Chapter Fourteen: The Arts Committee Member and the Chuunibyou Boy

Sitting in the very last row, Cheng Xiaoyu was the center of the class’s attention today. His bet with the class president, Li Liwei, had become almost common knowledge, with even curious students from the neighboring class coming over to ask who would have to streak across the sports field. Not even Cheng Xiaoyu’s brief fame as an internet celebrity had created such a stir; after all, as the vice president of the Student Council, Li Liwei’s reputation in school far exceeded his own. Rumor had it that someone had even started a betting thread on the school forum, though the wagers were just forum points. The odds were overwhelmingly against Cheng Xiaoyu—almost no one bet on his victory.

Despite the lack of faith in this unremarkable, chubby boy, Cheng Xiaoyu’s composure remained unshaken. Wang Ou, on the other hand, wore a constant frown. He was one of the few who had bet on Cheng Xiaoyu—and wagered all his points. As he put it, "My life—my points are my life—is the sword driving you to rise. I bet my lifetime’s effort to prove that friendship is a friend’s strongest armor." Of course, no sooner had he placed his impulsive wager than he was left beating his chest in regret. Finally, during the exercise break, he could no longer hold back and asked Cheng Xiaoyu if he had any plans.

Cheng Xiaoyu replied lightly, “Not yet. Inspiration is still circling my mind; it needs the right moment to break free.”

Wang Ou rolled his eyes in exasperation and said, “Don’t even think about a piano solo. Not to discourage you, but you can’t possibly outshine Goddess Su.” His tone was both worried and earnest.

Cheng Xiaoyu knew Wang Ou was genuinely concerned and felt a touch moved. He threw an arm around Wang Ou’s shoulders and asked, “Besides your stealth photography skills, do you have any other talents? Like playing an instrument?”

Wang Ou pondered, stroking his chin. “Back in elementary school, I was in the school’s marching band. Does that count?”

Cheng Xiaoyu’s eyes lit up. “Drum, snare, or trumpet?”

Wang Ou scratched the back of his head and grinned sheepishly. “Because I was tall, I was the flag bearer at the front. But my sense of rhythm is pretty good!”

Cheng Xiaoyu swore under his breath and gave Wang Ou a swift kick.

Wang Ou didn’t mind and shouted, “Don’t worry, Little Fatty Cheng, if you have to streak, I’ll streak with you!”

Cheng Xiaoyu managed a bitter smile. It seemed no one believed he’d make it through the school selection. Unfazed, he pressed on, “Can you sing?”

Wang Ou shot back, “Who can’t sing?”

Cheng Xiaoyu took off his glasses, breathed on them, and polished them with a cloth. “Sing something for me.”

Wang Ou hesitated. “Sing what?”

“Anything,” Cheng Xiaoyu replied impatiently.

Wang Ou launched into a folksong, “On the rolling hills a horse runs, a flower blooms…”

“Alright, alright, stop, stop—”

“I haven’t finished!”

“No need, you’re the poster child for tone-deafness.”

Wang Ou was indignant. “People call me the Karaoke King of Fudan High, reigning for decades! It’s just there’s no backing track—if there was, it’d be a different story. After school, let’s go to Golden Years and see who’s king.”

Cheng Xiaoyu wasn’t having it. “Save it. Better practice your running. You think singing is free?”

Wang Ou cursed, then jumped in front of Cheng Xiaoyu and, facing him, imitated the sword-drawing move of the lead character from the hit TV series “Sword’s Cry Across the Nine Provinces,” exclaiming, “You are already dead!”

Cheng Xiaoyu looked at this over-the-top youth and suddenly, a spark flashed in his mind. He hurriedly said, “Say that again!”

Wang Ou thought Cheng Xiaoyu was about to kick him again, so he laughed and ran, shouting, “A warrior’s sword should not be shackled by its sheath, but by the soul that wields it. I will end you and carve your name upon my blade, staking all my honor on it!” These were the hero’s lines during a duel.

But Cheng Xiaoyu ignored him, rushing back to the classroom, grabbing a blank sheet of paper, and starting to sketch out a score.

When lunchtime arrived, Cheng Xiaoyu remained in the classroom, noticing that the cultural committee member, Xia Shamo, also hadn’t moved from her seat. He signaled for Wang Ou to head to the cafeteria first. When there were only a few students left in the classroom, he approached and saw an old metal lunchbox on Xia Shamo’s desk.

Cheng Xiaoyu walked up and said, “Hi!”

Xia Shamo looked up at the chubby boy’s somewhat mischievous grin, blushed, and replied softly, “Do you need something?”

Looking at this rabbit-like, timid girl who seemed to shrink at the slightest approach, Cheng Xiaoyu tried to use the softest tone possible. “Is your name SR?”

Xia Shamo laid her chopsticks across the lunchbox, adopting a tone of utmost seriousness. “It’s not SR, it’s Shamo—Sha, like in ‘washing silk,’ and Mo, like in ‘bubble.’” At this time, few Chinese people took English names, not even their English teachers, who never foolishly gave students names like Jerry or Tom for the fun of it—names that would often follow people through their long lives online.

Cheng Xiaoyu sighed, “Alright, Xia Tian, as the cultural committee member, you have an inescapable responsibility for me.”

Clearly inexperienced in dealing with someone as shameless as Cheng Xiaoyu, Xia Shamo’s blush deepened. She replied softly, “What should I do? And my name is Shamo—Sha as in ‘washing silk,’ Mo as in ‘bubble’,” she insisted, gentle yet timid.

Straddling the chair in front of Xia Shamo, Cheng Xiaoyu lowered his voice. “I know you play the guzheng. What else do you play?”

Xia Shamo looked up, meeting his gaze, and as if discussing the guzheng gave her a sliver of courage, she said, “I also play the guqin, and a little pipa.”

Cheng Xiaoyu felt a bit disappointed—this was not the direction he’d hoped for. He sighed, “Any Western instruments?”

Xia Shamo shook her head shyly.

Standing, Cheng Xiaoyu looked at her dandelion-like hair and smiled, “Thank you for answering.”

Xia Shamo dropped her head again. “It’s nothing. If there’s anything I can help with, just ask.”

A sense of regret washed over Cheng Xiaoyu. He planned to find Wang Ou in the cafeteria but as he got up, he said, “Alright, if I need anything, I’ll trouble you!” Near the door, he couldn’t help but call out, “Hey, SR!” Xia Shamo looked up, chopsticks suspended, at the chubby boy’s conflicted face. “Can you sing?”

“Singing? I know a little, not very well.” Xia Shamo answered hesitantly.

Cheng Xiaoyu was even more disappointed but felt it impolite to just leave, so he asked casually, “What can you sing?”

Xia Shamo replied softly, “I don’t really sing pop songs, just ‘A Clear Day’ and some opera arias from ‘Carmen’.”

To Cheng Xiaoyu, it was as if he’d heard the most wonderful melody from heaven; he froze in the doorway.

Striding back to Xia Shamo, he tapped her on the shoulder. “Committee member, I didn’t expect you could sing opera!”

Apparently unused to such enthusiasm, Xia Shamo shrank back. “My mother is an actress at a small opera house in Shanghai.”

Cheng Xiaoyu grinned foolishly, feeling he’d struck gold. “Sing a bit for me?”

“Here?” Xia Shamo asked, alarmed.

Cheng Xiaoyu glanced at the empty classroom. “It’s fine, no one’s here—just sing a few lines.”

Xia Shamo seemed incapable of refusing others’ requests. Blushing furiously, she stood up. “If it’s not good, don’t laugh at me. I’ll sing ‘Love is a Rebellious Bird’ from ‘Carmen,’ but in Chinese—I’m not too familiar with the French.” Cheng Xiaoyu nodded eagerly. Xia Shamo took a deep breath and lifted her head. Cheng Xiaoyu sat up straight, as solemn as if in a concert hall.

As soon as she began, Xia Shamo slipped into her role. Gone was the timid schoolgirl; in her place was someone radiating a quiet grandeur, transformed in an instant.

“Love is just an ordinary thing, nothing special at all,
Men are merely amusements, hardly worth mentioning,
Love is just an ordinary thing, nothing special at all,
Men are merely amusements, hardly worth mentioning,
What is love, what is affection, isn’t it all self-deception,
What is obsession, what is infatuation, just men and women playing a role,
Any man, I like them all, regardless of riches or status,
Any man, I’ll cast them aside, no matter how magical they seem,
Love is just an ordinary thing, nothing special at all,
Men are merely amusements, hardly worth mentioning,
Love is just an ordinary thing, nothing special at all,
Men are merely amusements, hardly worth mentioning,
Aor, aor, aor—”

At this point, Xia Shamo stopped—she’d noticed someone peeking in through the window. Cheng Xiaoyu, hands rubbing together in excitement, felt he was finally onto something. The theme of “Carmen” is infused with strong Hungarian and Gypsy elements—free, unrestrained, and tinged with sorrow and foreboding. Xia Shamo had sung “Carmen’s” most famous aria, its melody stirring and emotional. Admittedly, her emotional expression was not fully mature; she lacked Carmen’s flirtatious charm and subtle discontent with life. But her technique was precise—her breathing steady, her pronunciation clear, her high notes stable. That alone thrilled Cheng Xiaoyu, and besides, he had no better options at the moment.

Xia Shamo looked uneasy, worried too many had heard her singing. She sat down, head bowed. Cheng Xiaoyu grinned, “Not bad at all—much better than me. I have a piece; if you sing, I’ll accompany you. What do you say?”

Pushing her glasses up her nose, Xia Shamo murmured, “Okay,” then stammered, “but I might not have much time to practice.”

Cheng Xiaoyu noticed her reaction and guessed she was simply unable to refuse. “SR, don’t worry, it won’t take too much of your time. I’ll give you the score after school. You can read sheet music, right?” Xia Shamo nodded.

Just then, Cheng Xiaoyu’s phone rang. Wang Ou was yelling for Cheng Xiaoyu to hurry to the cafeteria. He replied, “On my way,” then told Xia Shamo, “Let’s go eat, my treat.”

Shaking her head vigorously, Xia Shamo replied, “I brought my own. You go ahead!” Cheng Xiaoyu didn’t insist—relationships, after all, had to be built slowly. “Alright, I’ll go first. But next time, I’m treating you—no backing out!” Xia Shamo nodded.

As Cheng Xiaoyu reached the doorway, he couldn’t help glancing back at the girl who’d just surprised him. At that moment, Xia Shamo’s left hand pinched a piece of steamed bun from her lunchbox, her right hand holding a few strands of pickled vegetables with her chopsticks, composed and serene. Cheng Xiaoyu hurriedly looked away, afraid she’d catch him staring, and slipped out quickly.

For a fleeting moment, he realized that beneath her apparent frailty, this timid girl was extraordinarily strong—like a dandelion in a gentle breeze. Her delicate reserve was, in truth, the most determined pride in her heart. One might think a strong wind could easily scatter her pure shell and fragile will, yet they’d never imagine she could ride that very wind to any place she wished to go.