Yuyang had never thought that she could be so daring, that she could act improperly, shamefully even. Where had she found the courage to be so bold? On this particular evening, she followed Chu Tian with her eyes until he entered the library. Then, after hesitating in the doorway for a moment, she walked in and found him seated on a bench in the reading room. Sitting down next to him, she took out a book and pretended to be engrossed in it. It did not matter what she was reading; what mattered was the reality that she was sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Since they were in the library, no one could spot anything unusual, especially because she sat with her eyes lowered, as if everything were perfectly normal. But her face burned red the whole time, and that made her very unhappy. Whoever said “The eyes are the window to the soul” was an idiot. For a person in love, it is the face, not the eyes, that is the window to the soul. Her window was bright red, as if the character for happiness had been painted on her face. How could she hide her feelings from anyone? She couldn’t. Chu Tian turned his head when she gave a dry cough. She knew he’d done that, which instantly changed everything in her—body and soul. Her heart skipped a beat before it began to sink, darkly and slowly, to an indescribable place, while her body turned strangely light and drifted upward.
The air in the reading room compressed, yet the light felt moist as it caressed and gently stroked her. She felt like crying, but not out of sadness. No, she wasn’t sad; she just wanted to cry and cry until her body fell apart, which was the only way she could explain how she felt inside. But she composed herself, then took out from her bag the brand-new hardbound notebook that she’d recently bought. Opening it to the first page, she began to copy in neat handwriting the poem Chu Tian had posted on the bulletin board.
She added a dash and his real name, Gao Honghai, and conferred on his name the sort of significance one associates with names like Gorky, Shakespeare, and Balzac. Unsure if the “Hong” in his name was the character for “red” or for “flood,” she eventually settled on the latter since it was more common for a boy to have “flood” in his name. After finishing the task, she wrote her name in the lower right-hand corner of the cover followed by, after a moment’s reflection, her year and class, as well as her dorm room number. Originally she’d thought she’d be nervous, but she wasn’t and, in fact, was uncharacteristically calm. With a somber look, she pushed the notebook away from her before getting up and walking out. It was at that moment, when she was leaving the library, that a panicky feeling began to spread through her body, all the way to her fingertips. But there was nothing she could do about that now, so she ignored it.
Two days later Chu Tian returned the notebook to her—in the library, of course. He didn’t even try to be discreet; instead, he walked up and set it down in front of her. No one noticed. She opened it to see his autograph. She’d been wrong; it was “red,” not “flood.” As she hurriedly shut the notebook, a mysterious door in her heart was broken open, and in rushed a flood of unreasonable things. Scared and nervous, she felt she might faint then and there. I must be in love, she thought, this has to be love.
She was in love—Yuyang was sure of it. After that secret exchange, her chest always tightened when she ran into Chu Tian, while he, too, appeared awkward, tossing his hair repeatedly to fling it off of his forehead. That was totally unnecessary. Why are you tossing your hair? Yuyang wondered. You don’t have to do that; your hair will never be too messy for me. Will you still be Chu Tian if your hair is neat? He didn’t have to do that, and she’d tell him so when she got a chance.
Yuyang might not have been articulate, but she wasn’t stupid. She quickly figured out his daily routine, including his tendency to stroll along the athletic track at least once a day, usually after morning calisthenics or before the evening study period. With fewer people at those times, the field was more spacious, a perfect place for a poet’s solitary walk and an ideal spot for the pursuit of romance.
Twelve minutes before the study period began one evening, Yuyang finally mustered the courage and pretended to go for a walk, arriving at the field only to find it empty. Puzzled, she looked around, convinced that she’d seen him head this way after dinner. Where could he have gone?
Undaunted, she tiptoed around behind the cement bleachers, where she spotted Chu Tian, which sent her heart into a frenzy of pounding. Standing alone in the weeds, he was not composing a poem; no, he was standing with his legs spread as he aimed a stream of urine at a tree, straining to send the liquid pillar as high as his head. In order to reach new heights in his urinary endeavor, he pushed with his buttocks and dug in his toes for leverage. Yuyang’s mouth fell open. She was shocked by the discovery that the solitary Chu Tian, the proud and unrestrained poet, would be secretly engaged in such sordid, despicable behavior. She stood still, not daring to make a sound, until she managed to turn around and flee. When she reached the entrance to the field, she turned to look behind her. Chu Tian emerged and froze like a pole nailed to the track, apparently knowing that she’d witnessed his disgusting act. They could not see each other’s eyes, but they were obviously looking at each other. The ideal image of her poet was shattered; her heart crumbled. As the evening deepened, a dusky color built up between Yuyang and Chu Tian, blurring their outlines and carrying them farther and farther apart. Bracing herself by resting her hand on an iron gate, Yuyang took in big gulps of air as tears roiled in her eyes.
Yuyang fell out of love. But that had no effect on her classmates, who put on an outstanding performance at the singing contest. In fact, Section Three of the class of ’82 had a great deal to be proud of. Whether they won or not was secondary; what mattered most was the unprecedented solidarity among the students who formed a combat-ready bloc. Under the centralized leadership of the homeroom teacher, they cooperated with and supported each other, creating a brand-new, positive classroom atmosphere. But of course, none of this had anything to do with Yuyang, although, from a certain perspective, it did seem linked to her. When it was time for Section Three to go on stage, everyone stood up, emptying all the seats but two, one of them occupied by Sun Jianqiang, the other by Yuyang. She was not prepared for that. Even Sun, normally thick-skinned, could not hold his head up. His neck went limp and his head fell forward, his ears reddening. Yuyang looked up only once during the performance and saw little but Sun’s red ears. She, too, could no longer hold her head up, for everyone at the school, including Chu Tian, must have seen that she, Wang Yuyang, was not qualified to celebrate 12-9. It was a public humiliation, a display of disgrace. Keeping her head between her knees, she kept scratching the ground with her fingernail, but she had no idea what she was writing or sketching. Maybe she was trying to dig a hole so she could crawl into it and cover herself with dirt. She felt like crying, but lacked even the courage to do that; fortunately she managed to hold back her tears, since crying under these circumstances would have been an even greater loss of face. What would the homeroom teacher think of her then?
Zhao Shanshan was engaged in a flurry of activities. After she applied her makeup, her sparkling eyes were beyond description. Looking at Zhao from a distance, Pang Fenghua had an anxiety attack, and she was incredulous when Zhao walked up and offered to make Fenghua’s eyebrows longer. When was the last time Zhao had even acknowledged her presence? But Zhao was for real, for she’d already raised Pang’s chin and was elongating her eyebrows all the way over to her temples.