed but unsure of what to do now. So she just stood there stiffly, hoping for something to happen.
Afraid that the teacher would give her the coup de grâce, she made sure that she didn’t turn her back on him, but she didn’t want to stay where she was, either. That was just too awkward. She seemed to be waiting, but in vain, since the teacher had no intention of letting her rejoin the chorus. He’d forgotten all about her. So there she stood, biting down on her lip, her eyes downcast. And then she made an accidental discovery: The ugly round tips of her cloth shoes looked horribly unsophisticated. Taking two steps back, she tried to hide her shoes, but to no avail. Now she was truly ashamed, ashamed of her countrified appearance. Luckily, she was no longer the dumb little girl she’d once been, and she knew how to get out of this. She walked up to the teacher. “Teacher, I don’t feel well. May I be excused?” He was too engrossed in his conducting to hear her, so she repeated, “Teacher, I’d like to be excused.”
Now he heard her, and without even turning to look, he waved her away, assigning the responsibility for consent to his wrist. As she walked off, she forgot to swing her arms because her fists were still balled at her sides. The stiffness in her movements nearly caused her to goose-step out of the warehouse. The dozen or so steps seemed to take all her energy, each one stomping on her heart.
Sun Jianqiang was relieved of duty that evening. Without a word of explanation, the homeroom teacher simply put up a new list of committee members, replacing Sun’s name as athletic committee member with that of the Section Three class representative, and added “also serving” in parenthesis next to that name. A class meeting was called during the evening study period, and the teacher gave a short speech expressing his wish that the students not “give up on themselves” and not be “too clever,” for “nothing good” would come of either of those. He did not have to name names for them to know whom he was referring to. Sun Jianqiang was not likely to be passing the ball to the teacher on the basketball court anytime soon. But he was not the intended target of the phrase “too clever,” since he could hardly be called even a little clever. That was meant for Zhao Shanshan, whom the teacher glanced at during his speech. Zhao was not stupid, which she proved by lowering her head. Now she knew that she would not fare any better than Sun if she didn’t get behind Pang Fenghua or find a way to get on her good side. Her date of “execution” was not far off; she was living on borrowed time.
Yuyang was dejected at not being allowed into the chorus to celebrate 12-9, but she refused to let herself sink into defeat. So she went to the library to study, and when she found that she was unable to focus, she picked up a detective novel by Agatha Christie and was immediately hooked. Reading a novel a day, she soon finished the entire series. They had different story lines, crime scenes, and modi operandi, but the same deductive method was used to catch the murderer in each one. Logic was the starting point and the central technique in moving the plot forward to its climactic ending. Grouping Christie’s novels together, Yuyang realized that, except for the mustachioed Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, everyone connected to the crime was a suspect because they all had motive, time, method, and opportunity. Everyone was involved in the crime, and no one could claim innocence. Feeling that her eyes were wiped clean by the novels, Yuyang gained a renewed understanding of underground work and was emboldened to carry out her mission. She believed that the systematic reading would enable her to do an even better job pleasing Teacher Wei and putting those in the organization at ease.
Yuyang did not take the novels back to her dorm or to the classroom—better not to take books like that out of the library, where an air of research and contemplation gave this reading legitimacy. Exerting extra effort, she jotted down her reactions in a notebook as she read along. In addition to the contents of those notes, she gained something concrete—she met and eventually got to know Chu Tian of Section One of the class of ’81, the school’s most famous poet.
Not noticeably handsome and a bit on the skinny side, Chu had an unremarkable appearance. Compared to the other boys, he stood out only because of his hair, which was not only longer than everyone else’s, but it was also unusually messy—like a pile of chicken feathers. The hint of suffering on his face gave him an ascetic air and in turn made him unique. He hardly ever spoke to anyone, for he was arrogant and proud beyond words, and Yuyang had heard that the average student could only dream of getting to know him. Chu Tian, whose real name was Gao Honghai, was a country boy; but he was now Chu Tian, no longer Gao Honghai. The new name gave him a complete makeover, turning a tall, reedy youngster into someone not quite real and transcendent, as vast and as distant as the sky. His unique airs set him apart and instilled in him the sort of artistic temperament that was seen as so important by the teachers. In fact, Chu Tian had a very low sense of self-esteem, but his neurotic and reserved manner sent out a sparkle—a cold, haughty, superior, and conceited sparkle that was, naturally, the glittery evidence of his supremacy. Yuyang never dared look directly at him, and deep down she revered him, especially after reading his poem on the bulletin board. She was amazed at how he had referred to 12-9 as “you,” as if he were pointing to a person.