The Devil's Temperature

Abandon

Teacher Zheng’s proposed plan failed to gain Yu Qian’s approval. Weeks had passed since the preschool’s inauguration, yet Yu had noticed that a child named Pei Chuan had never once raised his hand to ask the teacher for help in going to the restroom.

Catching sight of the little boy’s chapped lips under the summer sun, Yu Qian instantly understood the unspoken truth.

Pei Chuan was a child of proud and sensitive disposition. Though his outward demeanor rarely betrayed his emotions, the thoughts that stirred within his young heart remained a mystery to others. Yu Qian deemed it unwise to rearrange his seat if such a change would inflict profound distress upon him.

Nevertheless, Teacher Zheng’s mention of Pei Chuan shoving Bei Yao had also placed Yu Qian in a quandary.

If Pei Chuan had truly bullied little Bei Yao, it would no longer be appropriate for the two to share a desk.

After much deliberation, Yu Qian resolved to observe the situation for a full day before making a decision.

In the morning, Teacher Yu brought Fang Minjun into the classroom and asked her to introduce herself to the other children.

Dressed in a white princess gown with her soft, long hair cascading down her back, the four-year-old Fang Minjun wore a serious expression on her childish face—having been admonished to mimic Chang Xue’s every gesture and smile. “My name is Fang Minjun. I am four years old. I hope to get along well with all of you,” she declared solemnly.

These were the very words Fang Minjun had been taught by her father, Fang Xin. As she spoke them, Teacher Yu Qian took the lead in applauding. Undoubtedly, Fang Minjun cut a pure and lovely figure that year, and the classroom erupted in sincere applause.

Beneath Bei Yao’s green jacket, she wore a pale yellow cotton short-sleeved pullover, paired with pea-green shorts that reached her knees.

Such bright, vivid colors were both lively and resistant to stains—a practical choice, for Bei Yao had never owned any white clothing in her childhood. Zhao Zhilan, her mother, had always feared that young children would easily soil white garments.

It was likely that Fang Minjun was the only child in the entire class who could afford to wear a white princess dress.

Fang Minjun was temporarily assigned to a solitary desk positioned at the front of the classroom, near the door—a space specially set aside for her. Being younger than the other children, she felt a twinge of grievance.

Everyone else has a deskmate, but not me, Fang Minjun thought to herself. It wasn’t like this in kindergarten; all the kids there loved to play with me. Even Pei Chuan—who doesn’t have legs—has a deskmate. Why must I sit alone? Wasn’t Pei Chuan always the one sitting by himself before? She longed to go home, to see her mother, yet the sight of Bei Yao, who had already placed her schoolbag by the far-left window, made her resolve not to leave.

When the first class ended, Fang Minjun was immediately surrounded by several children.

Among them were former kindergarten classmates, as well as those who found Fang Minjun as beautiful as Chang Xue, the actress they saw on television. Enveloped in their attention, Fang Minjun finally felt a sense of comfort.

Bei Yao gently retrieved a clean, washed apple from her schoolbag.

The large apple, glowing a rich crimson, had been prepared by Zhao Zhilan, who feared Bei Yao might grow hungry during preschool.

Bei Yao gazed at it with cherish, then turned to Pei Chuan. “Pei Chuan, would you like an apple?”

Pei Chuan was practicing writing in the squared grids of his workbook. The September sunlight streamed through the window near the door, yet the area by the window remained dim. With his head bowed, his dark eyes fixed on his workbook, he remained silent. Bei Yao understood his silence—it was a refusal, a silent plea for her not to disturb him.

Cheerfully, she turned to Ni Hui and Gu Xinghua. “Would you two like an apple?”

The two children sitting in the back row nodded eagerly.

Pei Chuan’s grip on his pencil tightened. Still too young to master his emotions, he could not help but turn to look. His little deskmate, her head tilted to one side, was using a small knife to divide the apple. The ribbon in her hair—shaped like a flower bud—quivered with each effortful cut.

His gaze shifted to the knife in her hand—a pencil sharpener’s blade that Bei Yao used for her pencils. Evidently, her mother had instructed her well; Bei Yao had carefully washed the knife with water before beginning to slice. Pei Chuan’s lips pressed into a thin, taut line.

Pei Chuan was unhappy.

He had no objection to Bei Yao eating the apple herself, but the sight of Ni Hui and Gu Xinghua sharing it ignited an uncontrollable surge of irritation within him—a feeling he could not contain.

This little, obedient, naive with such a gentle temper had pushed his displeasure and restlessness to their breaking point.

As Bei Yao was dividing the apple, Chen Hu arrived.

A chubby, gluttonous boy with a thick skin, Chen Hu asked Bei Yao for a piece of the apple. Bei Yao, whose memories of third grade remained simple and untainted, harbored no ulterior motives. Generously, she handed him a slice.

Munching on the sweet apple, his cheeks puffing out with each bite, Chen Hu graciously announced, “Bei Yao, I’ll take you sparrow-hunting this Chinese New Year.”

Bei Yao’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled with delight as she nodded with a smile.

Chen Hu wandered off, humming a tune.

The lead of Pei Chuan’s pencil snapped abruptly.

In that moment, he realized a painful truth: Bei Yao was kind to everyone. He was not special to her—not in the way he had foolishly believed… not in the way he had so desperately hoped.

He lowered his head, fetched his knife, and began to sharpen his pencil.

His fingertips were pale, yet he sharpened the pencil with far greater dexterity than Bei Yao had shown in cutting the apple.

Bei Yao was oblivious to Pei Chuan’s unhappiness. To her, Pei Chuan—who always wore a cold expression—looked the same whether he was happy or upset. Though she retained memories spanning five years, her mind was still that of a young child.

That day in September was unusually hot; the afternoon sun blazed fiercely, driving temperatures to summertime heights. During the afternoon class, Bei Yao drank water constantly. Fond of sweetness, she had added a pinch of sugar to her water, though she had not filled her cup to the brim. Normally, once she finished her own water, she would ask Pei Chuan for more.

His cup was always full, yet he never drank a single sip himself. More often than not, when Bei Yao looked at him with eager, imploring eyes, he would pour all his water into her cup.

Having emptied her own cup, Bei Yao turned to Pei Chuan.

The boy’s eyelashes were long, though not curled. When he lowered his head, they effectively concealed the emotions in his eyes. His profile, with its delicate yet surprisingly sharp contours, exuded an air of quiet sternness beyond his years.

“Pei Chuan, I want some water,” she said in a soft, babyish voice. Lifting the lid of her cup, she stretched out her small arm toward him, asking for a refill.

On days, Pei Chuan would unscrew the lid of his cup and pour water into hers.

But today, Pei Chuan did not move. Bei Yao stared at him, her eyes filled with eager anticipation.

Slowly, he lifted his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers.

— I am angry.

His eyes, still too young to fully mask his feelings, betrayed his mood. Yet Bei Yao failed to comprehend. Confused, she met his gaze, mistakenly interpreting his silence as agreement. Happily, she placed her cup on his side of the desk.

Pei Chuan: “…”

Pei Chuan pushed her cup back, then picked up his pencil. Using the screw on one end of the wooden desk as a starting point, he drew a clear, straight line across to the other end—a “38th Parallel,” as it were.

He divided the desk with meticulous fairness, taking no more than his share and yielding not an inch to Bei Yao.

The small wooden desk, already cramped for two, was now split evenly between them.

His attitude was cold and unyielding, as if erecting an invisible barrier to shut her out.

Bei Yao stared at the line, dumbfounded.

Wasn’t this the kind of dividing line that only appeared in first or second grade? Were she and Pei Chuan the first children in the class to draw such a line?

With a heavy heart, she realized: this little boy hated her.

From the front of the classroom, Yu Qian frowned as she watched the scene unfold. Could Teacher Zheng have been right? Did Pei Chuan dislike Bei Yao, and would he bully her even if they sat together?

If that were true—if Pei Chuan truly did not wish to be Bei Yao’s deskmate—then it would be best to move Bei Yao to sit with Fang Minjun.

Teacher Yu decided to ask the children for their thoughts. She had already spoken to Fang Minjun, who had replied, “Teacher, I want to sit with the other children.”

Now, she would ask Pei Chuan.

There was still some time before Pei Chuan’s father, Pei Haobin, would arrive to pick him up after school. Teacher Yu pushed Pei Chuan’s wheelchair, taking him to the teachers’ office to wait. She turned to the little boy and asked, “Do you not want to sit with Bei Yao anymore?”

Pei Chuan lifted his head.

His dark eyes were as pure and deep as the inky black of a glass marble from years past.

When he remained silent, Yu Qian decided to speak candidly. “A new little girl has joined our class. Her name is Fang Minjun, and I’m sure you met her today. I want to ask you: would you prefer to sit alone, sit with Bei Yao, or sit with Fang Minjun?”

Yu Qian’s heart fluttered with anxiety. She dreaded hearing his answer to the last option.

Though the question was framed as a choice for Pei Chuan—seemingly putting the decision in his hands—Teacher Yu feared he would choose Fang Minjun. After all, even if Pei Chuan agreed, Fang Minjun would most likely object.

Yet Fang Minjun was indeed a lovely, delicate child, even nicknamed “Little Jade Girl.” If Pei Chuan chose her, it would complicate matters beyond measure.

September had yet to bring the coolness of autumn; Pei Chuan’s lips and throat felt parched, as if pricked by thorns.

In a voice so soft that Yu Qian could barely hear it, he said, “I want to sit alone.”

Upon hearing his answer, Teacher Yu breathed a quiet sigh of relief, yet a faint sense of sorrow lingered in her heart. Gently, she said, “Xiao Chuan, children need to drink plenty of water to stay healthy. If you need to go to the restroom, don’t hesitate to ask the teacher for help. I am very happy to take care of you, but remember—never hold it in when you need to go, alright?”

Pei Chuan did not respond.

When he had said, “I want to sit alone,” he had tried his best to sound calm. But at five years old, he could not hold back the stinging in his eyes, nor the tears that threatened to fall. This was already the limit of his composure; he could not bring himself to answer any more of the teacher’s questions.

After the children had left, Yu Qian told Teacher Zheng of Pei Chuan’s decision.

Teacher Zheng nodded. “That’s for the best. Tomorrow, speak to Bei Yao and ask her to move to sit with Fang Minjun.”

It seemed there was no other choice.

The next morning, when Bei Yao arrived for class, she had already forgotten the previous day’s unhappiness. Opening her schoolbag, she pulled out a small, charming bamboo dragonfly.

The edges of the bamboo dragonfly had been sanded smooth, removing any sharp splinters, giving it a cute, clumsy appearance.

Bei Yao had been puzzled by Pei Chuan’s unhappiness the day before. After thinking about it that night, she had begged her father to make her a “little dragonfly.”

To help out, she had even tried to sweep the floor with her father, Bei Licai. The sight of the four-year-old girl struggling with a broom had amused and touched him, so he had relented and crafted a beautiful bamboo dragonfly for her.

Now, Bei Yao held out the dragonfly to Pei Chuan. “It can fly!” she exclaimed. To demonstrate, she wrapped her small hand around the stick, rubbed it between her palms, and released it. The dragonfly’s propeller-like wings spun rapidly as it soared through the air—only to bump into the corner wall at the front of the classroom and flutter gently to the ground.

She had used too little force, so the dragonfly had not flown far.

Pei Chuan watched her. A soft breeze drifted through the window, stirring the fine strands of her hair and the ribbon in her hair that looked like a flower bud. She ran over joyfully to retrieve the dragonfly, then held it out to him again, her small hand outstretched. “This is for you. Don’t be angry anymore.”

Pei Chuan could not articulate the emotions swirling in his heart.

That little hand, so slow to learn its lesson, crossed the “Chu-Han Border” they had drawn between them. Soft and tender, it carried no hint of malice—yet it stirred an ache within him.

He, too, forgot about the dividing line, taking the bamboo dragonfly with a sense of vague melancholy. As he had expected, Bei Yao’s almond-shaped eyes lit up instantly, as bright as stars.

By mid-September, autumn was drawing near. Bei Yao lowered her head to unscrew the lid of her water cup, her small face almost touching the rim as she drank.

She knew nothing—nothing of the decision he had already made to “abandon” her, and nothing of the fact that his anger had long since faded.

Pei Chuan ran his pale fingers over the bamboo dragonfly. His father was an outstanding criminal police officer, yet he had never made such a toy for him. This was the first time Pei Chuan had seen an inanimate object float gently through the air on its own. He did not need such a toy, though. Without legs, if he let it fly away, he would never be able to retrieve it himself.

The only thing he could do was hold it tightly in his hand.

When class ended, Teacher Yu Qian announced, “Bei Yao, please move to sit with Fang Minjun.” Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the noisy preschool classroom fell silent. Instinctively, the children glanced first at Pei Chuan, then at Fang Minjun.

Bei Yao clutched the small panda charm on her schoolbag, her eyes widening in confusion. She looked first at Teacher Yu Qian, whose expression showed no trace of jest, then at Fang Minjun—who sat at the far right of the classroom, her young face set in a stern frown. Finally, she turned to Pei Chuan.

In her eyes, innocent and bewildered, there was a silent question, as misty as ink wash in a painting: Why does the teacher want me to leave?

Pei Chuan averted his gaze, his expression calm and cold as he stared at his empty, limp trouser legs.