Zoe Young couldn’t naturally express these feelings, and she wasn’t even sure why she chose this essay. She didn’t even really know what “appreciation” meant, but she felt that she and Andrew Lane appreciated and understood each other.

She used to be “inseparable” with Benny, like two baby birds pecking at millet, but now it seemed she had met another baby bird, and discovered that she could eat not only millet, but also bugs.

Actually, even though she had known Andrew Lane for almost two months, in Zoe Young’s heart, Andrew Lane was still just an “acquaintance”—someone loved by his parents, valued by teachers, an incredibly fortunate acquaintance A, standing under the stage lights, leading everyone in their oath, an outstanding acquaintance A.

Benny was Benny, an irreplaceable family member, someone she could casually say things like “I don’t have a dad” or “He threw things when he argued with mom and almost hit my head”—that kind of family.

But acquaintances… were just acquaintances. Even if she heard him tell jokes in her ear every day, make weird noises, pull her ponytail, banter with him… the things Zoe Young thought about, she would never tell him.

For example, Zachary Lewis was also an acquaintance.

But at this moment, Zoe Young felt very close to Andrew Lane, as if among the hundreds of first graders in the whole school, only they were the closest. Benny understood Zoe Young because she was willing to tell him everything. But Andrew Lane and Zoe Young understood each other without needing to say much at all.

The team counselor didn’t make any decisions on the spot. Zoe Young returned to her class. Two periods later, Mr. Hughes found her and told her she’d been selected. The preliminary round would be on Wednesday, a week later, and the content was a five-minute story about an anti-Japanese hero. Parents were to write the draft, then the team counselor would revise it.

On the way home after school, when she saw Andrew Lane again, she felt a little embarrassed. But Andrew Lane didn’t seem the least bit disappointed about not being chosen; instead, he was excitedly helping her brainstorm which hero’s story she should tell.

“So, do you know who Zhao Yiman is?” “...No.” Zoe Young shook her head. “Do you have to write the story yourself?”

“Of course not, it’s supposed to be written by the parents. But my mom definitely doesn’t have time to write it for me.” “Then have your dad write it.” The smooth, brand-new “soulmate” mirror that had just formed in Zoe Young’s heart that afternoon developed a tiny crack.

No matter how much you appreciate someone, there are still some things you can’t lay out under the blazing noon sun that Andrew Lane radiates. Zoe Young looked up, pretending the wind had blown something into her eyes, rubbed them, and then thought of a way to answer. “Even my grandma has been busy with her senior university classes lately, she definitely doesn’t have time.” “Even” grandma “too”—she had already learned a little language trick: if you don’t want to lie, just cleverly sidestep. Andrew Lane fell silent, then after a few seconds suddenly laughed: “Oh right, let me ask my mom for help. She works in the provincial government’s policy research office, and she’s got a bunch of people under her who are great at writing. They can definitely write a good hero story! Just wait, I’ll go home and beg my mom!”

“Really?” “Five minutes, right? Got it, don’t worry, it’ll be fine!” The heavy stone in Zoe Young’s heart was lifted. She let out a gentle sigh of relief, then smiled sweetly and said seriously, “Andrew Lane, thank you.”

Thank you for always being so good to me.

That night, Andrew Lane shook his mom’s arm and told the story all out of order. Mrs. Lane looked at her son’s mischievous face and helplessly nodded.

With several college students working for her, looking up some information and writing a five-minute anti-Japanese hero story that an elementary schooler could tell was no big deal.

Andrew Lane cheered and ran to the living room to watch TV. Mrs. Lane sighed, and said to her husband, who was pretending to read the evening paper at the table but was actually secretly laughing, “Your son, all he knows now is to get me to help him impress girls. Like father, like son—he just picks this stuff up without being taught!”

Mr. Lane put down the newspaper, walked over and hugged his wife from behind, smiling warmly. “Let’s hope he’s as lucky as me and marries a good wife.” Mrs. Lane sighed again. Truly, like father, like son. Andrew Lane sat in the living room, happily watching the story of Xiaole in “The Three-Eyed Boy.” Actually, today, the team counselor had first found Andrew Lane and told him he’d been selected. Originally, the opportunity belonged to Swallow, but Swallow was busy with provincial TV activities and politely declined. Mr. Hughes from Class 7 didn’t want the opportunity to go to another class, so she recommended Zoe Young. The team counselor naturally wanted someone with a good background but not an embarrassment—no one was more suitable than Andrew Lane.

But Andrew Lane told Mr. Lewis, “I don’t want to participate, anyway, I just don’t want to.” As if he was sure that as long as he withdrew, the opportunity would go to Zoe Young. How naive little Andrew Lane was. If the team counselor really wanted a child from a powerful family, even if Andrew Lane quit, it could have been Charlotte Lee, or many others, but definitely not Zoe Young. Luckily, the team counselor didn’t want to bother anymore and just chose Zoe Young, who read the essay very naturally.

Luckily.

Otherwise, it would have been a case of “I offer my heart to the bright moon, but the bright moon shines on the ditch.” Everything about him was so perfect, so happy, that even a rare moment of innocent generosity could succeed by chance. Andrew Lane was completely unaware, just sitting on the sofa, laughing out loud at the cartoon.

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12. Back from the Brink

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“Tell me, when I raise my hand, is it better to keep my fingers together and straight, or make a fist?” Zoe Young heard the voice and turned her face blankly to look at the little girl beside her. “Uh?” On stage, there was only an orange-yellow background light, shining on the standing microphone and the four teachers at the judges’ table. The audience seats below were dim. Zoe Young and fifty or sixty other kids about her age sat quietly in the audience, clutching their scripts and the number cards they’d drawn, waiting to go on stage. Since this was just a preliminary selection, there were no audience members except the other contestants.

“I’m asking you. Should I keep my fingers together or make a fist? Hurry, I’m about to go on!” The little girl with the huge pink bow on her head stared wide-eyed—not out of anger, but because she was really anxious. So Zoe Young swallowed her own questions and quickly said, “I think when adults raise their hands to check the time, they usually make a fist.”

“Okay, then a fist.” As soon as the bow girl finished speaking, a staff member on stage called out, “Number 37, Claire Daniels!”

“...It’s not dān, it’s shàn.” The little girl muttered, stood up, and as she passed Zoe Young, Zoe Young saw her nervously clutching her blue dress, a new pleat forming on her pleated skirt—the one hundred and first.

Claire Daniels told the story of Huang Jiguang. Among the anti-Japanese hero stories just presented, there weren’t just Huang Jiguang, but also Lei Feng, Lai Ning, and Wang Jinxi.

These kids didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with that—after all, they were all heroes. Claire Daniels’s story was told with great passion. Although she spoke a bit too fast from nerves, her voice was loud, and… her gestures were dramatic. “The morning star rises in the east!” Left foot steps forward, left hand raised high. “The instructor checks his watch.” Right hand up, fist clenched, head lowered to look at her wrist.

“It’s already… six o’clock.” Left thumb and pinky extended, the other three fingers bent, making a big “six.” “At this moment, Huang Jiguang stepped forward and shouted, Instructor, I’ll block it!” The “six” became a fist again, pounding hard on her chest. Zoe Young even heard the echo from her small frame. Just like that, Claire Daniels’s performance left Zoe Young completely frozen in her seat. She still felt conflicted inside. She had to admit, seeing such a performance really made her want to laugh, but deep down she felt this was the proper way to perform. Claire Daniels was doing it right, especially with the judges nodding in approval, which proved it.

Number 47, Zoe Young’s turn. Just as she was about to start, she suddenly heard a beeper go off. One of the judges stood up and quickly walked backstage, signaling for Zoe Young to wait. In the end, an old man arrived. The other three judges immediately stood up, nodding and bowing, smiling as they greeted him, saying things like, “Mr. Green, what brings you here?”

The old man’s gaze was sharp, not at all as kind as the other judges. He sat at the desk of the teacher who had gone out to take a call, and spoke into the microphone on the table: “Number 47, let’s begin.”