Chapter Nine: Youth Is an Immortal Poem

The driver, Wang Huasheng, was a tall and robust Afro-Chinese, a third-generation immigrant and a typical "Melon Seed"—a term for mixed heritage. He spoke flawless Beijing dialect and was a devoted fan of Peking opera, particularly fond of singing "The Empty Fort Strategy." After graduating from Feihong Martial Arts Academy, the largest in China, he soon became the Su family’s driver and bodyguard. According to Qiao San, he once won the national sanda championship belt. In a world martial arts competition, he accidentally crippled Shaolin's top monk while vying for the championship and subsequently withdrew from the martial arts world.

Cheng Xiaoyu vaguely remembered that when he first arrived in China, just off the plane, he saw a massive billboard at the airport: kung fu superstar Li Dalong advertising Feihong Martial Arts Academy. The slogan read, "For the best in Chinese kung fu, Feihong Martial Arts Academy reigns supreme." Feihong, of course, was under the Shaolin Group.

Wang Huasheng parked the car in the underground garage of Zhongjin Tower, next to Fudan High School. This was at Su Yuxi’s request; she had grown tired of being the subject of envy or jealousy. Moreover, Fudan High wasn't an elite private school—most of its students excelled academically but came from ordinary backgrounds. Su Yuxi felt she was already far enough removed from their world and didn’t want to create another unbridgeable chasm. For two years now, Wang Huasheng had dropped her off and picked her up from this spot.

Cheng Xiaoyu, for his part, was indifferent. Among a bunch of callow high schoolers, there was little to show off about. He now found Su Yuxi’s pride almost childish, though admittedly she had every reason to be proud.

Standing at the gate of Fudan High were student council discipline monitors wearing red armbands. Without the school uniform, entry was forbidden; without the school badge, points were deducted from the class score. Skirts had to fall below the knee; many girls pinned them shorter for style, only to let them down at the gate. Boys were forbidden from having long hair or nails.

The girls’ uniforms at Fudan High consisted of a deep blue, double-breasted blazer over a beige cardigan, a white shirt with a red bow, and a red plaid Scottish skirt. At this time of year, they usually wore white woolen knee-high socks. Shoes couldn't be high-heeled, but otherwise there were few restrictions.

Watching the fresh-faced students, Cheng Xiaoyu almost felt transplanted to Japan. The sudden surge of happiness left him at a loss. He couldn’t help but feel nostalgic, recalling the drab athletic uniforms of his previous life—so moved, he was nearly brought to tears.

On the first floor of the academic building, each student had their own locker, and one was required to change into slippers before entering the classroom. When Su Yuxi opened her locker, a cascade of letters spilled out. She was prepared, holding her bag horizontally to catch them, stacking them neatly before tucking them into a black inner pocket and changing into white slippers. As always, these letters would remain unopened and end up in the second-floor trash bin.

Cheng Xiaoyu’s classroom was two floors above Su Yuxi’s. Shamelessly, he greeted her and turned to head in the opposite direction—his locker was on the other side.

Su Yuxi’s classmate, Fan Jiaying, happened to witness the scene and, brimming with gossip, sidled up to ask, “Isn’t that chubby guy the rich kid who crashed a Ferrari? Su Yuxi, you know him?”

Su Yuxi could already feel the flames of curiosity blazing in Fan Jiaying, nicknamed the School Broadcast Station. She lowered her head and whispered, “I know him,” before heading for the stairs. No one at school knew yet that these two, who seemed to have nothing in common, were actually siblings.

Fan Jiaying hadn’t changed her shoes and hurried after her, calling, “Class president, wait for me! I need your help with some math problems!”

Feeling the stares gathering around her, Su Yuxi felt a wave of embarrassment and pretended not to hear, heading straight upstairs.

Cheng Xiaoyu, backpack slung over his shoulder, panted his way up to the fifth floor, where all the senior classes were located. He was in Class 2, third year, the second room on the left. As soon as he poked his head into the classroom, the whole room fell silent, then erupted into thunderous applause mixed with rowdy cheers. Cheng Xiaoyu had forgotten that he was already famous online; his photoshopped images were now popular memes.

The overwhelming welcome caught Cheng Xiaoyu off guard. Even with forty years of life experience, he could only retreat awkwardly to the corridor, enter through the back door, and settle into his old familiar spot—by the window, in the last row, a seat typically reserved for the underachievers.

Fudan High was a school for academic stars, and this was a graduating senior class. After a brief moment of amusement, no one paid further attention to the class dunce; they all returned to their books and exercises.

Cheng Xiaoyu glanced at the schedule. The first period was Chinese. He took out the textbook and flipped through the pages of complicated traditional characters, feeling a headache coming on. Recognizing the characters wasn’t hard; writing them was another matter. Raised in America, both his old and new selves could read but not write. He skimmed the table of contents: poetry appreciation, classical prose, excerpts from world literature—nothing overly challenging.

He began with the first lesson, “The Battle of Xiao Pass”—not recognizing the character for “Xiao,” and unable to write “battle.” He pulled a dictionary from his bag to look up “Xiao,” then practiced writing “The Battle of Xiao Pass” several times in his notebook to reinforce it. He continued reading, struggling through the archaic text. For Cheng Xiaoyu, a self-confessed nerd, this was daunting, but with his acquired skills as a music director, it became easier. He read and wrote until the class monitor called for everyone to stand and salute, signaling the start of class.

The Chinese teacher, Mr. Jiang Wenhua, was a bespectacled man in his forties or fifties. “Today we’ll be studying three poems,” he announced, writing in elegant calligraphy on the blackboard: “Moonlit Night” by Du Fu. “Tonight in Fuzhou, the moon, in the boudoir, only she gazes alone. From afar I imagine our little ones, too young to remember Chang’an. The fragrant mist dampens her cloud-like hair, the clear radiance chills her jade arms. When will she lean against the gauze screen, and the moonlight dry both our tear-stained faces?” Having finished, he recited the poem with measured cadence and asked, “Who can tell us what this poem expresses? Raise your hand if you know.”

Cheng Xiaoyu hadn’t read the poem before, but he could infer it was about Du Fu’s longing for his wife. Mr. Jiang scanned the classroom. “Cheng Xiaoyu—who is Cheng Xiaoyu? Stand and answer.” Laughter erupted before Cheng Xiaoyu could even stand.

Unabashed, Cheng Xiaoyu rose and replied, “Sir, I didn’t raise my hand.”

Mr. Jiang chuckled at the sight of the chubby student swaying to his feet in the last row. “No problem, just wanted to see who you are. You may sit,” he said. As a teacher of graduating seniors, he hadn’t yet memorized all the names in the two months since term began.

Cheng Xiaoyu sat down slowly amid another wave of laughter, unruffled by the ridicule.

Mr. Jiang then called on the Chinese class representative, Gu Manting. A school beauty in Class 2—though not as dazzling as Su Yuxi—Gu Manting was a graceful and lovely southern girl. She had clearly prepared in advance and answered in a melodious voice, “The poet expresses his yearning through gazing at the moon, focusing on the pain of separation between husband and wife and his longing for his children.”

Mr. Jiang nodded and gestured for her to sit. “Well said. Now let’s recite the poem together, then we’ll analyze it line by line and briefly discuss the background of Du Fu’s life when he wrote it.”

Cheng Xiaoyu joined the class in reciting the poem, a strange emotion spreading in his heart.

Familiar scenes from another life began to overlap with the present. He glanced out the window, saw figures running laps on the sports field, and heard the distant sound of a whistle. The classroom was suffused with the warmth of sunlight and the clear, resonant voices of students reading aloud. Above, clouds drifted silently across the sky, and camphor trees dusted with yellow leaves stretched in the breeze. The entire campus was awash in a gentle, intoxicating air of youth.

Such tranquil, steady days flowed over the desktops—wearing down new textbooks, scribbling through messy notes, aging tender love letters, and quietly carrying away the fragments of their fleeting youth.