Chapter 7: The Eighty-Cent Dictionary

The morning fog was heavier than yesterday's. Lin Chen woke before dawn. He didn't light a lamp, dressing in the dark. His fingers brushed the cloth pouch under his pillow, inside which lay the money he had counted three times last night: two one-yuan notes, one one-jiao note, and five one-fen coins. Total: two yuan, one jiao, five fen. He slipped out of bed quietly, the cloth soles of his shoes meeting the thoroughly chilled mud without a sound. Lin Jianguo's jacket was draped over a bench in the main room. The stove still held the residual warmth of last night's banked fire, lukewarm to the touch. From the inner room came Xiaoman's breathing, faint, like a cat panting. Lin Chen stood by the doorframe and listened for half a minute. Only after confirming there were no convulsions did he push the door open.

He knew the road to town well. Ten li of dirt road. Yesterday, it had been a march of despair with his brother on his back; today, it was a walk of clear-headed purpose, money tucked safely away. Dew soaked his pant legs, the chill creeping up his calves. He didn't walk fast, but his pace was even. His breath matched his steps: two steps inhale, two steps exhale. A rhythm forged from carrying water. You couldn't rush carrying water; rush it, and it sloshed, spilling for nothing. You couldn't rush walking either; rush it, and you wasted energy, arrived in town with weak legs, and made mistakes counting change. Dawn lightened bit by bit, the gray-blue skyline sliced by the mountain ridge. Foxtail grass by the roadside held dewdrops. Occasionally, an early farmer approached with a hoe over his shoulder; they nodded to each other, no words exchanged. Lin Chen kept his hands in his pockets, his thumb rubbing the one-fen coin. Its edges were already worn smooth.

He reached the town. The bluestone path bore two shallow ruts from bicycles and handcarts. The breakfast stall's coal stove had just been lit, white smoke mingling with the scorched aroma of fried dough sticks drifting across the street. Lin Chen didn't look, walking straight to the end of the street. The Xinhua Bookstore sign was red with white characters, half the paint peeled away to reveal the wood beneath. The glass door was unlocked. He pushed it open, and a wave of old paper, ink, and mothballs hit him. The counter was wooden, its lacquer polished bright by countless elbows. Under the glass lay a few copies of Story Club and Popular Cinema, the cover girls in bell-bottoms, their smiles blurred.

"What do you want?" The old clerk behind the counter wore oversleeves and was dusting the shelves with a feather duster. He didn't look up.

"Xinhua Dictionary. And Selected Essays for Primary School Students." Lin Chen's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.

The clerk stopped, pulling two books from beneath the counter. One was hardcover, the cover printed with red characters: Xinhua Dictionary and 1992 Revised Edition. The other was softcover, depicting children in red scarves flying kites.

"Dictionary: two yuan, one jiao. Essay collection: three jiao. Two yuan, four jiao." The clerk placed the books on the glass and tapped the counter. "Cash. No credit."

Lin Chen took out his money. He smoothed the two one-yuan notes, folded the one-jiao note in half, and lined up the five one-fen coins in a row. He pushed them forward. The clerk counted them and handed back a five-fen coin. Lin Chen took it without a word, slipping the books into a schoolbag repurposed from a fertilizer sack. The zipper was broken, so he tied it shut with a coarse cloth strap. The books were heavy. The hardcover dictionary pressed against his chest; through his coarse cotton shirt, he could feel the sharp edges of the cover.

He didn't take the same route back. He detoured along the river embankment on the town's outskirts. The embankment was thick with reeds that rustled in the wind. He found a flat bluestone to sit on and untied his bag. He didn't rush to open it. First, he wiped his hands clean on his pant legs, then opened the dictionary. The title page read The Commercial Press. The paper was thick, the edges neatly trimmed. He flipped to the index, his finger tracing down the pinyin letters. P. P-E-N. Fountain. He read it aloud. Definition: "An artificial water-spraying structure, mostly used in gardens or public squares." He stared at the words garden and square. Still abstract. But he memorized the strokes. He looked up slide. Definition: "Children's play equipment, consisting of an inclined board and handrails." He closed his eyes, imagining a slanted board with sand underneath. If Xiaoman stood on it, would he smile? He didn't know. But he copied both words into his mistake notebook, writing each character three times. Horizontal strokes level, vertical strokes straight.

He opened the essay collection to the first page. My Sunday. He read slowly. For unfamiliar characters, he consulted the dictionary. For unclear sentences, he drew a line. Other people's Sundays were for the zoo, the park, ice cream. His were for chopping wood, administering medicine, balancing accounts. He closed the book. He couldn't copy it. Copied words would be fake. The grading teacher would spot it instantly. He had to write his own.

By the time he got home, the main room was already bright. Lin Jianguo sat on the threshold weaving a bamboo basket, bamboo strips flying through his hands with crisp snapping sounds. Seeing Lin Chen return, he stopped, his gaze falling on the bag. "Got it?" "Yeah." Lin Chen set the bag on the square wooden table, took out the dictionary and essay book, and spread out yesterday's test paper.

He took out a pencil and wrote the title on a fresh page of his new essay notebook: My Sunday. Line one: Sunday, no park. Line two: Sun comes out, I help Dad chop wood. Line three: Chopping knife heavy, blisters on the web of my thumb. Line four: Xiaoman takes medicine, no more convulsions. He stopped. Too dry. Like a ledger. He crossed it out. Started again. This time, he tried weaving in the words he'd looked up. No fountain, but flames in the stove leaping up like water columns. No slide, but the dirt slope by the courtyard wall, slick after rain. He wrote slowly, the pencil tip scratching against the paper. Half a page in, his wrist ached. He shook his hand and continued.

Lin Jianguo finished a basket, stood, and went to the kitchen to boil water. The kettle sat on the coal stove, emitting a faint hiss. He brought back two bowls of hot water, setting one by Lin Chen's hand and holding the other himself. He said nothing, just watched his son write. Lin Chen didn't look up, his pencil never stopping. He knew his father was watching. His father couldn't read the characters, but he understood the drive. That refusal to yield to fate, that relentless, grinding determination.

By evening, the essay was done. He counted the characters: 187. Still 113 short of the 300-word requirement. He couldn't pad it. Padding would stray off-topic and lose points. He closed the notebook and placed the dictionary underneath it. The wall calendar was torn to October 12. Twenty-four days remained until the unified exam. He picked up a red pencil and circled the "24". He pressed hard, leaving a slight indentation in the paper.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Not Lin Jianguo. Rubber soles on gravel, hurried. Then, a knock. Lin Chen stood and opened the door. Outside stood Teacher Liu from the village primary school, his pant legs rolled to his knees, speckled with mud. He held a mimeographed sheet, its edges still damp with ink.

"Notice just came down from the county." Teacher Liu caught his breath and handed over the paper. "The unified exam rules have changed. The essay topic won't be given in advance. It'll be drawn on the spot. Forty minutes, and you must submit. Under a hundred words, deduct ten points. Messy handwriting, deduct five."

Lin Chen took the paper. The mimeographed print was slightly blurred, but the phrases drawn on the spot, forty minutes, and deduct ten points wedged into his eyes like nails. He looked up at Teacher Liu. The teacher pushed his glasses up, his gaze falling on the dictionary and essay book on the desk. "County kids practice timed essays starting in first grade. You... will have to practice on your own."

Teacher Liu turned and left. His footsteps gradually faded. Lin Chen closed the door and walked back to the desk. He smoothed out the mimeographed sheet and placed it beside the dictionary. Forty minutes. Three hundred words. Topic drawn on the spot. He didn't know what topic would be drawn. But he knew he couldn't write slowly anymore. He had to practice speed. He had to practice structuring it in his head. He had to practice turning the sweat from chopping wood, Xiaoman's medicine, and the stove's fire into characters on the exam paper within forty minutes.

He picked up his pencil and wrote on a fresh page of the notebook: First timed practice. Target: twenty minutes, two hundred words. He stared at the wall clock. The second hand ticked forward, one notch at a time. Tick. Tock. He took a deep breath, and the pencil tip met the paper. Dust on the page was pushed aside by the tip. The stars were still far away, but the pencil was already inked, and it had begun to run.