Chapter 35: Rankings and Gaps

6:30. The alarm did not ring. His body clock woke first.

His eyelids felt heavy, but his mind was clear, as if it had been washed in cold water. He sat up. The edges of the gauze on the soles of his feet had gone stiff. The cracks no longer throbbed. The pain had sunk into the bone, like a lump of blunt iron. He felt for the canvas bag by the bed. Ledger. Pencil. He crossed out yesterday’s plan and wrote: Day 15. 06:30. Objective: check scores. Verify the rules. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Untouched. Reserve.

He washed his face with cold water. A thin crust of frost clung to the rim of the tin basin. 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. The cracks avoided the pressure points. He leaned his weight forward, pushed open the door, and stepped into the corridor. The terrazzo floor was dry. Wind poured in through 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 timing. Building Three to the washroom: fifty meters. Walking. Two minutes. Wash up: five minutes. Back to the dorm: get the lunch tin. To the boiler room: ten minutes. Seven sharp. Classroom. Morning study.

The wind swept across the cinder track, lifting fine gray dust. His fingers were numb with cold, his joints stiff and dry. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them back and forth. He could not stop. If he stopped, his body heat would drop too fast. In his head, he ran the numbers. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Six mao a day. Twenty-four mao for four days. Three mao two left. Three mao two. Not enough for a new pencil. Not enough for a bottle of mercurochrome. It had to be kept. For emergencies. He reached into his pocket and touched the two boiled eggs there, wrapped in oiled paper, a little moisture beading at the edges. He unwrapped one and peeled it. The white was intact. The yolk was dry. He took a bite. Bland. It filled the stomach. He swallowed. His stomach finally had something in it, though not enough. He walked to the boiler room, filled his enamel mug with hot water, and drank. The heat washed the bland taste of egg away. He took small sips, letting the water reach deep into his stomach, letting the digestive juices start up, pressing down the hunger. He wrapped the other egg again and slid it back into the inner pocket of the canvas bag. Tomorrow, with hot water during morning study, it could carry him to noon.

By 7:50, the classroom was full. The sound of morning reading buzzed everywhere—English, Chinese. Lin Chen made no sound. He opened his physics mistake notebook and silently rewrote the steps for the inclined-plane pulley problem he had worked out in the stairwell the night before. He did not look at the book. He wrote from memory. The pencil tip scratched over the paper. The boy in the front row turned around. He did not pass him a note, only glanced at the ledger on the corner of Lin Chen’s desk. “Scores come out today,” he said in a very low voice. “Old Li said this test was on the hard side. Average math score is probably around seventy-five. You drilled mid-level problems last night. That should help.”

Lin Chen nodded without speaking. He closed the notebook, pulled the zipper shut, tightened his fingers, curled the edges of the pages, and shoved it to the bottom of the bag, pressing it down.

Four classes in the morning. Chinese. History. Geography. Math. Lin Chen never lifted his head. His pencil never stopped moving. During breaks, he did not chat and did not go into the corridor. He stayed in his seat, copying out math formulas from memory. Quadratic functions. Discriminants. Vieta’s formulas. Not one left out. He turned to a new page in the mistake notebook and wrote: Day 15. 10:15. Timed mid-level math training. Goal: 90% accuracy. The pencil paused. He shut the notebook, tightened his fingers, curled the page edges, and shoved it to the bottom of the bag again, pinning it there.

At noon, the cafeteria was packed. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the shoving. He sat down on a long bench and opened the oiled-paper bundle. The rice was cold through and through, crusted hard. He broke it apart and swallowed it bit by bit with the free soup. The soup was thin, lightly salted. He drank very slowly, letting the water fill his stomach. It put something in him, but it did not satisfy hunger. The cracks in his soles rubbed against the inside of the shoes. Every step felt like treading on broken glass. He shifted his center of gravity, putting his weight on the outer edges of his feet to avoid the splits. The edge of one sole had begun to peel up. He pressed it flat with his fingernail. It would not go back in. So he left it. As long as it did not interfere with walking, that was enough.

Two in the afternoon. Calisthenics period was canceled. The loudspeaker crackled with static. Then the dean of discipline’s voice came over it. “Notice. The scores for this monthly exam have all been compiled. Class monitors, please come to the academic office to collect the score sheets and post them on your class bulletin boards. The top twenty students must report to the academic office before four this afternoon to register. Those who fail to do so will be considered to have forfeited.” The voice was cold and hard, metallic with echo. The classroom went still for a moment. Then came the scrape of chair legs on the floor. People poured into the corridor. Lin Chen did not move. He waited. Counted to one hundred. The noise thinned out. Then he stood. His knees gave a soft crack. A dull pain ran through the soles of his feet. Step by step he went downstairs. Third floor. Bulletin board. Red paper. Black characters. The ink was not yet dry. The crowd pressed around the edges. He kept close to the wall and waited for a gap. His eyes swept across it. First column: name. Second: total score. Third: rank.

Lin Chen. Total score: 312. Grade rank: 18. Math: 94. Physics: 92. Chemistry: 86. Chinese: 78. English: 62.

The numbers were cold, like lumps of iron dropped into his stomach. No waves. Only weight. Eighteenth. Into the top twenty. Scholarship: eighty yuan. Enough to cover next semester’s tuition. Meal tickets could be continued. The path was clear. Executable. He read it once, then turned and walked back. His steps were steady. His weight stayed on the outer edges of his feet. The pain in his soles was still there, but his mind was clearer. English: sixty-two. That was what dragged him down. Gap in vocabulary. Blind spots in grammar. Listening: zero. Countermeasure: read aloud during morning study. Timed reading drills during evening study. No touching material beyond the syllabus. Stabilize the basics.

Back in the classroom, the boy in the front row passed him a slip of paper. “Old Li wants you in the office.”

Lin Chen nodded, stood, and went. Third floor. Physics office. The door was ajar. Chalk dust and tea stems floated in the air. He knocked twice, lightly.

“Come in,” Old Li said, his voice hoarse from grading papers.

Lin Chen pushed the door open, stepped inside, and stopped. His hands hung naturally at his sides. “Teacher Li.”

Old Li looked up. Light flashed on his lenses. A red pen was in his hand. Score sheets lay spread across the desk. The top one had Lin Chen’s name on it. In the score column: 312. Old Li circled one number with the red pen. Eighteenth. “Sit.”

Lin Chen sat down, hands on his knees.

Old Li took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Math, ninety-four. Not bad. On the second part of the final problem, you used case analysis. Full steps. The graders didn’t take off points. But English, sixty-two—that drags you down. Rule three of the scholarship criteria: if total scores are tied, ranking is decided by math. If still tied, then by physics. Your math is high. That means you’re secure. But English—you can’t let that go. On the final exam, English is worth one hundred twenty. The score gap there is big.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Understood.”

Old Li looked at him. His gaze paused for a second on the faded cuff of Lin Chen’s school uniform, washed almost white, then moved away. “Eighty yuan. Enough for next semester’s tuition. But for winter camp, you need to be in the top five. You’re eighteenth now. Three places short. Bring your English up, keep physics and chemistry steady, push math to ninety-five, and you’ve got a shot. Go back and work through the English word list. Morning study—read aloud. Don’t keep it all in your head. The sound has to come out before the brain remembers it.”

“Yes.”

Lin Chen stood and opened the door. Wind rushed down the corridor and scattered the smell of tea from the office. He walked back to the fourth floor one step at a time. His steps were steady, his weight on the outer edge of his feet. The pain in the soles was still there, but his mind was clearer. Eighteenth was not the finish. It was the starting point. Top five—that was the lifeline. English was the gap. Fill it, and he could cross.

At dusk, the cafeteria was crowded again. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the shoving. He sat on the long bench and opened the oiled-paper bundle. The rice was cold and hardened into a crust. He broke it apart and swallowed it with the free soup, one bite at a time. The soup was clear, lightly salted. He drank slowly, letting the water fill his stomach. It gave him a base, though it did not satisfy the hunger. The crack in his sole rubbed against the inside of his shoe. He shifted his center of gravity, pressing his weight onto the outer edge of his foot to avoid it. The edge of the sole had peeled up. He pressed it down with his fingernail. It would not go. So he left it. As long as it did not keep him from walking, it was enough.

The boy from the front row came over carrying his lunch tin. He sat down, said nothing, and handed him an old book: Rapid Memorization of High School English Vocabulary. The cover was curled, the pages yellowed, the spine wrapped in clear tape. “Borrow it. Give it back after finals.”

Lin Chen took it and thanked him. He did not open it. He put it into the canvas bag. Tonight, with hot water, it could carry him through to tomorrow’s morning study.

The ledger was in the bag. He did not take it out. The numbers were in his head. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Six mao a day. Twenty-four mao in four days. Three mao two left. Three mao two. Not enough to buy an English vocabulary booklet. He could only copy it. Borrow the front-row boy’s book. Tonight. Stairwell. Copy. Memorize.

Evening self-study. 18:30. The classroom was full. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead. The air smelled of old books and sweat. Lin Chen finished the day’s homework, closed his exercise book, and checked the time. 21:10. Twenty minutes until lights-out. He packed his schoolbag, counting each item as he put it in: half a candle, stiff cardboard, matches, pencil, eraser, ruler. He pulled the zipper shut. At 21:30 the lights-out bell rang. The corridor went dark at once. Footsteps turned chaotic. Washing. Talking. Lin Chen waited. Counted to one hundred. The noise thinned. He pushed the door open and kept close to the wall. The stairwell between the fourth and fifth floors faced north through a ventilation window. The wind was strong there, the air dry. He crouched down, spread out the cardboard as a windbreak, struck a match, and lit the candle. The flame trembled, then steadied. He opened the English vocabulary book. Timed: ten minutes. Only twenty words. No greed. Mastery mattered more.

His pencil scratched over the paper. He copied. Phonetic symbols. Part of speech. Example sentences. Not one left out. He checked the time. Nine minutes. One minute left. Review. Spelling. Correct. He blew out the candle. The flame died. A thread of blue smoke rose. Half a centimeter of candle remained. It was finished. He put it back into the tin box. His fingers were numb with cold, his joints stiff. He hugged the canvas bag to his chest and stood up. His knees gave a faint crack. The pain in the soles of his feet had turned into a dull ache, like a needle driven into the ends of his nerves. Step by step he walked back to the fourth floor and pushed the door open. The dormitory was quiet. Only even breathing remained.

He went to the side of his bed and sat down. He took off his shoes and unwrapped the gauze. The edges of the cracks had gone white. Tissue fluid had seeped out, but there was no pus. He picked up the bottle of mercurochrome and a cotton swab, dipped it, and painted the wound. It stung. He held his breath, spread it evenly, and wrapped the gauze again. His movements were slow, but steady. Then he lay down and closed his eyes. In his head, he arranged the schedule. Tomorrow. 6:30. Morning study. Read aloud. 7:00. Breakfast. 8:00. Class. 12:00. Noon break. 18:30. Evening study. 21:30. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one mark.

He felt for the ledger, opened it, and moved the pencil.

Day 15. 22:10. Checked scores. Progress: total 312. Grade rank 18. Entered top 20. Scholarship of 80 yuan confirmed. Time spent: all day. Status: on target. Gaps: funds 1.56. Meal tickets 0.32. English 62 (weak point). New variable: Old Li says winter camp requires top five. English creates a large score gap. Vocabulary book borrowed. Candle used up. Countermeasure: read vocabulary aloud during morning study. Timed reading practice during evening study. No touching material beyond the syllabus. Stabilize the basics. Use spill light from the corridor emergency lamp for copying.

The pencil paused. He closed the ledger, tightened his fingers, curled the page edges, and shoved it to the bottom of the bag, pressing it down. Footsteps came from the corridor, light and even. The night-duty teacher. A flashlight beam swept past the crack under the door and stopped. “Sleep early. The scores are out, don’t get carried away. Finals are the real hard fight.” His voice was low and echoing. “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 his soles had gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. Outside, the clouds had broken. The moonlight was cold. Puddles reflected it. The wind had stopped.

He slipped a hand into his inner pocket and touched the notice stamped with a red seal. The paper was warm, its edges curled. He unfolded it and read it once. The reporting time had passed, but the rules remained. One step, one mark. No disorder. He folded it and put it away. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth bag bit into his palm. He closed his eyes. His breathing steadied. In his head, he arranged the timing again. Tomorrow. 6:30. Morning study. Read aloud. 7:00. Breakfast. 8:00. Class. 12:00. Noon break. 18:30. Evening study. 21:30. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one mark.

Outside the window, wind passed through the cracks with a low whistling sound. Far away came the faint sound of a broadcast. County No. 1 High School campus radio. Mic test. Static. Then the dean of discipline’s voice:

“Notice. The preliminary selection list for the provincial physics winter camp will be announced next Monday. Selection criteria: top five in the grade in final total score, with no failing marks in any individual subject. Relevant students, please prepare accordingly. In addition, the academic office has received student aid fund application forms from a teacher-training college in the provincial capital. They are limited to students from financially difficult families with excellent academic performance. Application forms have been distributed to each class homeroom teacher. Please collect them yourself. Deadline: the end of this month. Homeroom teacher’s signature required. Late submissions will not be accepted.”

The voice spread through the night wind, carrying a metallic chill.

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger by his pillow. The pages were pale in the dim light. He reached out, found the pencil, and drew a very light line on the blank page.

Day 15. End. Progress: scholarship secured. Winter camp target: top five. Student aid application window opened. Status: alive. New variable: student aid fund. Deadline at month’s end. Homeroom teacher’s signature required. Family circumstances must be reported truthfully. Countermeasure: during tomorrow morning break, ask the homeroom teacher for the form. Fill it out truthfully. No exaggeration. No concealment. Confirm the signature process in advance.

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

Tomorrow. 6:30. Morning study. Read aloud.