The Parallel Me

Don’t Forget

The Student Affairs conference room was on the fourth floor.

Usually used for party meetings. The room smelled of disinfectant. Spilled last summer, never fully aired out. In winter when the heater was on, the smell was even stronger. Dizzying after a while.

A piece of paper was pasted on the wall. Edges curled up. The pledge for joining the party.

A potted plant sat on the windowsill. Dead. Leaves yellow, curled. The radiator was burning hot. A rag was draped over it, baked stiff.

Four desks were pushed together. A seam in the middle. I sat by the window. A teacher on each side. One taught physics, Old Zhao. One was new, surname Shen, taught politics.

Old Zhao was fifty-eight. Two years until retirement. An earbud was plugged into his ear. The radio was in his pocket, the wire trailing from his collar. He was listening to a fishing program. The volume was very low. Only the sound of the fishing line casting out, whoosh.

He wore a gray sweater. The cuffs were frayed. After listening for about ten minutes, he suddenly looked up.

"Chen Mo."

"Yeah."

"Ever been fishing?"

"No."

"Boring." He said. "Sit all day, don't catch a single one."

Then he lowered his head and kept listening. The guy on the radio was saying, in winter you have to fish in deep water. Old Zhao hummed in agreement. Like he was talking to someone. A fishing magazine was spread on his desk. A big carp on the cover.

The exam paper was spread in front of me. The math paper from the monthly exam.

"Redo this paper." Director Sun said.

"Now?"

"Now."

"How much time do I have?"

"As much as you want." He said. "If you don't finish today, continue tomorrow."

I picked up the pen. The pen was newly bought. A plastic clip on the cap, digging into my hand. I pressed the clip on the desk. Snapped it off.

"What are you doing?" Director Sun asked.

"Digging into my hand."

He didn't speak.

I took an hour and forty minutes. Faster than last time.

Question one was sets. Question two was functions. I did them one by one. The clock was on the wall. The second hand ticked, stopped, ticked. A towel hung behind the door. Dry.

Writing to the second page, I paused. This question, I didn't understand it last month. Now I understood it. Not just understood it. I knew what they were testing.

In the middle, I heard a music class downstairs. Someone playing the recorder. Hit a high note, cracked. The player stopped, started over. Another time, someone was mopping the hallway. The mop hit the doorframe with a thud. Old Zhao looked up, then lowered his head again.

Teacher Shen sat diagonally across from me. She kept looking at me. I looked back. She lowered her head. The heel of her high heel was worn crooked.

She whispered to Old Zhao: "Did he really score 612?"

Old Zhao didn't look up. "Just watch."

Writing to the last question, the pen ran out of ink. I lifted it and shook it twice. Still nothing.

"Teacher Zhao."

"Yeah."

"Got a pen?"

He dug one out of his pocket and handed it over. "Use this."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He said. "It's a crappy pen, press hard."

I pressed hard. Finished the last word, the pen tip scraped across the paper. Leaving a very fine mark.

After finishing, I pushed the paper over. Director Sun flipped through it page by page. Flipped to the last page, he stopped.

"Old Zhao."

"Ah."

"Look at this."

Old Zhao walked over and bent down. The two looked for a long time. Teacher Shen also stood up and leaned in to look. She looked for a while, glanced back at me, then turned back.

The room was quiet. Students were playing ball outside the window. The sound of the ball hitting the ground, thud, thud.

Old Zhao flipped the paper over, looked at the back. The back was scratch paper. Filled completely. He pointed at a line with his finger.

"This step, how did you think of it?"

I opened my mouth. Couldn't answer.

"Chen Mo." Director Sun looked up. "Step outside for a minute."

I stood up and walked to the door.

"Chen Mo."

I turned back.

"You scored eleven points higher this time than last time."

After he said that, he closed the door.

I stood in the hallway. Eleven points. I tried to let that number go. Couldn't.

One month, 425 points. A retake, eleven points.

I didn't know where those eleven points came from. I didn't want to know.

There weren't many people in the hallway. The window at the end was open. Wind came in, rustling the award certificates on the wall. Certificates from years ago. Dust on the glass frames.

A guy came downstairs, glanced at me, and walked around me. I walked forward. Reached the stairwell, saw a crowd of people gathered at the bulletin board downstairs.

A piece of paper was pasted on the bulletin board. I didn't go down. I looked down from the second-floor window. I couldn't hear what they were saying. But I could guess.

A tall girl in the crowd was talking the most animatedly. She held a pancake in her hand. The crispy bits fell all over the floor.

"198?"

"Isn't he that i***t?"

"Can an i***t score 198?"

"Then he copied."

"Copied who?"

"Copied the number one."

"The number one is Zhou Yan."

"Then that's it."

Listening from upstairs, I felt they made a lot of sense.

A person who scored 1,187th, scoring 198th in one month. Besides copying, what other explanation is there?

If I were them, I'd think the same. Too bad I'm me.

The rope on the flagpole was making noise. Hitting the iron pole, thud, thud.

I couldn't remember the last time I stood on the sports field.

In the first class of the afternoon, Teacher Li called me to the office. My exam paper was spread on her desk. An orange sat on the corner of the desk. Half peeled, resting on the paper. The orange juice had soaked a small red spot.

Her hands were very red. From the cold.

"Sit."

I sat down. She pushed the orange over. I took a slice. The orange was cold. Sour. After eating, I spit the seeds into my hand. She glanced at it, didn't speak.

"Chen Mo, let me ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"Are you hiding something from me?"

I looked up. Her glasses had a layer of dust. A crack on the edge of the lens, taped with clear tape.

"No."

"Really?"

"Really."

She looked at me for a long time. Then took off her glasses and wiped them with the corner of her clothes. Wiped them very slowly.

"Yesterday when you retook the exam, Director Sun called me and said one thing."

"What?"

"He said, this kid is either a genius or a madman."

She put her glasses back on.

"I've taught for nineteen years. I've seen geniuses, and I've seen madmen."

"A genius wouldn't gain 400 points in a month. A madman definitely wouldn't."

"Then what am I?"

"I don't know." She said. "So I thought of a solution."

"What solution?"

"In my class tomorrow, you come up and teach."

"Teach what?"

"Teach that paper." She said. "From the first question to the last. To the whole class."

After school, an electric scooter was parked at the school gate. A toolbox was strapped to it. Words on the box, paint peeling. Black tape wrapped around the handlebars.

The rider honked at me twice.

"Yo, college boy."

I looked up.

"Zhou Hao."

"Get on."

"Why are you here?"

"Delivering a tire." He said. "Just saw you."

I got on. The scooter shot forward with a whir. Wind poured into my collar. His windproof blanket was old, the edges unraveled.

Passing the vegetable market. Closed. The ground was covered in vegetable leaves, stomped to mush. Zhou Hao honked. A woman closing up her stall looked up and waved.

"My mom." He said.

Zhou Hao was three years older than me. Lived in the unit next door, third floor. His mom sold vegetables at the market. My dad used to buy on credit from her all the time.

We grew up together. When we were kids, he fought a fight for me once. I wrote his homework for him once. That homework was copied. Copied three wrong answers. He was punished to stand for a whole class. When he came back, he didn't yell at me. Just said one thing: "Your handwriting is f*****g beautiful."

Later I went to high school. He didn't. We saw less of each other.

He didn't watch the road while riding, kept turning back to talk to me.

"Heard you did well on the exams?"

"Who'd you hear that from?"

"Your dad."

"He told you?"

"He was bragging at the mahjong parlor yesterday." Zhou Hao said. "Said his son ranked 198th in the grade."

I didn't speak.

"He also lost 200."

"After losing, he was still smiling." Zhou Hao said. "Said 200 bucks to buy some happiness."

I didn't speak. 200 bucks. Enough for me to eat for a month.

The repair shop was at the alley entrance. The rolling shutter was half open. Engine oil on the ground, a black mess. Sticky when stepped on. A few tires thrown in the corner. One was sliced open, blooming like a black flower.

The room smelled of gasoline, mixed with rubber. A coal stove by the door, a kettle on it. The lid was rattling.

A radio was on the shelf, playing. An old Chinese storytelling program. A yellow cat was sleeping on a tire. Its tail hanging down, swaying.

Zhou Hao took two sodas from the freezer and tossed me one. Orange flavor. Water on the bottle. Cold. It was the only thing in his freezer. Dust on the freezer lid.

"What does 198 mean?"

"Means I ranked 198th in the grade."

"How many people in your grade?"

"1,187."

He counted on his fingers for a moment.

"So there are 197 people in front of you."

"Yeah."

"And 989 behind you."

"Yeah."

"Then what are you unhappy about?"

"Because I used to be dead last."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"The school says I cheated."

He stopped drinking his soda.

"Did you cheat?"

"No."

"Then that's the end of it."

"They don't believe me."

"Whether they believe it or not," Zhou Hao said, "what the f**k does it matter to me."

He put the bottle down.

"I believe you."

When he said this, he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the cat.

I didn't speak. The kettle lid was pushed up with a click, then fell back.

The yellow cat woke up. Glanced at me, then lay back down.

"Besides," Zhou Hao said, "if you really knew how to cheat, why didn't you do it earlier?"

"..."

"If you knew how to cheat, would you have waited until senior year?"

I laughed. Laughed out loud. Laughed so hard I choked.

Someone honked outside the window. Zhou Hao shouted back, "Coming!"

"Zhou Hao."

"Yeah."

"Were your grades bad back then?"

He downed the rest of his soda, crushed the bottle, and threw it into the basket in the corner. Missed. He stood up, walked over, picked it up, threw it again. This time it went in.

"I was pretty good at math." He said.

"How good?"

"Back in middle school, I could do mental math." He said. "When my mom gave change at the market, I calculated it. She was slow, people got impatient and cursed at her."

He wiped his hands on his pants.

"Then my dad ran away."

"Yeah."

"My mom was alone." He said. "If I went to high school, three years, who would support her?"

I didn't speak.

"So I dropped out." He said. "It's nothing. Fixing cars makes decent money. Over 4,000 a month."

He stood up, walked over to a half-disassembled motorcycle, crouched down, and picked up a wrench.

"Chen Mo."

"Yeah."

"If you drop out, come work with me." He said. "I'll teach you."

"..."

"4,000 a month. Meals included."

The wrench clicked.

"But don't come."

I looked at him. He didn't turn back. Kept his head down, tightening that screw.

"Why?"

"Because," he said, "my job, it'll be the same when I'm forty."

"You're different."

Went home that night, I spread the exam paper on the desk. The desk lamp was yellow. A moth was on the lampshade. Dead. Didn't know how long it had been dead.

I looked from the first question to the last. Looked until midnight, closed the paper.

"System."

"I'm here."

"I'm teaching the class tomorrow."

"I know."

"What if I mess up?"

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because," it said, "last night, you did this paper again."

I froze. Looked down at the desk.

A piece of scratch paper was spread there. Both sides were filled. Formulas line after line.

There was a blank space in the middle. In that space were three small words.

Don't forget.

It was my handwriting.

I didn't remember a single thing.