Chapter 34: Graduations and Price Tags

Six-thirty. The alarm did not ring. His body clock woke first.

His eyelids felt heavy, but his mind was clear, as if rinsed in cold water. He sat up. The gauze on the sole of his foot had dried stiff. The crack was pressed shut. The pain was dull, but it was there. He felt for the canvas bag by his pillow. Ledger. Pencil. He crossed out yesterday’s plan and wrote: Day 14. 06:30. Objective: wait for results. Ask about training fees. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Untouched. Reserved.

He washed his face with cold water. The thin frost along the rim of the tin basin melted away. The water was piercingly cold. The towel was rough, scraping across his cheeks and carrying off the last of his drowsiness. He put on his Liberation shoes. The edges of the soles had already been worn flat. He kept the crack away from the point of pressure, shifted his weight forward, pushed open the door. The terrazzo floor in the corridor was dry. Wind poured in from the north window, carrying the smell of coal cinders and old newspapers. He kept close to the wall, avoiding the standing water in the corners. In his head he arranged the schedule. Dormitory Building Three to the washroom: fifty meters. Walking: two minutes. Wash up: five minutes. Back to the dorm: get mess tin. To the boiler room: ten minutes. Seven sharp. Classroom. Morning study.

The wind crossed the cinder track and lifted fine gray dust. His fingers stiffened with cold; the joints turned sluggish. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them alternately. He could not stop. If he stopped, his body heat would drop too fast. In his head he was doing the math. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Sixty cents a day. Twenty-four cents for four days. Three cents two left. Three cents two. Not enough for a new pencil. Not enough for a bottle of mercurochrome. It could only be kept in reserve, for emergencies. He slipped a hand into his pocket and touched the half piece of braised tofu there, wrapped in greaseproof paper, a little sauce seeping from the edges. He unwrapped it, broke off a piece no bigger than a fingernail, put it in his mouth. Salty. Tough. He chewed it to bits and swallowed. It put something in his stomach, but it did not fill him. He walked to the boiler room and filled his enamel mug with hot water. As it went down, the salt of the tofu dissolved. He drank in small sips, letting the water enter his stomach fully, stimulating digestive juices, pressing the hunger down.

Seven-fifty. The classroom was full. The murmur of morning recitation filled it—English, Chinese. Lin Chen did not read aloud. He opened his physics notebook of corrected mistakes and silently rewrote the inclined-plane pulley-system solution he had worked out in the stairwell the night before. No textbook. Pure memory. The pencil tip scratched across the page. The boy in the front row turned around and handed him a sheet of scrap paper. “Old Li just gave this out. Standard answer for the last physics problem on the monthly exam. You used the whole-system method last night. Skipped two lines of steps, but the result was right. Old Li said only competition students write like that.” Lin Chen took it and thanked him. Red-pen markings showed on the page. The steps were rigorous. The symbols were standard. He read it once, folded it, and slipped it into his notebook. No pride. No slackening. Right was the standard. Wrong was the cost.

Ten-minute break. The bell was crisp. The crowd broke apart—toward the toilets, the corridor, the snack shop. Lin Chen tidied his desk, pulled his canvas bag shut, stood up. His knee gave a light crack. The pain in the sole of his foot was manageable. He walked out of the classroom and along the corridor toward the teachers’ office. Third floor. Physics department. The door was half open. Chalk dust and the smell of tea stems drifted out. He knocked twice, lightly.

“Come in.” Old Li’s voice, hoarse from grading papers.

Lin Chen pushed the door open, stepped in, stopped, his hands hanging naturally at his sides. “Teacher Li. Sorry to bother you. I want to ask something.”

Old Li looked up. Light flashed on his lenses. He held a red pen. Two stacks of exam papers lay open on his desk. The top sheet had Lin Chen’s name on it. The score box was blank. Old Li circled a number with his red pen. Ninety-two.

“Go ahead.”

“The broadcast said the top twenty in the grade can be recommended to go to the city for physics competition training. Expenses are self-paid. I want to ask... about the training fee. Roughly how much?”

Old Li set down the pen, took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was silent for three seconds. In those three seconds, Lin Chen listened to the ticking of the wall clock. The second hand moved one mark at a time. Metal casing. Glass face. Black hands. White graduations. Time cut into equal parts. Every second moved forward.

“Materials fee, thirty. Transportation, twenty. The guesthouse at Number One High in the city: three days’ lodging, fifteen a day, forty-five total. Meals at your own expense, eight yuan a day, twenty-four for three days. Altogether, one hundred and nineteen. If you could stay in the school dorms, you’d save forty-five, but the dorms at City Number One aren’t open to outsiders. You’d have to find a guesthouse yourself. Or relatives. You don’t have relatives in the city, do you.”

One hundred and nineteen. Lin Chen’s mind converted automatically. 1.56. Short by 117.44. Meal tickets: 0.32. Not enough for a bus ticket. Not enough for steamed buns. The numbers were cold, like iron blocks, dropping into his stomach. No ripples. Only weight.

“I understand.” Lin Chen’s voice stayed level. “Thank you, Teacher.”

Old Li looked at him, his gaze resting for a second on the cuff of his washed-faded school uniform before moving away. “This time in physics, ninety-two. Third in the grade. Math, eighty-eight. Seventh in the grade. Chemistry, eighty-five. Twelfth in the grade. Total score, eleventh in the grade. By the rules, that puts you in the top twenty. The training would be useful to you. But the cost is indeed high. The school has no subsidy. City finances are tight. Competition is voluntary, not mandatory. Go back and discuss it with your family. Or wait for the scholarship. Once that comes through, it can cover part of it.”

“Understood.” Lin Chen nodded. “I’m not going. I’ll secure the scholarship instead.”

Old Li did not try to persuade him. He only put his glasses back on, picked up the red pen, and marked a check on the exam paper. “Fine. Put your mind on the final exams. If you make the top five in the grade on the finals, there’s a provincial winter camp spot. The school covers travel. First shore up your fundamentals. Competition is icing on the cake, not charcoal in the snow. Go back to class.”

“Yes.” Lin Chen turned, pushed the door open. Wind from the corridor rushed in, dispersing the smell of tea leaves in the office. He walked back up to the fourth floor step by step, steady, his weight pressed to the outer edge of his foot. The pain in the sole was still there, but his mind was clearer. One hundred and nineteen was not a number. It was a threshold. If he could not cross it, he would go around it. Going around was not retreat. It was cutting losses. The scholarship was the lifeline now. Eighty places. Top twenty. Award: eighty yuan. Enough to cover next semester’s tuition. Meal tickets could be renewed. The path was clear. Executable.

The afternoon classes proceeded in order. Chinese. Classical prose. English. Vocabulary. Lin Chen did not look up. His pencil never stopped. During breaks he did not chat, did not go into the corridor. He stayed at his seat, writing out chemical equations from memory—balancing them, precipitation symbols, gas symbols, not a single one omitted. He turned to a new page in his notebook of mistakes and wrote: Day 14. 10:15. Confirmed training fee: 119 yuan. Outside budget. Abandon. Strategy adjusted. Do everything to secure the monthly exam scholarship. Target: top twenty in the grade. Award: 80 yuan. Covers next semester’s tuition. Meal tickets: renewable. The pencil paused. He closed the notebook. His fingers tightened. The edge of the paper curled. He shoved it to the bottom of the bag and pressed it down.

Toward evening. The cafeteria. Crowded. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the jostling. He went to the long bench, opened the greaseproof paper. The rice had gone cold, stiffened into a hard crust. He broke it apart and swallowed it mouthful by mouthful with the free soup. The soup was clear, lightly salted. He drank slowly, letting the water fully enter his stomach. It gave his stomach some substance, but did not fill him. The crack in the sole of his foot rubbed inside the shoe; every step felt like stepping on broken glass. He shifted his center of gravity, putting his weight on the outer side of his foot to avoid the crack. The edge of the sole had curled up. He pressed it flat with a fingernail. It would not go down. He left it. As long as it did not stop him from walking, that was enough.

The boy from the front row sat down carrying his mess tin. Without a word, he handed over a plastic bag. Inside were two boiled eggs. “Brought from home. Have one.” Lin Chen shook his head. “No need.” The boy pushed the bag closer. “Old Li said you gave up the training. Shame. But he’s right. If your foundations aren’t solid, going to the city would just be like listening to a heavenly scripture. First steady the finals. Take the eggs. Protein.” Lin Chen accepted them and thanked him. He did not eat them. He put them in his canvas bag. At night, with hot water, they could keep him going until morning study tomorrow.

The ledger was in the canvas bag. He did not take it out. The numbers were already in his head. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets: four days. Sixty cents a day. Twenty-four cents for four days. Three cents two left. Three cents two. Not enough for a new pencil. Not enough for a bottle of mercurochrome. It could only be kept in reserve, for emergencies. He reached into his pocket and touched the stub of candle there. One centimeter left. Burning time: about ten minutes. He took it out, set it in his palm, weighed it. Light. But enough. Ten minutes. Enough for one difficult final problem. Enough to check one calculation through. Enough to inspect the symbols once.

Evening self-study. Eighteen-thirty. The classroom was full. The fluorescent tubes buzzed. The air smelled of old books and sweat. Lin Chen finished the day’s assignments, closed his exercise book, looked at his watch. Twenty-one ten. Twenty minutes until lights-out. He packed his schoolbag, counting out the half candle, cardboard shield, matches, pencil, eraser, ruler one by one, putting them into the canvas bag. He pulled the zipper shut. Twenty-one thirty. The lights-out bell rang. The corridor darkened at once. Footsteps in disorder. Sounds of washing up. Voices. Lin Chen waited, counted to one hundred. The sounds gradually thinned. He pushed open the door and walked close to the wall. The stairwell was between the fourth and fifth floors. The ventilating window faced north. Strong wind. Dry air. He squatted down, spread out the cardboard as a windbreak, struck a match, lit the candle. The flame fluttered, then steadied. He opened his math workbook. Timed. Ten minutes. Only one final derivative problem. Reinforce the feel. Not newness—familiarity.

His pencil moved across the page. Differentiate. Find critical points. Make the sign chart. Judge intervals of increase and decrease. Substitute endpoints. Compare. Obtain the maximum. The page filled with steps. He omitted no derivation. He checked the time. Eight minutes. Two left. Check. Symbols. Units. Logic. No errors. He blew out the candle and packed his things. His fingers were stiff with cold, the joints sluggish. He hugged the canvas bag to his chest and stood up. His knee gave a faint crack. The pain in the sole of his foot had become a dull ache, like a needle always piercing the ends of his nerves. He walked back to the fourth floor step by step and pushed the door open. The dorm room was quiet. Only even breathing.

He went to his bed, sat down, took off his shoe, untied the gauze. The edges of the crack had turned white. Tissue fluid had seeped out. No suppuration. He picked up the mercurochrome and a cotton swab, dipped it, applied it. Sharp pain. He held his breath, spread it evenly, bandaged it. Every movement was slow, but very steady. He lay down and closed his eyes. In his head he arranged the schedule. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning study. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. Twelve. Lunch break. Eighteen-thirty. Evening self-study. Twenty-one thirty. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one print.

He felt for the ledger, opened it, and moved the pencil. Day 14. 22:10. Confirmed training fee. Progress: gave up city competition; secure final-exam scholarship. Time spent: all day. Status: up to standard. Gap: funds 1.56. Meal tickets 0.32. New variable: Old Li mentioned that top five on the finals can win a place at the provincial winter camp (school covers travel). Countermeasure: contract the battle line. Main attack on foundational points in Chinese, math, and English. In physics and chemistry, hold the middle-difficulty questions. Do not touch material beyond the syllabus. Advance steadily.

The pencil paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The edge of the paper curled. He shoved it to the bottom of the bag and pressed it down. Footsteps came from the corridor, very light, with an even rhythm. Night patrol teacher. A flashlight beam swept across the crack under the door and stopped. “Sleep early. Results come out the day after tomorrow. Don’t overthink it.” The voice was low, echoing slightly. “Got it,” the boy in the lower bunk answered vaguely. Lin Chen said nothing. His hands rested on his knees, moving slowly. The pain in the sole had gone numb. His body was hollowed out, but he did not sleep. Outside the window, the clouds thinned. The moonlight was cold. Puddles reflected it. The wind had stopped.

He slid a hand into the inner pocket against his body and felt the notification slip stamped with a red seal. The paper was warm, the edges curled. He unfolded it and read it once. Reporting in. The time had passed, but the rules remained. One step, one print. No disorder. He folded it, put it away. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth bag bit into his palm. He closed his eyes. His breathing was even. In his head he arranged the schedule. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning study. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. Twelve. Lunch break. Eighteen-thirty. Evening self-study. Twenty-one thirty. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one print.

Wind outside passed through the cracks with a low whistle. Far away, a faint broadcast could be heard. The campus radio of County Number One High. Sound check. Electrical static. Then the voice of the dean of studies. “Notice. The results of this monthly exam will be published Friday morning. The top twenty in the grade, as well as any students with full marks in a single subject, will be recommended for the city physics competition training. Training fees are to be borne by the students themselves. Relevant students are requested to make preparations. In addition, the detailed scholarship assessment rules have been posted on the bulletin board outside the Academic Affairs Office. Please consult them yourselves. Rule Three: if total scores are tied, ranking will be determined by mathematics score. If still tied, by physics score.”

The sound spread through the air after the rain, carrying a metallic chill.

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger by the bed. The page was pale white. He reached out, found the pencil, and drew a very faint line across a blank page.

Day 14. End. Progress: gave up training. Scholarship locked in. Funds: 1.56. Status: alive. New objective: Friday. Check results. Verify scholarship rules. Mathematics must stay above 90. Countermeasure: starting tomorrow, add extra practice on medium-difficulty math problems during evening self-study. Timed. Controlled pace. Accuracy guaranteed.

The pencil paused. He set it down and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning study.