On the day of the parents' meeting the sun was blindingly white; the tiles on the teaching building's exterior felt hot to the touch. Corridors were packed with people—parents moving in and out of classrooms with varying expressions. The air smelled of sweat, perfume, and chalk dust; it was stifling.
Lin Yichen leaned against the cold wall by his classroom's rear door. Through the crack he could hear the homeroom teacher calling out rankings: "...Su Ziyan performed steadily on this mock exam, ranked thirty-fifth in the school; her liberal-arts score stands out..." His fingers worried at a thread on his jeans while his eyes kept darting to the opposite classroom doorway.
Su Ziyan stood by the railing outside her classroom door, head down, twirling a loose thread on her sleeve. Her parents were beside her—dressed neater than most. Her mother held the report card, lips moving quickly, brows slightly furrowed; her father stood with folded arms, his expression businesslike and uncompromising. When other parents greeted them, they offered quick, polite smiles.
"Ziyan," her mother said in a low but purposeful voice that still drifted across the hall, "I asked Aunt Wang at Qingmei's admissions—direct entry is tough, but with your foundation you have a shot if you push. The key is the portfolio—cultural subjects are okay, but they really care about artistic skill..."
Her father continued, voice heavier: "Set your sights on the Central Academy of Fine Arts. Qingmei is the best stepping stone. Beijing's resources and environment aren't comparable to here. Don't choose the convenient option; that's how you get left behind."
Ziyan lowered her head further and stared at her white canvas shoes; a spot of stubborn blue paint stained the lace. She made a small, noncommittal sound and tore the loose thread off.
Yichen drew his gaze away and felt as if something heavy struck his chest. He saw his own parents exit the classroom: his father in a faded work jacket, tired; his mother smiling but strained, quietly explaining, "His father's factory is busy; it's lucky he could come... Yichen's weak in sciences, but he's trying..." The homeroom teacher nodded with practiced sympathy.
The two groups passed on the stairs. Ziyan's parents glanced briefly at Yichen's parents and at him—no more than a polite nod, like brushing past air. Ziyan shot Yichen a quick, complicated look—surprise, embarrassment, something else—and was led away.
Their figures rounded the corner, taking the corridor's last thread of tension with them. Yichen's mother sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Their daughter has clear goals... Yichen," she said to her son with thinly veiled worry, "your teacher said you've been fiddling with your camera a lot. Focus on studies—your science score dropped again. Work hard these last months; getting into the local engineering school would be good."
"Okay, Mom." Yichen's reply was quiet and dry. He felt like he stood outside a heavy door that was closing. His father patted his shoulder—solid, wordless.
The evening study bell cut the night. The air carried the damp warmth of early summer. Most classroom windows were dark; a few harsh lights still glowed like watchful eyes.
Yichen packed his bag slowly. The dull weight of the parents' meeting sat in his chest. He slung on his camera bag, fingers rubbing the cold nylon; inside was the roll of film he'd shot that afternoon: the crooked scholar tree by the playground, speckled light through its branches, a spiderweb trembling in the corner. He wanted to show the frames to Ziyan—maybe she'd understand the fragile way light passed through the web.
He drifted toward the art room's small outdoor terrace. It was quiet there, away from the building's bustle. Moonlight softened the outline of someone he recognized. Su Ziyan leaned on the rusted railing, back to him, shoulders hunched, sunk in shadow.
"Ziyan?" he ventured; his voice sounded clumsy in the still night.
She whipped her head around—tear tracks still wet on her face, glinting in the moon. Seeing him, she brushed her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffed once. "Oh. It's you," she said, voice tight.
Silence held for a few breaths. A light breeze brought a floral scent; the railing felt cold through her thin shirt.
"Your parents..." Yichen started and stopped several times, awkward. "They expect a lot of you."
"'Expect a lot'?" Her voice rose, edged with bitter irony and a pent-up exhaustion. "It's a plan! Everything's scheduled—Qingmei, then Central Academy... Sometimes I feel like I'm not even a person, just a line in their plan!" She dug her nails into the railing until they bled a little.
"You can't blame them entirely," Yichen tried. He was bad at this kind of talk. "They mean well."
"'Mean well'?" She spun to face him. Moonlight revealed hurt and an almost breaking frustration. "What does 'for my own good' even mean then? Following their route is 'for my good'? I can't hesitate? I want to slow down, look at other paths, maybe stay where I'm familiar—am I not allowed?" She spoke fast, as if air finally found an outlet.
"Stay local?" Yichen felt a small, guilty lift—he'd heard his parents say the same. He asked cautiously, "Are there good schools here that suit you?" The thought of staying, of different possibilities, pushed at the edges of him.