Chapter 24: The Classroom at Two O'Clock

1:25 p.m. Lin Chen opened his eyes.

There was no buffer. His mind cut straight from light sleep into wakefulness. The hard new leather sole under his foot had already stuck to the split flesh; when he turned over, it tugged at his ankle, the pain dull but manageable. He held his breath and slowly sat up. The dorm room was quiet. The lower bunk beneath him was empty. The three beds by the window were already occupied, their quilts folded into neat squares, the pillow towels made of brand-new floral cloth. The air smelled of mothballs and old wood.

He felt for the canvas bag by his pillow. Ledger, pencil, half an eraser, ruler. And that registration notice stamped with a red seal. He checked each item one by one and lined them up in order. His movements were slow, but extremely steady.

1:30 p.m. He pushed open the door. The corridor floor was terrazzo, worn smooth along the edges with years of use. Sunlight slanted in through the window at the far end and fell across the duty roster on the wall. He walked close to the wall, leaning slightly forward, avoiding the pooled water gathered in the seams between the floor tiles. In his head, he was arranging time. Building Three to Building One, across the athletic field, two hundred meters. Walking: four minutes. Reach the classroom at 1:40. Find a seat. Put down his things. Wait for class.

The wind swept across the cinder track, lifting fine gray dust. His fingers were numb with cold, the joints stiff and rough. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them alternately. He could not stop. If he stopped, his body temperature would drop too fast. In his head, he was doing accounts. Cash balance: 0.56 yuan. Emergency reserve: five yuan. Meal tickets: six yuan. Enough for ten days. Sixty cents a day. Cost of study materials: unknown. Final payment for medicine: cleared. The numbers in the ledger had to fit together without the slightest gap.

1:38 p.m. Building One. The stairs were concrete, their edges worn round. He climbed one step at a time. His breathing was even. No panting. Second floor. Senior Grade One, Class Three. The door stood open. More than thirty students were already seated inside. The desks were double wooden desks, their surfaces carved with scratches and formulas of varying depth. He walked to the last row by the window. Pulled out a chair. Sat down. Put the canvas bag into the desk compartment. Kept one hand on it.

1:45 p.m. He took out his ledger. Turned to a blank page. The pencil tip moved lightly across the paper.

Day 5. 13:45. Location: Building One, Room 203. Status: awaiting class meeting. Variables: meal tickets for 10 days. Reserve fund 5.00. Cash 0.56. Goal: figure out the rules. Do not overspend.

The pencil paused. He closed the ledger. His finger joints were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. Inside the Liberation shoes on his feet, the newly nailed-on sole pressed against the crack in his skin. It hurt. But it could still bear weight.

The sound of pages turning came from the row in front. It was a hardback exam-prep book, a precursor to Five Years of Gaokao, Three Years of Mock Tests, with the name of a provincial-capital press printed on the cover. Beside it lay a Hero fountain pen with a gold-plated clip. Lin Chen's gaze swept over them. It did not linger. He only noted them. County kids had reference books in their hands. Kids from the town had only the standardized test papers. The difference in pace was not a difference in scores. It was a difference in information.

2:00 p.m. The bell rang in the corridor. The sheet-metal striker hit the bronze bell, the sound dull and echoing. The noise in the classroom quickly subsided. Footsteps came from the far end of the corridor. Leather shoes on terrazzo, steady and even.

The door was pushed open. A man in a gray Dacron shirt walked in. Around forty years old. Hair combed neatly, white at the temples. In his hand was a kraft-paper folder and a red-and-blue pencil. He set the folder on the podium, turned, and swept his eyes over the whole class.

"My name is Chen Jianguo. I teach mathematics. I’m also your homeroom teacher." His voice was not loud, but it carried. "Senior Grade One, Class Three. Forty-two students. Starting today, we follow the rules of County No. 1 High School."

He opened the folder, pulled out the roster, and began calling names.

"Lin Chen."

"Here." Lin Chen stood up. His voice was quiet.

Chen Jianguo looked up and glanced at him. His gaze landed on Lin Chen’s coarse cloth shirt, washed pale, and on the frayed uppers of his shoes. He said nothing. He only made a check mark on the roster. "Sit."

Roll call lasted fifteen minutes. Some answered loudly. Some sounded hollow and uncertain. Some came late and stood at the door asking permission to enter. Chen Jianguo did not scold them. He only pointed to the empty seats. "Go in. Don’t make a sound."

2:20 p.m. Roll call ended. Chen Jianguo put down the roster, picked up a piece of chalk, turned, and wrote on the blackboard. Chalk dust sifted down onto the edge of the podium.

1. Schedule. Morning reading: 6:30. Four classes in the morning. Lunch break: 12:00–14:00. Three classes in the afternoon. Evening self-study: 18:30–21:30. Late three times, public notice. Absent once, advised to withdraw. 2. Discipline. No whispering in class. No extracurricular books. No radios. Violators will have them confiscated. 3. Fees. Scholarship students have already had meal tickets deducted. Study materials fee: 3 yuan. Must be paid in full by this Friday. If not paid by the deadline, no exercise booklets will be issued.

Lin Chen’s fingers slowly tightened on his knees. Three yuan. Emergency reserve: five. If he paid it, two would remain. Cash: 0.56. Total funds: 2.56. Ten days of meal tickets. Sixty cents a day. Six yuan. Just enough coverage. But the materials fee was mandatory. If he didn’t pay, there would be no exercise booklets. The county school’s pace could not be matched with the town’s test papers. He had to pay.

He lowered his head, opened the ledger, and wrote quickly.

Expense: study materials fee 3.00. Balance: 0.56 + 5.00 - 3.00 = 2.56. Meal tickets: 6.00 (10 days). Daily average: 0.60. Shortfall: none. But margin for error: zero.

The pencil tip paused. He crossed out margin for error: zero and wrote beside it: Countermeasure: borrow reference books during evening study. Copy problems during breaks. Do not waste meal tickets.

2:30 p.m. Chen Jianguo put down the chalk and turned back. "Scholarship students—the list is posted on the notice board. Every month there will be a grade-wide exam. Stay in the top thirty percent of the year level, and you keep it. Fall out, and it stops. County No. 1 doesn’t feed idlers. And it doesn’t feed the lazy."

The classroom was very still. Only chalk dust drifted in the sunlight.

"We won’t choose temporary class officers yet. Cleaning, collecting assignments, blackboard duty—you’ll rotate. Today’s duty student: last row by the window. Lin Chen."

Lin Chen stood up. "Yes."

"After class, go to the water room and fetch water. Wipe the blackboard. Sweep the podium. Someone else tomorrow."

"Understood."

Chen Jianguo nodded and opened his lesson plan. "First period: math. Turn to Chapter One. Sets. Concepts. Definitions. Example problems. Keep up with the pace. The county school is two weeks ahead of the town. If you can’t keep up, make it up yourself."

He began writing formulas on the board. The chalk struck sharply, at a rapid rhythm. No pauses. No repetition.

Lin Chen opened a blank notebook. The pencil tip touched the paper. He wrote along with the lecture. Sets. Elements. Belongs to. Inclusion. Symbols. Strokes. Horizontal. Vertical. Turning stroke. He had to write fast. But the handwriting could not become messy. He adjusted his grip, used his wrist, and let the pencil glide over the page. A dry rustling sound, blending with the turning pages in the rows ahead.

2:50 p.m. The bell rang for the end of class. Chen Jianguo closed the lesson plan. "Self-study. Copy the example problems once. I’ll check tomorrow."

He walked out of the classroom. His footsteps faded.

The sound of chairs shifting rose in the room. Some began talking. Some rummaged through their schoolbags. Some took out biscuits. Lin Chen did not move. He kept copying problems. The symbols for sets. The solutions to the examples. The steps. The logic. No skipping steps.

The boy in front turned around, a copy of Guidance for Middle School Mathematics Competitions in his hand. "Hey. New kid. From the town?"

Lin Chen looked up. "Qingshi Village."

The boy smiled. "No wonder your shoes are worn so badly. County school eats shoes. Cinder track. One pair of soles ground through in a month. I’d suggest a pair of Warrior sneakers. Rubber soles. They last."

"Thank you," Lin Chen said evenly.

The boy said nothing more. He turned back around and kept reading.

Lin Chen lowered his head and kept copying. The pencil did not stop. In his head, he was calculating. Warrior shoes: eight yuan. Impossible. A rubber patch for the sole: twenty cents. That could last a month. The numbers in the ledger had to fit together seamlessly.

2:55 p.m. He closed his notebook, stood up, walked to the back door of the classroom, and picked up the bucket. He went downstairs. The water room was on the east side of the field. A sheet-metal faucet. The stream was thin. He filled the bucket. It was heavy. His shoulders ached. He adjusted his center of gravity and walked back one step at a time. The water did not spill.

3:05 p.m. He returned to the classroom. Set the bucket down by the podium. Picked up the blackboard eraser. Wiped away the formulas. Chalk dust settled on his sleeve. He did not brush it off. He only kept wiping. Corners. Seams. Leaving no trace. When he finished, he picked up a broom and swept the podium. Chalk stubs. Paper scraps. Dust. Swept them into a dustpan. Emptied it.

His movements were slow, but extremely steady.

3:20 p.m. He returned to his seat. Sat down. Opened the ledger. The pencil moved again.

Day 5. 15:20. Duty completed. Status: stable. Progress: county school is two weeks ahead. Countermeasure: take a front-row seat during evening study. Borrow reference books. Copy problems. Funds: study materials fee reserved. Meal tickets for 10 days. Emergency reserve 2.56. Goal: place in the top 30% on the monthly exam.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His finger joints were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. Inside the Liberation shoes on his feet, the newly nailed-on sole pressed against the crack in his skin. It hurt. But it could still bear weight.

Outside the window, the wind had stopped. Sunlight shone across the cinder track. The chalk-drawn lane markings gave off a faint glow in the shade.

He closed his eyes. In his head, he laid out the schedule. 3:30 p.m., first class of the afternoon: physics. 6:30 p.m., evening self-study. 9:30 p.m., back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. Tomorrow, 6:30 a.m., morning reading.

One step, one footprint.

3:25 p.m. The class bell rang. The sheet-metal striker hit the bell once more. The sound was dull, with an echo.

He opened his eyes. Sat up straight. Opened his physics textbook. The pencil tip touched the paper. Ready to take notes.

Footsteps came from the corridor. Closer and closer.

The physics teacher pushed the door open. Lin Chen drew his hands back from his knees, sat up straight, and let his gaze fall on the title page of the textbook. The printed table of contents: Chapter One, Mechanics. Chapter Two, Thermodynamics. Chapter Three, Electricity.

The afternoon lessons kept moving forward. The sound of chalk, pages turning, and wind across the cinder track outside the window were all compressed by him into measured marks.

One step, one footprint.