The light at the entrance of the residential compound flickered intermittently, buzzing and crackling as if it were on the verge of burning out.
The original security guard at the gatehouse had quit in a huff because the community office had dragged its feet on giving him a permanent position. Left with no other choice and no budget for a replacement, the office had left the main gate half-locked and unattended.
It was ten-forty when Pei Cangyu returned. It was far too late today, he thought as he reached through the bars to unlatch the bolt and pull open the iron gate. The gate groaned as it opened just a crack—a shrill, screeching sound that echoed through the silent compound like fingernails dragging across a blackboard. Pei Cangyu squeezed through quickly, pulled the gate shut, adjusted his backpack, and ran toward his building.
He ran fast but kept his footsteps light, wondering if his grandmother had gone to sleep yet.
The lights on these floors weren't working. They had been fixed last time, but someone had stolen the bulbs again. The neighbor on the second floor was away, so Pei Cangyu decided he would fix them himself over the weekend; otherwise, his grandmother wouldn't be able to go out.
He turned the key, opened the door, and stepped inside quietly. The lights were off, but the television was still on, playing an interminably long Korean drama. The volume was low. On the screen, a woman was weeping over an unfaithful man. His grandmother sat on the small sofa, her head nodding rhythmically as she dozed. Her silver hair stood up in wisps, charged with static. Her hand loosely gripped the remote, which looked ready to slip to the floor at any moment.
With practiced ease, Pei Cangyu picked up the clothes scattered on the floor. When his grandmother’s condition flared up, she often stripped because she felt feverish. He moved efficiently, gathering the discarded clothes, folding them, and placing them on the nightstand in her room before setting down his backpack and walking back to her.
Even in her sleep, she was talking, looking distressed as if caught in a nightmare. She was telling someone to get lost in a soft, melodic dialect, her brow furrowed, occasionally letting out a faint whimper.
Pei Cangyu knelt beside her and shook her gently. "Grandma, why don't you go back to bed?"
She slowly opened her eyes. Seeing Pei Cangyu through the haze of sleep, her eyes brightened, and she reached out to touch his face. "You're back."
Pei Cangyu nodded. "Let's go."
She rubbed her eyes, a physiological reaction that forced tears from her bloodshot gaze. She set down the remote and tried to use the armrest to stand, only then realizing she wasn't dressed. She was wearing nothing but a pair of oversized white underpants that hung loosely on her sagging skin, the old fabric stained with gray spots that wouldn't wash out.
The old woman suddenly flushed with shame. She sat back down, but before she could speak, Pei Cangyu had already draped a blanket over her. He lifted her up in his arms; the frail woman was little more than skin and bone, weighing almost nothing. It was as if the marks of a lifetime’s existence evaporated in old age, leaving everything weightless and insignificant.
He laid her on the bed, tucked her in, brought her slippers over, and turned off the light. "Go to sleep."
As he turned to leave, she reached out and tugged at him. "I made some tangyuan for you."
Pei Cangyu scratched his head. Though his face wore a look of feigned annoyance, his voice rose with a hint of cheer. "Hey, I told you not to worry about me. Just go to bed at night, you don't have to wait up... what a hassle..."
His grandmother closed her eyes and smiled. Pei Cangyu scurried off to the kitchen.
He lifted the lid of the pot. The tangyuan inside had long since burst, their fillings leaking out into a mushy, cold mess. After a moment's hesitation, he turned on the stove to heat them up anyway.
This wasn't because he had come home late; it was because his grandmother hadn't been able to cook properly for three years.
He heated them for a while and forced down a few bites, but eventually, the nausea became too much, and he had to pour the rest away. As he did, he kept glancing toward her room, terrified she might come out and pull his ear for wasting food. Then again, she hadn't had that kind of energy in a long time.
He searched the house and found her vomit in the bathroom. He turned on the faucet to clean it up, then swept and mopped the entire place. Fortunately, there were only two bedrooms, a living room, a combined kitchen and dining area, and a tiny balcony, so cleaning didn't take much effort.
By the time he finished everything, it was nearly midnight. Pei Cangyu climbed into bed and set his alarm for six. He had to get up early to pick up his grandmother's medicine before heading to school.
Exhausted, he fell asleep almost instantly.
His grandmother had fallen ill three years ago. It was intermittent psychosis, specifically categorized as delusional experiences; from time to time, she believed she was still living in the past. She had been born into a scholarly family and had attended a private school as a young lady of status. She had made it all the way to university, but then the family fortune declined. Due to issues with her "class background," she had married beneath her. In those times, happiness didn't seem like a necessary topic of conversation, but she had placed immense hope in her son. Pei Cangyu had seen photos of his father in the family albums—he was a sharp-looking man.
In his grandmother's albums, there were a few photos of herself as a child and a student, but no wedding photos. The rest were pictures of her family's grand gate, flowers, plants, and her parents. Most of all, there were photos of Pei Cangyu’s father, from primary school until the day he left home. It was clear that even when times were lean, his father had been raised with the best the family could offer. In all those albums, there wasn't a single photo of Pei Cangyu’s grandfather; he had no idea what the man even looked like. Flipping through the albums, one saw a girl’s illustrious heritage, a young woman’s hopeful school days, and a mother’s dreams invested in her offspring—while a significant portion of her life had been violently excised, hidden behind her ancestors and the next generation because she felt her own life was worthless.
Before she got sick, his grandmother had been a woman of exquisite taste. She had tended to many plants, and in spring, the balcony would be a riot of color. she especially loved orchids, the favorite of her clan. In summer, she would pick balsam flowers to dye her fingernails orange and Pei Cangyu’s bright red. When he finally grew old enough to protest, she would laugh and negotiate a compromise: "Just the toenails from now on, okay?" Her silly grandson had agreed; his later protests would come when he was much older. In autumn, she kept a small tank of red goldfish, lining the bottom with pebbles she’d collected and decorating it with clippings of water weeds. In winter, she made stews, using strips of cloth to seal the lid of a battered pot; she could make a single bone last for four or five stews, coaxing a rich aroma from a tiny scrap of meat. That was her skill. Before her illness, she had earned a bit of pocket money—five or ten yuan here and there—by doing mending work on top of her community welfare.
After she fell ill, all of that stopped. Pei Cangyu had tried to take over, to keep things as they were, but his grandmother, who never lost her temper, had become furious. She was stubborn and insisted on doing it herself. The plants withered, the goldfish starved, the stews were always too salty, and even the sun seemed to stop visiting the balcony. She obstinately refused to let him touch anything, and so their life slowly sank.
Since her illness, she loved telling stories of the past—the violets in the courtyard of her youth, the pony her family owned, and her son, who was tall, handsome, and looked just like her. Her moods fluctuated wildly. She became easily angered, as if waking from a dream of violet fields only to see a grease-stained pot, a cramped room, and piles of dirty laundry. She would fly into a rage, hurl the pot to the floor, and cover her face, weeping.
Pei Cangyu never knew what to do.
In her dreams, she cursed her husband. Perhaps she’d had a first love, perhaps she’d had ideals, but in the end, she always woke up to scrub a pot. Later, she took to lamenting her life. She would start by badmouthing people Pei Cangyu didn't even know, then move on to cursing. Even when she cursed, her voice remained low, never wild or frantic. Finally, she would let out a long, weary sigh, staring out the window for hours, before telling him, "Life is truly meaningless." Recently, when her condition flared up, she would feel hot and strip off her clothes. Her wrinkled skin had turned dull, clinging to her bones; her breasts hung low like two empty leather bags. She would huddle up, and sometimes she would call Pei Cangyu by the wrong name—his father’s name. That high-spirited, handsome youth, a top student who loved to laugh and sing, the brightest star in the school and her only hope, had run away one night and never returned.
His grandmother had tried her best to create a normal family atmosphere for him, but she had finally lost to her illness. Day after day, the sickness reminded them both of how broken their family was. Occasionally, from her century-old laments, Pei Cangyu caught a glimpse of a certain fated despair, but it was only a glimpse. More often than not, she would drift off to sleep mid-sentence while the TV droned on and the fan whirred, the flowerless balcony catching a stray gust of wind. Holding her withered hand, Pei Cangyu would feel a loneliness that didn't belong to his age suddenly strike him. Even leaning against her shoulder, he felt utterly alone.
But when she wasn't having an episode, she was still wonderful. Medical insurance covered part of her medicine, Pei Cangyu didn't have to pay tuition, and the community subsidies and low-income allowance were enough to keep them fed. His grandmother had also saved some money from her mending days. All in all, they could get by, which meant Pei Cangyu hadn't yet reached the age where he truly understood the meaning of "poverty."
Pei Cangyu sat up the moment the alarm let out its first beep. It was still dark outside. The pharmacy opened at six-fifteen; if he got the medicine then, he could still make it to school on time.
He dressed with lightning speed, pushed his bicycle out into the deep blue dawn, and pedaled toward the pharmacy. By six-seventeen, there was already a queue.
After ten minutes of waiting, he bought the medicine and sped back home. He ran upstairs and started cooking millet porridge.
While the pot was simmering, he went to wake his grandmother.
She woke up and sat dazed for a while before she began to dress. Pei Cangyu turned off the stove, realizing he didn't have time to eat.
Seeing him busy, his grandmother tried to help. Pei Cangyu didn't actually want her help because she usually just made a mess, but he couldn't say that, so he asked her to wipe the table.
"Aren't you eating?" she asked, seeing him change.
Pei Cangyu pulled off his tracksuit and changed into his school clothes, throwing his large school uniform jacket over the top. "No time. I'll just grab a fried dough stick."
She looked worried. "You should eat something."
"No, no." Pei Cangyu waved her off and rushed out the door. At this hour, there would probably be a line for the dough sticks too.
He pedaled furiously toward school. He was running late because of the medicine; usually, he preferred a leisurely walk or taking the bus.
Even so, as he neared the school, it looked like he was going to be late.
One intersection away, Pei Cangyu stopped his bike, bracing his leg against the ground to wolf down a few bites of his dough stick. From where he stood, he could see the school gate. There were hardly any people left; the first bell had probably already rung.
As he watched the gate, a very black car pulled up slowly. He guessed it was Bai Shi, and he was right.
It had rained heavily the night before, leaving many puddles along the road. The car happened to stop right in a large puddle. Pei Cangyu chewed his dough stick, expecting the car to move a bit, but it didn't. It sat there for a few seconds before the rear door opened, and he saw Bai Shi’s small leather shoes again.
*Splash.* He stepped right into the water. It submerged his ankles, turning his white socks instantly black with filth.
Pei Cangyu, still chewing, curled his lip. *Was that necessary? Would it have killed the driver to move two more steps? The world of the rich is truly incomprehensible.*
The light turned green. Pei Cangyu pedaled forward with half a dough stick in his mouth, but what happened next on Bai Shi’s end shocked him even more.
Bai Shi had just stepped out and turned to close the door. Before he could even move away, the car accelerated, sending a spray of muddy water soaking his trousers.
Even Pei Cangyu stared at the arrogant rear of the departing car. *What the hell was that? You wouldn't even treat cargo with that much indifference...*
But Bai Shi remained expressionless, seemingly unbothered, or perhaps just used to it. He did, however, raise an eyebrow when he spotted Pei Cangyu with a dough stick hanging out of his mouth.
Looking at the black mud on Bai Shi’s trousers and the water in his socks, Pei Cangyu suddenly remembered the day Bai Shi transferred. It had been just like today—the car had dropped him off and left immediately. No parents to meet the teachers, no one to ask which class he was in. He was just... dropped off.
The two made eye contact, then looked away, heading into the school—one to the building, the other to the bike racks.
By the time Pei Cangyu reached the classroom, Bai Shi was already seated. He looked up at him.
Pei Cangyu wondered if it was just his imagination, but Bai Shi seemed to be looking at him more often than usual today. Was it because he had just seen the "other side" of Bai Shi’s prestigious life? Was Bai Shi being bullied by his own driver because he’d offended him? And since Bai Shi was such an idiot, did he just provoke people until no one wanted to help him? Did someone have dirt on him and was blackmailing him? Or was Bai Shi actually... an illegitimate son? Was that why he had no status and was constantly ordered around?
...
The more Pei Cangyu thought about it, the more dire the situation seemed. The "Secret Histories of the Imperial Court" dramas he watched with his grandmother came flooding back, painting Bai Shi’s background in shades of dark mystery.
"What are you looking at?" Bai Shi asked, staring straight ahead.
Pei Cangyu nodded, as if he had made a solemn vow. "From now on, I won't pick fights with you anymore."
Bai Shi turned to look at him. "Why?"
Pei Cangyu reached out and patted his shoulder. "I've decided to call a truce."
Bai Shi frowned. "Why?"
Pei Cangyu frowned back. "What do you mean 'why'? Isn't this a good thing? I think it's a great thing."
Bai Shi fell silent.
A classmate was handing out test papers. When Pei Cangyu received his, he took one look and immediately flipped it face-down on his desk.
The next one was Bai Shi’s. The classmate glanced at the paper, then at Bai Shi, handed it over, lingered for another look, and even gave Bai Shi a smile.
Pei Cangyu was busy finalizing the peace treaty. He patted Bai Shi’s shoulder again. "How about this: from now on, we stay out of each other's way, okay?"
Bai Shi smoothed out his math paper—a 119—on the desk and looked at Pei Cangyu. "What was your score?"
Pei Cangyu was stunned by the number. "Holy crap, one point off a perfect score! You actually have that function?"
Bai Shi persisted. "What was your score?"
Pei Cangyu waved his hand dismissively. "Definitely not as high as yours..."
"In that case," Bai Shi grabbed his hand, his eyes sparkling with anticipation, "you should go jump off a building after this class."
Pei Cangyu: "...??? Huh? Didn't we just agree on a truce?"
***
| Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation |
| :--- | :--- | :--- |
| 汤圆 | tangyuan | Sweet glutinous rice balls, often with filling. |
| 书香门第 | scholarly family | A family with a long tradition of literary or academic achievement. |
| 成分问题 | class background | A political status label used in mid-20th century China to categorize individuals based on their family's socio-economic standing. |
| 指甲草 | balsam flowers | Impatiens balsamina, traditionally used to dye fingernails. |
| 37路 | Route 37 | The bus line Pei Cangyu takes. |
