The Chinese Dream on Earth

High School Days

In my first semester of high school, leveraging my solid foundation from junior high, my grades were decent, consistently ranking in the top ten of my class, similar to most of my classmates transferred from another school. Boarding life was monotonous; all students slept on wooden planks laid out in a row, without any privacy. One day, a girl sleeping next to me, Ding Aina, claimed I might have somnambulism because one night I suddenly sat up, rummaged under the pillow, and spoke incoherently without responding to her. Fearing I might harm her during one of my episodes—since sleepwalkers are said to be not legally responsible for their actions—she quickly moved her bed far away from mine. I had no recollection of that night, and since I was asleep, I couldn't refute her claims, so I had to endure the wary looks of my peers. Throughout high school, only Ding Aina noticed symptoms of my sleepwalking; no one else ever mentioned it. Sometimes I dreamed of my mother crying and saying goodbye. When I discussed these dreams with her over the weekend, she was surprised and mentioned that she had been arguing with my father and looking for work on the days I dreamed of her.

Many feelings remained unspoken and misunderstood, driving me back into the world of novels. Whenever I read, I felt transported into the story, deeply affected by the characters' joys and sorrows. Now that our high school had a library, my reading was no longer confined to romance and martial arts novels. I began exploring classics like Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Red and the Black, Pride and Prejudice, and The Count of Monte Cristo. Occasionally, teachers would set exam goals for me, and I'd study briefly to meet their expectations. However, if they paid no attention, I would immerse myself in novels day and night, seldom interacting with my classmates.

Boarding meals were served in large communal pots. During meal times, duty students were responsible for fetching the food from the cafeteria in large basins and buckets, distributing it to everyone, and then washing the communal utensils afterwards. Due to my preoccupation with novels, I often forgot to clean up, but fortunately, a handsome classmate always ended up doing it for me without ever saying much. I also frequently found various snacks in my desk, undoubtedly left there by him. These surprises were thrilling yet unsettling, delighted by the secret care but anxious about potentially stirring up unnecessary trouble. We barely spoke to each other, communicating more through silent understanding; on the rare occasions we crossed paths, we would just quickly look down and walk by. He was tall, handsome, and loved basketball—the type of guy I liked. Although a few other boys in my class liked me, none had the charisma of Gao Yuan from The Youthful Times, nor did they have a charismatic name like Gao Yun.

One weekend, while discussing love with my mother, she remarked that I was not beautiful enough to attract boys' interest. To prove her wrong, I accidentally let slip that someone was interested in me. I had thought this would make her proud, but instead, she cried, explaining that her unhappy marriage stemmed from settling too early with a lazy man. She urged me not to make her mistakes and let youthful affection derail my studies. Seeing her tears, I promised not to pursue any romantic relationships during high school. I kept my distance from him at school, and he seemed to sense my withdrawal. Despite controlling my actions to avoid speaking to him, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about him daily and secretly watching his every move. It seemed he watched me just as secretly. At that time, I didn't understand that love sometimes requires no words—just a mutual understanding.

Amidst these distractions, my academic performance began to suffer. I was inattentive in class and engrossed in novels during free time, lacking clear goals and direction. At my ordinary high school, getting into university seemed nearly impossible, and the few who did had to repeat years, often only managing to secure a place in a junior college. In our grade of over two hundred students, the difference between ranking third and last was minimal. I quickly realized the futility of struggling without purpose, choosing instead to enjoy life and engage in interests that genuinely appealed to me.

I was naturally uncoordinated, struggling to keep up with the rhythm during physical exercises. When the music started, I flailed about, leading the gym teacher to mistakenly think I was causing trouble on purpose. After a reprimand session where he disparaged my village upon learning where I was from, I retorted harshly, declaring he was unfit to be a teacher. Shocked by my audacity, he complained to the principal, hoping to have me expelled. The principal summoned me for a talk, expecting me to apologize. I refused, preferring expulsion over apologizing. Seeing my resolve, the principal laughed and explained that true courage was knowing when to be flexible. He advised that a teacher, even if harsh, should not be insulted and that I could report any inappropriate behavior. His words eased my resentment, and I willingly apologized to the gym teacher.

In my second year, geometry was taught by the head of discipline, and the algebra teacher, who was also our homeroom teacher, shared an office with him. One day, called for a talk, I ended up chatting with the head of discipline instead. Curious, I asked, "Mr. Tan, is there a shortcut to success?" He pondered before suggesting a book, The Mystery of Success of Eight Hundred College Students. The stories of college students turning their lives around did little to uplift my spirits.

By the time I was in my final year, I ranked third from the bottom, and the teachers had given up on me, no longer setting expectations or offering criticism. Whether by fate or coincidence, one evening, inspired by the quiet study around me, I attempted a math problem but got stuck. Seeking help from the top student behind me, Liu Jun, I was met with scorn and yelled at for wasting his time. His outburst embarrassed me deeply, prompting a night of deep reflection. I realized I needed to prove myself through academics, not just to my classmates and mother but to affirm my own worth.

From then on, I studied with an intensity that bordered on obsession, absorbing every word and glance from my teachers. Exhausted, I'd collapse onto my desk to rest between classes, my mind ceaselessly active. Within months, the stress manifested as a streak of white hair on my forehead. But my efforts paid off spectacularly: I achieved the top score in a city-wide mock exam, shocking the entire school and becoming a legend overnight. My photo, frequently stolen from my desk for keepsakes, became a symbol of my unexpected success. One admirer from a neighboring class even pursued me openly after stealing my photo, despite his family's wealth and his lavish monthly allowance, which starkly contrasted with the modest stipends of most students. When my college acceptance letter arrived, revealing my admission to Sichuan University with the highest science scores in the school, he visited daily, bearing gifts and proposing a future together. Despite his offers to pay my tuition, I refused, determined to achieve my dreams independently.