Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I had bombed the high-school entrance exam and landed in a third-rate school with a famous name.

It was famous not for college admissions, but for the remarkable variety of troublemakers it produced.

Cen Juan was in my class. His family was reportedly wealthy, but his father ignored him and he lived like something feral. If he was not skipping class or fighting, he was sleeping at his desk. The well-behaved students thought him too delinquent; the actual delinquents thought him insane. He, in turn, looked down on men and women, young and old, with perfect equality.

On the first day of school, he made his name by pinning a ringleader from the neighboring vocational school against a wall and setting the boy’s hair on fire with a lighter.

Teachers did not dare manage him. Students did not dare provoke him. He moved through the halls like a dangerous object surrounded by its own force field, clearing every space he entered.

Our only real interaction came during our final year, on one of the rare days he attended class. He spent the whole day slumped over his desk, did not move, and skipped lunch.

The classroom was half empty during afternoon self-study. On my way to fill my cup, I paused beside him. He still lay motionless, almost lifeless, his nape exposed and filmed with sweat.

I stood there with my empty cup, fighting an internal battle. In the end, a thin scrap of classmate loyalty and some inexplicable kindness won.

I returned to my seat, took an unopened pineapple bun from my bag, and poked his arm.

No response.

I pushed harder.

He jerked upright, congested and furious at being disturbed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

My sympathy evaporated. The rumors were right: arrogant and impossible.

I shoved the bread onto his desk. “Eat.”

Then I hurried away with my cup and pretended not to hear the nearly inaudible “Thanks” behind me.

Much later, I learned he had not been suffering from low blood sugar or a dark mood.

He had gotten his nipples pierced. They were infected, and he was delirious with fever.

* * *

After I removed the studs from his face, Cen Juan examined himself in his phone. He looked like a cat that had been shaved, every line of his expression saying, Who is this stranger?

I dragged him to the next stop: a salon.

The stylist circled his purple hair in admiration. “Not everyone can pull off a color like this.”

That immediately rekindled Cen Juan’s reluctance. He glanced at me with a triumphant See?

I cut him off, leaned close, and coaxed him in a low voice. “Dye it black just this once. Once we’re through this, you can go purple again. You can even go neon green if you want.”

His eyes lit. “Really? You’re not lying?”

“Really.” My face did not move.

Only last month, he had shown me a photograph of neon-green hair and asked for my opinion. I had vetoed it on the grounds that the glow might wake me at night.

He studied me as if assessing my reliability, then shut his eyes with the air of a man making an enormous sacrifice. “Black. Pure black.”

When I led the transformed Cen Juan through my parents’ door on Saturday, the living room fell silent. My parents and all four siblings stopped in unison and stared.

His body tensed. He instinctively tried to pull his hand from mine, but I held on. His throat moved. Then, slowly and with great effort, he smiled.

“Hello, Uncle and Auntie. Hello, brothers and sisters.”

His acting throughout dinner was phenomenal. He sat straight, took food only from the dishes before him, and answered every question in precise, respectable tones.

“I work mainly in music, with some performance art on the side.”

“Mianzhi and I were high-school classmates, though we weren’t close then. We slowly got to know each other after attending the same university.”

“My family is local. I’m an only child. My mother died when I was young, and my father is busy. We only see each other a few times a year.”

After dinner, my parents kept him talking for a long time. They gave him a thick red envelope and gazed at him with overflowing affection. I finally intervened, saying it was late, and secured his release.

Outside, the night wind struck us and we exhaled together, weak with the relief of disaster survivors.

By silent agreement, we turned into a secluded corner beside the flower bed. I took out my cigarettes and shook two free. Cen Juan accepted one with a frown. “I don’t like Liqun.”

He still leaned in, touching his cigarette to mine to light it. The orange tips brightened and dimmed in the dark.

He loosened his collar and raked his newly black hair into a mess, recovering some of his familiar wildness.

I flicked ash away. “Excellent performance, Student Cen.”

He narrowed his eyes at me through the smoke. “Do I get a reward for acting so well?”

I rose on my toes, ruffled his hair, and teased, “Your reward is… being a good puppy.”

He chuckled and did not object.

I was deciding whether to smoke another cigarette or make him go home when a plastic bag hit the ground behind us.

We both froze.

My two brothers stood side by side, garbage spilled at their feet. Xingyuan’s face was blank. Yixing raised an eyebrow. Their eyes moved from the cigarette between my fingers to the one in Cen Juan’s hand.

The air congealed.

Yixing broke the silence first. “A cigarette after dinner is better than paradise, is it? And smoking with our little sister makes paradise last longer?”

Neither of us found an answer.

Yixing bent to gather the trash. Cen Juan reacted at once, stubbed out his cigarette, crouched, and returned a runaway bottle to the bag.

“Thank you,” Xingyuan said flatly. His gaze passed between us and settled on my face. “Mianzhi. We’re leaving.”

The command was short and allowed no argument.

My scalp prickled. I hid the cigarette behind me, crushed it out, and obediently followed. Cen Juan watched me with helpless concern. I waved discreetly and mouthed, Go. He frowned, then nodded, watching as my brothers escorted me away, one on each side.

No one spoke until Yixing threw the bag into the bin and dusted off his hands.

“Tell us,” he drawled. “When did you and that sweet, innocent boyfriend of yours learn to change faces?”

They had probably heard everything.

Xingyuan folded his arms. “When did you learn to smoke?”

“I don’t remember. I was under a lot of pressure.”

“Did he teach you?”

“No!” I denied it at once. “Honestly, I smoked first.”

Yixing lifted an eyebrow. “You corrupted him?”

“Yes,” I admitted through clenched teeth.

After several silent seconds, Xingyuan asked, “How did you two get together?”