Chapter 373: Which Child Are You Picking Up

At 4:50 p.m. on April 14th, Lu Jibai arrived at the gates of Chengnan Middle School.

Twenty minutes left before dismissal. The school gate was a row of iron fence posts, paint chipped off in places, rust showing through underneath. A custodian was mopping the walkway just inside, the wet trail leaving faint marks behind. The street in front was lined with two stationery shops and a newsstand on the north side; a sheet of plastic was weighed down over the newsstand's freezer. On the south side, a row of bicycles leaned against the perimeter wall, locked at odd angles. Directly across from the gate sat a bicycle repair stall where an old man was rotating an inner tube through a basin of water, searching for the leak.

He bought a bottle of water from the newsstand first, pulled from the freezer, carried it in his hand without unscrewing the cap. Then he went to stand under the first plane tree on the west side, three steps from the crosswalk. The tree roots had buckled one corner of the brickwork.

Parents arrived earlier than he'd expected. Electric scooters lined the curb; one person sat on a seat peeling a tangerine, the peel coiling down by his shoes. A woman with a child in her arms hoisted the kid higher on her shoulder; the child reached for the leaves overhead. Two men squatted at the edge of a flower bed, smoking, grinding their cigarette butts into the ground twice over.

The woman holding the child turned to look at him, twice, then asked, "Which one are you picking up?"

"A student."

"What class?"

"Not sure."

"You don't even know the class and you're standing here."

He didn't answer. The woman lifted the child again, laughed once, and turned back.

A security guard came out of the guardhouse holding a plastic cord and shouted toward the line: "Parents picking up kids, stand to the sides. Don't block the gate." Lu Jibai stepped back two paces, into the shade of the tree.

At 5:10, the bell rang. One half of the fence gate swung inward, and people poured out.

The fast runners came first, backpacks bouncing, sneakers slapping the concrete. Girls walked arm in arm, heads leaning close as they talked. A boy with his uniform jacket tied around his waist stepped on his own heels, each step making a scuffing sound. Parents pushed half a step forward, then stopped, calling names through the fence.

He searched the crowd. The first two waves didn't have him. In the third wave, a dark blue backpack squeezed sideways through the mass—words written on the strap in black marker, faded white from washing—the person behind it following without hurry.

Zhi'an had his uniform zipper pulled halfway, backpack slung on his right shoulder, a plastic bag in his left hand with a few sheets of paper inside, corners sticking out.

He glanced over the people under the tree, passed over them, then looked back. His feet stopped mid-step.

He looked behind him, at the people still streaming out through the gate, looked for two seconds.

Then he walked over, stopped two steps away, and switched the plastic bag to his right hand.

"Where's my sister?"

"Didn't come."

"She sent you."

"I came on my own."

Zhi'an hitched his backpack up, the strap shifting an inch on his shoulder.

"Something happened."

"No."

"Then what are you standing here for?"

"Waiting for you."

Zhi'an glanced at his feet, at the layer of dust on the leather shoes. "How long have you been here?"

"Twenty-some minutes."

"That woman holding the kid asked you."

"She did."

"What did you say?"

"Picking up a student."

Zhi'an let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, took a step, and tilted his chin toward the bus stop. "Let's go."

Lu Jibai shifted half a step toward the street. Zhi'an shifted too; they dodged each other in that half-meter before Lu Jibai ended up on the outside, Zhi'an against the wall.

The bag of papers wasn't held steady. After a dozen steps, he folded the bag's opening down, exposing the form inside. "The school sent it. Needs my sister to sign."

"Where?"

"Last box. After signing, she also has to write 'guardian.'"

Lu Jibai didn't take it and didn't say "I'll sign."

Plane tree after plane tree passed. Under the trees were dark grease stains from breakfast stalls, black patches that stuck to shoes. A wisp of plane tree fluff drifted down and settled on Zhi'an's shoulder. He didn't notice.

"Zhi'an."

"Yeah."

"There's something I want to ask your sister." He paused. "Telling you first."

Zhi'an's steps slowed, and he moved half a step ahead, turning his head back.

"Something to ask my sister, why tell me?"

"Because you're her family."

"What is it?"

"Not saying now."

"Then you might as well not have told me."

"I don't want you hearing it from someone else." Lu Jibai said. "And I don't want you to be the last to know."

"She's at the firm today?"

"She is."

"You came out without her knowing."

"I said I was stepping out."

"Why didn't you ask her to come along?"

"If she were standing here, I couldn't get the words out."

Zhi'an wound the bag's two handles around his fingers once, then let go. They passed a closed hardware store, a rental notice stuck to the roll-up door with a phone number on it; the last digit had been torn off.

A second wisp of fluff landed on Zhi'an's nose. He sneezed, scrubbed at it with the back of his hand until the tip of his nose went red.

"What you want to ask her, I can guess," he said.

Lu Jibai didn't respond.

"You two are moving?"

"Not moving."

"Then what is there to ask?"

"Asking her for an answer."

Zhi'an scraped his shoe against the ground, the sound drawn out. "My sister has this thing," he said. "She has to think everything through on her own, and only says it once she has."

"I know."

"You know, and you're still asking."

"I have to."

"What if she says no?"

"Then no."

Up ahead, a tarp canopy stood over a fried-skewer stall, oil hissing in the wok. Zhi'an bounced his backpack once, walked over, pulled money from his pocket, counted out two bills to the vendor, then lowered his head and counted the change. The vendor lifted two skewers out of the oil with a bamboo stick and shook them. "Want a bag?"

"No."

"Who's this fellow?"

Zhi'an glanced back, then turned around again. "My sister's coworker."

He came back holding two skewers and held one out.

"I don't eat these."

"You've been standing around holding that water for half an hour."

Lu Jibai took it. The oil paper was warm in his hand. He bit through the paper, eating slowly, worried about oil dripping on his shirt. When he finished, he snapped the bamboo stick in two, tucked it into the greasy paper, and walked along the street looking for a trash can.

Zhi'an watched him look for the trash can.

A red light stopped them at the intersection. Beside them, an electric tricycle was stacked with empty cardboard boxes, the ropes loose, box corners swaying in the wind.

"That village thing, is it over?" Zhi'an asked.

"First trial's over. Appeal period goes until the twenty-third."

"What's an appeal period?"

"Fifteen days. Within those fifteen days, the other side can file with the next court up."

"And after the fifteen days?"

"Then the judgment stands."

"Once it stands, then they fix it?"

"Once it stands, then there's something to negotiate about fixing it." Lu Jibai said. "Rectification within thirty days. Completion within one hundred eighty."

Zhi'an watched the red light's numbers tick down. "My sister was writing until midnight yesterday," he said. "I got up for water and the lamp on her desk was still on, papers spread over half the table."

"I know."

"You know, and you don't tell her to stop."

"Can't stop her."

"Someone could." Zhi'an said. "Someone just has to close the lamp for her."

The light turned green. They crossed.

"Can you cook?" Zhi'an asked suddenly.

"A couple things."

"Like what?"

"Noodles. And a stir-fry."

"My sister can make three things." He said. "She comes home after overtime and still cooks, sometimes until ten. Won't let anyone in the kitchen while she's doing it—says I get in the way."

"Mm."

"How old are you?" he asked, out of nowhere.

"Six years older than your sister."

"Does my sister know?"

"She does."

Zhi'an looked at him, tossed the remaining skewer stick into a trash bin by the road, and walked on ahead.

The sidewalk narrowed here; the two of them walked close together. Lu Jibai held out the bottle of water. He'd carried it the whole way, condensation covering the bottle, the label wrinkled from his palm.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Take it."

Zhi'an took it, didn't unscrew the cap, walked a few steps with it, then stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack, the bottom of the bottle sticking out.

The bus stop sign stood beside a utility pole, two bus routes pasted on the tin, one corner of the schedule torn off. Six or seven people queued at the stop—some on their phones, some with bags at their feet.

"If bus 27 comes, that's mine," Zhi'an said.

He stepped onto the concrete platform under the sign, half a head taller than Lu Jibai now, and switched the plastic bag to the hand closest to the wall.

"Let me ask you something," Lu Jibai said.

"Ask."

"If I ask her, and she says yes. What would you think?"

Zhi'an folded the bag's opening down again. Bus 27 was coming from the far end of the street, held up by the red light at the intersection.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"You're her family."

"My sister raised me." Zhi'an said. "After my dad left, she was the only adult in the house. She never tells me her business, and when she does, it's always 'nothing's wrong.'"

Lu Jibai didn't respond.

"Back at the stall, I told them you were my sister's coworker."

"I heard."

"My sister never told me what to call you." Zhi'an said. "I don't know how to say it."

The bus pulled in with a hiss of air brakes. The doors opened, two people got off, and the people at the stop moved forward.

"Ask her. If she says yes, then yes." Zhi'an said. "You won't get a second word from me about it."

Zhi'an climbed two steps, steadied himself on the doorframe, and looked back: "Stop waiting under the noodle shop all the time."

"Who said that?"

"I'm saying it." He climbed one more step. "It's cold down there. If she won't come down, come up and eat. If she won't cook, I will."

"Alright."

The doors closed. The bus moved forward two meters, stopped, then moved again.

The rear window slid half open, and Zhi'an leaned out, one hand on the frame.

"I won't tell her!"

The bus drove off. The window stayed open, the dark blue backpack bobbing below it once, then gone.

He stood under the bus stop sign until the bus turned the corner and disappeared.

Across the street, the wind flipped the plane tree leaves over, their undersides pale. He raised his wrist to check the time: 5:37.

Two stops back to the firm. He walked, and when he reached the hardware store, he remembered Zhi'an's window still open, the wind sharp at this hour. He took out his phone, then put it back in his pocket.