Chapter 6

Once I had my temporary ID, the first thing I did was deposit the 6,134.50 yuan into my bank account.

Just before I entered the station, Fan Xiaocao had insisted on stuffing the IOU back into my bag.

She said she had too much stuff and might lose it.

The borrower could keep it safe for the creditors for now.

I called to get their current address, then made three photocopies of the IOU.

One I mailed to Tang Ruoping.

One to Fan Xiaocao.

The third I tucked inside my advanced mathematics textbook.

When Fan Xiaocao got hers, she called in a fury.

“You looking down on me?

“Why photocopy an IOU? Afraid I’ll die and deny the debt?”

I corrected her.

“A creditor’s death doesn’t prevent the debt from passing to their heirs.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

Tang Ruoping took the phone.

“Enough of that unlucky talk.

“Anyone bullying you at school?”

I considered.

“The dorm supervisor said my quilt smelled musty and told me to air it outside.”

Her voice rose at once.

“Who is she to look down on you? Send me the address. I’ll—”

“She lent me a new one.”

Tang Ruoping stopped.

“Oh.”

After a while, she added awkwardly,

“Seems like a decent woman, then.”

…

I’d never lived in a dormitory before.

All three of my roommates were lovely.

One called home twice a day.

One had to video-call her mother before bed.

The third had a father who spent more than ten hours on a train just to bring her a jar of pickled radish.

I didn’t quite understand.

You could buy radishes in Beijing too.

But she held the jar and cried for a long time.

That night, they asked whether my family would send me things.

I said no.

They felt so sorry for me that they took turns giving me beef jerky, honey, and laundry detergent.

I had nothing much to give in return.

So I helped them correct their homework.

A week later, our room’s average GPA wasn’t available yet.

Our average weight, however, had already gone up a kilo.

In the third week of term, the young policewoman called me.

Her surname was Lin.

Officer Lin told me the case hadn’t reached a verdict.

The prosecutor’s office was still reviewing it for prosecution.

The prosecutor handling it had considered the fact that it concerned property between relatives, the amount, the return of the money, and my conduct at university. They wanted me to submit proof of admission and accounts of my upbringing and family circumstances.

They would then hear separately from my parents and me.

If the facts and evidence remained unchanged, they might legally decide not to prosecute.

I asked,

“If they don’t prosecute, does that mean I won’t have a criminal record?”

She said,

“There won’t be a guilty verdict, or a record of a criminal conviction.

“But the case records showing you were investigated and held in custody won’t simply disappear.”

Holding my push-button phone, I sat on the steps outside the library.

The autumn wind passed through the ginkgo trees.

So lightly.

Yet suddenly my back was drenched in sweat.

So the door hadn’t been locked for good, as Fan Xiaocao had said.

Whether I wanted to enter the civil service someday, and which jobs I might qualify for, were separate questions.

At least I still had choices. A chance to explain.

Officer Lin paused, then said,

“Your parents oppose a decision not to prosecute.

“They think you won’t truly learn your lesson unless you’re convicted.”

I asked,

“Does their opposition count?”

“They reported the case, and they’re the injured parties. Their views will be heard.

“But they don’t get to decide whether you’re convicted or released.

“Dou Shiyu, you’re an adult.

“The law will listen to them. It will listen to you too.”

I was an adult.

My parents said that often.

They used it to tell me adults shouldn’t ask their families for money.

Officer Lin used it to tell me

I had the right to speak for myself.

The same word could mean two different things.