Andrew Lane’s mother sighed and glanced at him. “Our precious son has gotten himself tangled up with a little beauty.” The other two mothers burst out laughing, giggling and cackling like two hens that couldn’t lay eggs. That kind of laughter always made him want to bite someone. Andrew Lane’s mother briefly explained what had happened that morning. Charlotte Lee’s mother covered her mouth in surprise. “Whose child is that, so careless? Andy didn’t get hurt, did he? Really, how could someone be so clumsy!” Andrew Lane looked up and shot her a glare—mind your own business. Charles Johnson’s mother, on the other hand, laughed slyly. “Let me tell you, all little boys are like this. My Charles Johnson too—whenever he sees a pretty girl, he can’t walk straight. Today he’s glued to this one, tomorrow to that one, whoever’s the prettiest, that’s who he sticks to.” The three mothers started laughing strangely together again. Andrew Lane lowered his head and muttered softly, “Tch, who’s like Charles Johnson!”

Andrew Lane’s father, who had been silent all along, crouched down and asked him, “What did you just say?” He looked seriously into his father’s eyes and said, “I’m nothing like Charles Johnson.” “Oh? How are you different?” Andrew Lane thought for a moment, his voice childish but absolutely solemn. “A man must be faithful.” Andrew Lane’s father burst out laughing and pulled him into a hug. “Good boy, you’re absolutely right.”

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6. I’m Not a Sweetie

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Zoe Young only found out later that even the most trivial things in the world could hold hidden surprises—like… seat assignments. Was there really such a big difference between the second-to-last row and the second row from the front?

Elementary schoolers and college students would answer that question very differently. Zoe Young sat in the second-to-last row, still puzzled by the way Mr. Hughes had looked at them while lining everyone up by height.

Clearly, that little boy was much taller than the little girl, yet he still ended up in front of her. Zoe Young turned her head to look at the line in front of her, which looked like a mountain range from the side, and couldn’t help but smile.

The result was a cold glance from Mr. Hughes.

She quickly pulled her head back in. Mom said, don’t make the teacher angry.

It was only when she grew up that she realized: the Olympics have VIP and regular seats, hotels have presidential suites and standard rooms, so the little tricks with front and back rows in an elementary school classroom really weren’t anything worth fussing over. But whether it’s the Olympic stands, hotels, or theaters, they all divide people into classes openly, without any pretense. Yet Mr. Hughes would tell everyone during lineup that she was arranging them by height, that she was being fair.

The saddest thing in the world isn’t the difference in status, but being lied to. But all of this only made sense to her in hindsight. Back then, Zoe Young just straightened her white pencil case, sat happily in the corner of the second-to-last row, and didn’t even feel her knees hurt anymore. But… how long would they have to sit like this?

The first lesson Zoe Young learned after starting school was how to sit still. Back straight, eyes forward, hands behind her back, with her left hand pressed against her right palm as instructed. Mr. Hughes demonstrated at the front of the class, showing them with her back turned how to stack their hands, then turned around and said, “Now let’s sit properly. We’ll rest in ten minutes.”

In third grade, Zoe Young learned in her language composition class how to describe this kind of scene: “The classroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.” She really wanted to ask the teacher, why do we have to sit like this? Shouldn’t we be learning division? Like that pretty symbol Lily Young was always writing in her notebook. But for Zoe Young, this kind of time wasn’t hard to endure at all. She tried hard to focus on Mr. Hughes’s cold face, but before long her mind would start to wander. In the blink of an eye, she was standing at the edge of a cliff, her palms and knees scraped and bleeding. In front of her was Andrew Lane’s menacing grin: “Ha! Heroine, you have your day too? You think splashing Bone-Eroding Powder all over me will rid the world of evil? Dream on! I won’t make things hard for you today—just jump off this cliff, and we’ll call it even!”

What should she do? Zoe Young was frowning, tangled up in her own thoughts, when suddenly she felt a shadow fall over her. She looked up in a panic—Mr. Hughes was towering over her, looking down her nose.

What’s wrong? Zoe Young looked up at her, confused. “What are you smiling at?” “Hmm?”

Zoe Young didn’t realize that, playing both roles in her head, she’d accidentally put Andrew Lane’s menacing grin on her own face. In a room full of kids sitting stiff and serious, she was the only one with an animated expression, making her stand out.

Mr. Hughes shot her a glare and frowned. Instantly, several reproachful looks appeared around her. The teacher was like a god—making her angry was blasphemy. Zoe Young was doomed.

The ten minutes of sitting still finally ended. She slumped over her desk and yawned, then turned to size up her deskmate. It was a face with no real distinguishing features—eyes not too big or small, nose not too high or low, skin not too dark or light.

“What’s your name?” “Zachary Lewis.” “I’m Zoe Young.”

And then, nothing more. Zoe Young felt bored, so she opened and closed her white pencil case over and over, making a clicking sound, then said, “This is so boring. Why do we have to just sit here like this?”

Zachary Lewis’s face finally showed a hint of expression. “What do you mean, why? Didn’t you ever sit with your hands behind your back in kindergarten?”

“I never went to kindergarten. Did you have to sit with your hands behind your back in kindergarten too?” “Yeah, the teacher said it’s good for your spine. If you sit like this, your spine won’t grow crooked, and it helps teach us discipline.”

Zoe Young looked at Zachary Lewis with a bit of admiration. “Really… what’s a spine?” Zachary Lewis looked a little embarrassed and lowered his head. “…I don’t know either.” After all, it was a pretty technical word—plus, Zachary Lewis pronounced “spine” as “chicken column.” After the third round of “sit still for ten minutes,” Mr. Hughes finally smiled and said, “We can have a break now. The playground is small, so for everyone’s safety, we’ll avoid the older kids. We’ll have our break while they’re in class. Now, starting from the group by the door, go out two by two, line up at the door and wait for me. No talking, no running or jumping, understood?”

“Un-der-stood!” Would it kill them not to drag out the words? Zoe Young looked on with childish disdain, thinking to herself, what a bunch of immature kids.

On the playground, no one was running wild. Mr. Hughes encouraged everyone to get along and introduce themselves. So Zoe Young took the lead, happily running around saying to everyone, “I’m Zoe Young, what’s your name?”

After making the rounds, everyone remembered the girl covered in red medicine was called Zoe Young, but Zoe Young didn’t remember a single other name.

She quickly got bored. The kids at school weren’t as lively as the ones in the big courtyard—everyone seemed timid, as if they were afraid of something. Zoe Young sat alone by the flower bed, turning her back to everyone and starting her own game.

Leaning against the flower bed, beaming, she tossed her hair and whispered, “Maribelle’s flower magic, transform!” The golden-haired, smiling, flower-magic-wielding Maribelle from the cartoon was also Zoe Young’s idol. She thought Maribelle was beautiful and capable, and she had the love of Mama Belle, Papa Belle, Grandpa Belle, and Grandma Belle—she was living the perfect life. Zoe Young loved all the big, perfect characters who could transform. If it weren’t for Superman’s underwear being worn outside and his terrible color coordination, she would have liked him too.

She was waving an ice pop stick as a flower wand when she suddenly heard applause behind her. For a moment, she blushed, thinking she’d been caught. But when she turned around, she saw that all the scattered, dazed kids on the playground had gathered together, watching something on the other side of the flower bed, with their backs to her. She realized she was the only one left out, and feeling awkward, she hurried over.

Before she even reached the crowd, she heard someone reciting poetry. Let me gather the clearest drop of dew, let me hold the brightest ray of morning light, let me scoop up the warmest breeze, let me pick the most brilliant cloud—but oh, all these still can’t fully express my feelings…

Zoe Young was captivated by the girl’s gentle, heartfelt, and clear voice, frozen in place as if her soul had been snatched away.

…A love poem? Like the ones princes write for princesses in fairy tales? What a beautiful poem. Zoe Young was still in a daze when she heard the final line.

Days like these can only be turned into the simplest blessing: Teacher, thank you.

…So it wasn’t a love poem after all…