A little sad love story

Who's Mr. Wood

　I don't like that girl, or rather, I’m scared of her. She is so weird in a dangerous way just like her name, Shadow.

She has been searching for me on campus more than half month as long as she gets the chance. Once she finds me, she remains motionless and peers at me as if I am her prey. Sometimes, I stare back, and she will impishly give me a lopsided smile.

I don’t understand what is so appealing that a first year student will keep trace of a plain-looking, very ordinary second year student, but I’ve heard some rumors about her. Her father is allegedly our dean’s close friend, a successful businessman, and she enters this university without passing the college entrance examination and the artistic student recruiting. So, I can easily label her as a good for nothing young lady from a wealthy family. We don't have anything in common, and we will have no intersection. I am 100 percent sure.

　2

It is a Friday. On Fridays I usually skip all the classes and stay in the studio which is on the top floor of our collage’s art building. It is a place where people seldom come. My mentor who teaches me painting has given me the key and the permission to use it anytime.

I’m sitting on a stool in front of my easel, admiring the perfect contours of a plaster bust of Morpheus on the table and several naughty light spots make her alive when the sun sneaks in through the c***k of the dark green velvet curtains. I love the smell of the oil paints that permeates the room. I love the old wooden floor that creaks as I walk around. I love my dear friends Giuliano de' Medici, Voltaire, Agrippa and so on who line up in the corner. I love the paintings of nude men and women on the wall, powerful, gorgeous but not obscene. This 40 square-meter space is my secret base, my paradise, except for those two skeletons that are nicely displayed in the glass case near the door. I have more than once imagined that they would have broken the glass and bit me, which is why I prefer to leave the door half open, being easier for me to escape.

“Hi, are you drawing,” suddenly somebody breaks the quiet.

I frown and lift up my head. It’s her.

“I’m Shadow,” she grins, revealing her neat, white teeth.

It is the first time she speaks to me and introduces herself.

“What are you doing here? Coming in without knocking the door,” I try to control my voice, making it sound calm and indifferent. However, my real question is, what do you want from me?

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I just saw the door open. Our class has the rehearsal next door for the students of costume design major, their graduation performance,” she sincerely apologizes and answers my question.

“Actually, all the students majoring in fashion show are required to walk the runway. They need models,” she continues and the expression on her face is slightly cunning.

Well done. She successfully pulls me back to the earth from heaven. It seems that she is deliberately reminding me even though I am a short, unpromising, bad model who can hardly walk with high heels, I am still worth a penny as an unpaid labor.

“I always think you do not suit this major,” she says earnestly.

“You have an unique temperament. I knew you could draw when I first saw you,” she looks into my eyes unscrupulously.

“I will see you soon, Mask,”she concludes this conversation.

I don't dare to look at her, lowering my head and pretending that I’m busy with my painting until she disappears. She is more dangerous than I could have imagined.

　3

This summer is very hot and unbearable, even in the morning, especially for those who live in the school dorm, a heavily guarded four-storey building with no air conditioning. Boarders are not allowed out after10: 30 pm until next morning at 5:30 when the dorm caretaker opens the door, and visitors are not permitted.

I am alone in the room, trying to stay cool as I receive a text message from an unknown number: I’m waiting for you downstairs.

I lean out of the window. It’s her, again. She is sitting on one of the doorsteps, stretching both her legs. I can see her clearly from the second floor, short black hair, black-rimmed glasses, wearing boyfriend-style loose jean and honey-colored Cat Work boots as usual. She looks a bit wild and childish, and she is completely incompatible with the major we study. She and I, we don't look at all like models. I finally find one thing we have in common.

I’m not surprised she has my number, but I’m quite curious about what she wants. The fierce sun is burning as her forehead is oozing sweat and the beads of sweat start dripping off her face. I am hesitating, and I am resisting on something unrecognized.

“What exactly do you want from me,” half-hour later, I go down eventually, and I ask her the question that has been bothering me recently.

“I want to be your friend. That’s it,” she grins like a child.

“This is for you, breakfast and cold drink,” she hands me a red plastic bag. I have no idea why I can't bear to refuse her or to let her down.

Accepting her breakfast means I officially sign the friendship contract with her.

My hand touches hers as I reach for the bag, ice-cold and soft.

This summer is very hot and unbearable, even in the morning, especially for those who live in the school dorm, a heavily guarded four-storey building with no air conditioning. Boarders are not allowed out after10: 30 pm until next morning at 5:30 when the dorm caretaker opens the door, and visitors are not permitted.

I am alone in the room, trying to stay cool as I receive a text message from an unknown number: I’m waiting for you downstairs.

I lean out of the window. It’s her, again. She is sitting on one of the doorsteps, stretching both her legs. I can see her clearly from the second floor, short black hair, black-rimmed glasses, wearing boyfriend-style loose jean and honey-colored Cat Work boots as usual. She looks a bit wild and childish, and she is completely incompatible with the major we study. She and I, we don't look at all like models. I finally find one thing we have in common.

I’m not surprised she has my number, but I’m quite curious about what she wants. The fierce sun is burning as her forehead is oozing sweat and the beads of sweat start dripping off her face. I am hesitating, and I am resisting on something unrecognized.

“What exactly do you want from me,” half-hour later, I go down eventually, and I ask her the question that has been bothering me recently.

“I want to be your friend. That’s it,” she grins like a child.

“This is for you, breakfast and cold drink,” she hands me a red plastic bag. I have no idea why I can't bear to refuse her or to let her down.

Accepting her breakfast means I officially sign the friendship contract with her.

My hand touches hers as I reach for the bag, ice-cold and soft.

4

Shadow is right. I can’t avoid performing for the fashion design students. The graduation show is arranged in a small hall of the art building and starts at 14:00pm on Saturday. All the models are supposed to arrive before 12: 30 pm, putting makeup on, allocating costumes and going through a rehearsal.

It is 12:40pm, but the backstage is still empty. There are ten rows of clothes racks are placed neatly against the wall. A couple of designers are steaming and pressing the clothes.

I see Shadow enter in and walk toward me.

“Your lunch,” she gives me a carton of takeout. Since the day we become friends, she has brought me breakfast nine days. But we rarely talk and she still looks for me in the crowd.

“You are too thin,” she voice is strangely tender.

“Thank you, “I response her rigidly. I see something on her left forearm when she turns up her sleeves. It’s a painting of a rose entwining a running black cat, which looks just like the tattoo on my right ankle. It's my design.

I have to think of our strange relationship. Why I always feel unnatural and embarrassed in front of her? Do I still fear her? I really don't know.

“I don't need to perform. I’m in charge of costume allocation,” she announces proudly as she watches me eat.

I hear the door open. It is our dean. This pudgy middle-aged woman looks very angry as she glances around the empty room. And when her eyes rest on me, she frowns. My brand-less casual clothes and matted hair seem to bother her.

She slams the door, and Shadow leaves with her for some errands.

　It is 12:55 pm, and more people arrive.

Yuki and Tina are talking loud.

“Do you really think I should park my BMW next to our dean’s Ford Fiesta? It seems a bit humiliating to her,” Yuki said as she kept turning the BVLGARI ring on her forefinger.

“Of course not. Do you like my bag,” Tina answers unconcernedly, looking herself in the mirror and posing with her new Louis Vuitton bag.

I occasionally catch some key words of their conversation. Things like sugar daddy, luxury brand and nightclub.

The three famous fake faces are sitting on the floor beside the racks.

Amy is the central person of this small group who suddenly yells to Jenny.

“Stop touching her nose.”

Jenny shrugs and they begin to whisper.

Lucy, the girl who has recently done her nose job is tittering behind her hand. Her nose bridge is unnaturally high, not matching her Asian face.

They all wear heavy makeup, but I still can tell their faces have suffered painful plastic surgeries.

Amy’s double eyelids are too wide, and the knife scars are obvious when she closes her eyes.

Jenny is brave, not only because she has been cut a large proportion of her jawbones but also because she has been put the silica gel breasts into her body.

I stare at her thin figure, a 176-centimeter, 46-kilogram girl with C cup fake breasts.

I start missing Shadow. We are abnormal in this major.

　Shadow comes back with a piece of paper, and she begins to assign clothes to models.

“ These two dresses are yours,” she winks at me with meaning.

I hold the clothes and unfold them. I realize that she is helping me. The dresses she has chosen for me are conservative and light. I can almost smell her characteristic milk fragrance on the clothes.

I smile.

About five meters away, Shadow is talking with Mandy, her classmate and best friend. Apparently, Mandy get the same privilege of clothes with me from Shadow.

Watching them laugh and hold hands, I feel something is blooming inside my body.

It’s a flower of jealousy.

Who’s Mr. Wood？

No matter who you asked in Peacock Street, they would all titter and then whisper in your ear, ‘a henpecked man.’

Peacock Street was a shantytown - about 200 meters long, ten meters in width, made up of more than a hundred households. Old, shabby houses were jammed together on both sides of the street. The pavements and vehicle lanes were occupied by squatter settlements, which limited the passing capacity of the street.

Mr. Wood lived at 19 Peacock Street with his wife and daughter. He left home every morning at six, to bike to a nearby open-air market. After buying fresh produce for the day, he would head to a breakfast stand.

‘A bowl of tofu pudding as usual, and two fried dough sticks,’ Mr. Wood said to the vendor as he passed her a small pot.

‘No problem,’ the vendor said. She wiped her hands on her stained apron and reached for the pot.

Mr. Wood preferred to take his own container since he thought the round polystyrene food containers that the vendor provided were too small for the tofu pudding. He wanted more pudding and sauce.

A bowl of tofu pudding normally sold for 1.5 Yuan. He always paid 2 Yuan, for extra.

It was Mr. Wood’s favorite food.

Every day at 7:30, Mr. Wood would send his 7-year-old daughter to school. His daughter liked singing on the backseat of the bicycle.

‘The sun is shining; the flowers smile at me; the birds say good morning, why you carry your little schoolbag,’ her voice was sweet.

After a moment, she stopped singing to say, ‘Dad, I wanna eat shrimp wonton.’

‘I’ll make for you tonight, little foodie,’ Mr. Wood said.

He would do anything for her.

Once she said, ‘Dad, I saw Mei-Mei eating lychees today.’

Mr. Wood hunted all over the city and was told he would be unlikely to find lychees in winter. All other options exhausted, he ran into Mei-Mei’s house, his cotton-padded coat soaked with sweat.

‘Could you please give me some?’ he begged Mei-Mei’s father.

Mr. Wood had a mean-looking face with bean-size triangular eyes, a hooked nose and a big mouth. His tetracycline-stained teeth showed when he laughed. He was thin and tall. His two skinny legs were like those of an egret.

He was a security guard of a private-owned supermarket on the corner of Peacock Street. His boss was a stingy, fake nice guy who required Mr. Wood to compensate for anything that was stolen. Many residents of Peacock Street stole things from the supermarket regularly, but Mr. Wood did not fine them, or call the police.

‘What are you doing?’ Mr. Wood yelled at a customer who was stuffing her oversized coat with instant noodles and walked toward her.

‘It won’t happen again. I promise. I promise,’ the old widow who lived opposite Mr. Wood’s house said and smiled to him shamelessly.

‘This is the second time this month you’ve been caught,’ he said, looking serious. ‘Put them back and leave.’

‘Thanks, thanks,’ she said, bowing and scraping to him while edging away from the supermarket until Mr. Wood was out of her sight.

‘Soft, drop dead,’ the widow spat on one of the glass doors of the supermarket.

He dips his fired dough stick in the tofu pudding sauce and then takes a big bite.

The pitter-patter of raindrops beats down against the roof tiles, sounding like thousands of soybeans drop on ceramic plates.

Mr. Wood looks up at the clock, frowning.

‘Sweetie, we are leaving in ten minutes,’ he says towards the curtain that separates a palm-size toilet from the bedroom.

‘Okay, dad,’ his daughter responds in a weak voice as she sits on the night stool.

Her stomach hurts, cold sweats running from her forehead. However, she decides to not tell her father since he always overreacts to her physical discomfort.

She had a mild cold six months ago, and her father insisted on sending her to the hospital to get an IV drip. Contaminated penicillin flowed into her tiny body through her veins. She felt cold and her left arm been paralyzed as her head swelled up to twice its size. She could hardly open her eyes. Two weeks later, she left the hospital with a life-long allergy to penicillin.

Suddenly something hits the ground with a bang.

The metal pot gets a dent in the bottom as it touches the ground and then rolls over, broken. Soft tofu is scattered everywhere.

‘5 days’ wages have been docked again? How could you still have the mood to eat?’ a woman’s high voice asks. She rummages through her bag and then throws a bank receipt on Mr. Wood’s face.

Mr. Wood holds a spoon, remaining silence. He gawks down at his trouser legs that soiled by spattering dark red sauce and milk-white tofu.

‘You such a loser. Why did I marry you?’ she roars. ‘Everyone’s waiting to see what a fool I am. I was really blind, how initially could I consider ugly men were more reliable. Bullshit. All’s bullshit! Giving up your house to your brother as his wedding house. Have you ever thought about your wife and daughter? Let us move to such a slum, with those less educated rubbish. Are you f*****g a man?’

The woman is weary with scolding, collapsing onto the chair.

The house becomes oddly peaceful.

While the woman is resting, Mr. Wood cleans up the mess.

He glances at her as he picks up the pot.

She is leaning against the window, panting. Her head is bent, several strands of her wet hair covering her cold eyes. She doesn’t laugh a lot, and she has deep furrows on her forehead and by her eyes that show her suffering.