Weeks passed, and Xingxing and I spent the rest of our time together, growing so close that she allowed me to use her nickname whenever I addressed her. The Lunar New Year festivities had faded like paper lanterns losing their glow, and now the village buzzed with the restless energy of students returning to school.
One misty morning, as we gathered around the lacquered wooden table for breakfast, I glanced at Xingxing. Her porcelain doll-like face glowed in the golden light filtering through rice-paper windows. Grandma Yún Yǎ, her silver hair coiled into a bun, sipped tea with the quiet grace of someone who'd weathered decades of unspoken storms.
"Xingxing," I ventured, chopsticks hovering over a steamed dumpling, "school's starting again. Will you…go home soon?"
Her spoon clinked against her bowl. "Are you trying to drive me out now?"
"No, I meant—" The words tasted bitter, like unripe persimmons. I gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. "Aren't you… supposed to be in school too?" The silence stretched like a fraying rope. Xingxing's chopsticks hovered mid-air, a single snow pea trembling on their tips. Across the table, Grandma Yǎ's wrinkled hands clenched her teacup—a silent plea for me to stop.
I wanted to scream, Stay. Stay here with me. But how could I? My throat tightened. Even if she stays, how will she be able to go to school?
Xingxing's chopsticks froze midair, a grain of rice clinging to the tip like a fallen star. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the glass of water trembling in her grip before she set it down with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the sudden silence. "I…" Her voice frayed at the edges, a threadbare curtain barely hiding the storm behind it. "I don't go to school."
The words hung like smoke, acrid and suffocating. Her knuckles whitened around the glass, as though anchoring herself against memories of locked doors and textbooks piled high in a room that smelled of loneliness. A flicker of something raw—shame? Resentment?—darted across her face before she dropped her gaze to the table, where her reflection warped in the polished wood, fractured and small.
Ah-Xiao's chopsticks froze mid-air, a glistening dumpling slipping back into the bamboo steamer. "Ahhh???" The sound escaped like a startled bird, sharp enough to make Xingxing's grandmother stiffen.
Xingxing's spoon clinked against her porcelain bowl, a brittle note hanging in the silence. She kept her eyes fixed on the pickled radish, its crimson edges mirroring the flush creeping up her neck. "I don't attend school," she said, voice flat as pressed rice paper. "I'm homeschooled. My mother hired tutors."
"But don't you think school could be fun?" The words tumbled out before I could trap them, my chopsticks sketching excited arcs over the steamed buns. "There's this rooftop where we race paper planes during breaks, and Old Zhang's noodle cart—"
A porcelain spoon cracked against a bowl.
"Ah-Xiao! Finish your congee—you'll be late for school!"
Mom's voice sliced through my unfinished sentence like a cleaver through tofu. My spoon clattered against the ceramic bowl as I froze, the steam from the rice porridge suddenly stifling. Across the table, Xingxing's chopsticks hovered mid-air, her knuckles whitening around the lacquered wood.
'What was I thinking?'I wanted to claw the words back from the air, stuff them into my throat until they choked me. Xingxing's chopsticks hovered mid-air, her knuckles whitening around them like snow clinging to bamboo. The jasmine tea in my cup rippled, mirroring the tremor in my voice. "I'm sorry, Xingxing. I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay. I've finished eating. Thank you for the food, Auntie—it was delicious. I'm going to my room now." She stood abruptly and left the dining room.
"Xingxing..." Grandma Yǎ called out, but she kept walking, prompting the old woman to sigh.
A wave of guilt washed over me as I watched Xingxing retreat, her shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of unspoken sorrows. "Grandma," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "I'm so sorry. I think I really upset Xingxing." A knot formed in my stomach, a cold dread that I had somehow deepened the shadows around her fragile heart.
"It's okay, Ah-Xiao," Grandma said softly, her eyes glistening as she squeezed his hand. "Xingxing didn't attend school because... well, her mother couldn't bear to be apart from her." She paused, the unspoken loneliness hanging in the air. "We've hired a kind teacher instead—someone who'll care for her like family."
"Ah-Xiao, it's time to go to school," my mother said.
"Alright"
________________
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, the wooden frame cool against my back. My fingers trace the carvings on the door—swirling patterns Grandma says ward off evil spirits—as I replay Ah-Xiao's words from dinner. The ache in my chest isn't anger, I realize. It's something heavier, like a stone sinking in a well. Before I can untangle the feeling, my phone trills, shattering the silence.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Unknown number. Again.
"Hello?"
The pause stretches too long, static crackling like autumn leaves underfoot.
"Hello! Xingxing, it's me—your mom!"
The sweetness in her voice clings like overripe lychee pulp, that particular honeyed pitch reserved for excuses about missed promises.I press the phone tighter to my ear, as if proximity could squeeze sincerity from the static.
"Mom?..." My throat tightens as I glance at the caller ID—unknown. Again. The screen glows ominously in the dim room, but I swipe to answer anyway. Not that it's the first time this has happened.
Mom's voice crackles through the phone, tinny and distant, like she's calling from another universe.
"Are you with your grandma?"
A cold draft slips through the window. I wrap my free arm around myself, fingernails digging into the sleeve of my sweater.
"No, Grandma's downstairs eating." My throat tightens. 'Ask her. Just ask'. The words taste like broken promises. "But… when are you coming?"
Silence came. Always silence.
"I'll see you soon. Did anything special happen this week, Xingxing?"
"The village is breathtaking at night, Mom—imagine fireflies dancing over rice terraces that glow like liquid silver! And there's this boy, Ah-Xiao… he actually thought I was his fiancee when we met! Crazy, right?"
I rambled on, laughing as I described Ah-Xiao's antics and the village's eccentric characters. My tea grew cold, forgotten, as words tumbled out faster—grandpa Lin's crooked grin, Granny Wen's ghost stories, the way moonlight turned the rice fields to liquid silver. Mom stayed silent, but I could hear her breathing soften, the way it does when she's smiling. By the time I paused, shadows had stretched across the floor like inkblots.
"It's wonderful to hear your stories, Xingxing. I'm so glad you've found joy in that place."
"Well—haha! Yes, I enjoy being here, even though it's only been a week," I said, fiddling with the frayed edge of my sleeve. Ah-Xiao's words from dinner echoed in my head again.
"Mom?" The word hangs in the air like a trapped moth. I press the phone tighter to my ear, as if she might dissolve into static.
"Yes?" A pause. I hear her lighter click faintly—she's smoking again. "D'you have something to tell me?"
"I just wanna ask—" My throat tightened, but the words tumbled out anyway—"why don't you want me to attend school?
"Xingxing!" Her voice sharpened, like a knife scraping porcelain. "How many times must I say this? You don't need school. Haven't I given you enough? A private tutor, quiet mornings, safety—isn't that better than some chaotic classroom?" The word chaotic hissed out, venomous. "Those children would hound you daily. They'll chew up someone gentle like you."
A pause, softer now, pleading: "At home, you can study in peace. You're years ahead in math, aren't you?" Her tone dipped, fraying at the edges. "Do you understand, Xingxing? Do you?"
"Yes, I understand, Mom."
My voice barely hides the crack in my throat.
"Good. I'll end the call now."
Her tone is clipped, finality ringing like a guillotine blade.
"Okay. I love you, Mom."
Silence stretches. I count the static hums—one, two—before she replies.
"Love you too. Bye!"
The lie hangs between us, sharp and glittering as broken glass.
"Bye." The line went dead.