Chapter 9: Chapter 3: Caged Bird and Gear Diagram
They were spare copies of last year’s third-grade final exams, covering both Language Arts and Math.
"Chen Zhuo," the old principal said, placing the test papers on the coffee table and handing him a pen. "You said the teaching is too slow, so I’m going to give you a real challenge. These are third-grade problems. Do your best, see how much you can get done, but no wild guessing."
The atmosphere in the office instantly grew tense.
Teacher Wang watched Chen Zhuo, her expression a little nervous.
’Third grade?’
’Isn’t that a bit of a huge leap?’
’First graders were just learning addition and subtraction up to 20. Third grade had multiplication, division, word problems, and even essays!’
Chen Zhuo looked at the two test papers.
He breathed an inward sigh of relief.
’It’s finally here.’
’This is the chance I’ve been waiting for.’
’No need to be provocative, no need to argue with the teachers like an idiot.’
’All I have to do is show them something a little out of the ordinary, and the adults will let their imaginations run wild and build me a stage.’
’It’s a principle called "great skill appearing as clumsiness."’
He slid off the sofa, leaned over the coffee table, and picked up the pen.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t chew on his pen, and barely seemed to take any time to read the questions.
Question one: Mental math.
× 5 = ?
Chen Zhuo put pen to paper and wrote: 120.
Question two: Fill-in-the-blank.
ton = ( ) kilograms
1000.
His hand moved quickly.
To him, this wasn’t an exam. It was just copying.
His brain demonstrated astounding efficiency. The moment his eyes registered a question, the answer was already flowing from the tip of his pen.
Standing nearby, Chen Jianguo didn’t dare to breathe. He watched his son’s pen fly across the page, his own eyes growing wider and wider.
’This kid... when did he learn multiplication? When did he learn unit conversions?’
He suddenly remembered that the dusty elementary school textbooks on the bottom shelf of their bookcase seemed to have been moved around recently.
He’d thought his son had taken them to prop up a wobbly table leg. ’Turns out he was teaching himself?’
Five minutes later, the first side of the math test was done.
Ten minutes later, the word problems were done.
Chen Zhuo didn’t stop. He pushed the math test aside and pulled the Language Arts test toward him.
Writing words from phonetic spellings.
Forming phrases.
Constructing sentences.
For someone with the soul of a thirty-year-old, Language Arts was actually harder to feign incompetence in than math.
It was hard to imitate the tone of a child.
Sentence construction prompt: Use "Although..." and "...but..." in a sentence.
Chen Zhuo thought for a moment, then wrote: Although this test is very hard, I was still able to finish it.
’What he really wanted to write was: Although I’d love to go build an atomic bomb, I have to pretend to be an elementary schooler first.’
The essay topic: "My Ambition."
Chen Zhuo paused.
This was an easy question, but also a loaded one.
’Write about being a scientist? Too cliché.’
’Write about being an astronaut? Too far-fetched.’
He glanced at his father, who stood nearby with grease-stained hands, his face a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.
A faint smile touched Chen Zhuo’s lips as he put his pen to paper and wrote:
"My ambition is to be an engineer, just like my dad. I want to hold calipers in my hands and be able to fix the biggest machines in the world. I also want to draw beautiful gears and make them spin, carrying us all forward, faster and faster..."
The essay was short, only about two hundred characters.
But he wrote every word with care.
「Thirty minutes later.」
Chen Zhuo set down his pen and rubbed his aching wrist. ’This is my only weakness right now,’ he thought. ’A lack of muscle endurance in my hand.’
"I’m done."
He pushed the tests toward the old principal.
The office fell silent.
There was no need to grade them.
Everyone present was a veteran teacher. A single glance was enough to tell that even if the tests weren’t perfect, they’d score at least a ninety-five.
The handwriting was neat, the pages were clean, and the logic was clear.
Especially the essay.
Chen Jianguo leaned in for a look. When he saw the line "just like my dad," the big, strapping man’s eyes instantly reddened.
He turned his head away, fiercely wiping his eyes with the back of his grimy hand on a spot that was still clean.
The old principal held the tests, his hands trembling slightly.
He looked at Chen Zhuo as if he were gazing upon a diamond in the rough, or perhaps a monster from the future.
"Jianguo," the old principal’s voice was raspy.
"Yes, Principal?"
"Your ancestral tomb... is it billowing green smoke?"
Chen Jianguo just grinned foolishly, not knowing what to say as he wrung his hands.
"Let him skip grades."
The old principal’s decision was final, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Keeping him in first grade would be a crime. This child isn’t just at a third-grade level; his logical thinking is sharper than many fifth graders."
"What? Straight to third grade?" Teacher Wang gasped. "Isn’t that too fast? He’s still so young. Will he be able to adapt psychologically?"
"Psychologically?" Director Zhang pointed at Chen Zhuo, who was sitting quietly on the sofa, picking at his fingers. "Does he look like he’s under any pressure? I tried to intimidate him earlier, and he just looked at me like I was an idiot."
The old principal waved his hand. "No, not to third grade."
He looked at Chen Zhuo, his eyes glinting with an almost fanatical excitement.
"Let him audit the fourth-grade class. If he can keep up, we’ll enroll him in fourth grade next semester. If he has trouble, we can always move him back to third."
"Fourth grade?!" Chen Jianguo exclaimed, startled. "But that’s for ten-year-olds! He’s only seven!"
"So what if he’s seven?"
The old principal stood up, walked over to Chen Zhuo, and patted his head.
"Chen Zhuo, let me ask you. Fourth grade. Do you dare?"
Chen Zhuo looked up.
He looked at the old principal, then at his father, whose face was etched with worry but whose eyes shone with pride.
’I’ve done it,’ he thought.
’Fourth-grade lessons would still be child’s play for me, but at least there’d be more complex word problems, a science class, and less rote memorization of phonetics.’
More importantly, it meant he had saved himself three full years of his life.
He could use those three years to read more books in the library, practice the piano, or finish the blueprint for that reduction gearbox he’d started.
"I dare."
Chen Zhuo nodded, his voice crisp and clear.
"Excellent!"
The old principal let out a hearty laugh.
"Then it’s settled! Director Zhang, go handle the paperwork. Jianguo, you can take your boy home. No more classes for him today. Take him out for a nice meal!"
...
By the time they walked out of the school gates, the sun was already beginning to set.
The setting sun stretched the father and son’s shadows long across the ground.
Chen Jianguo pushed his classic roadster bicycle, with Chen Zhuo perched on the rear rack.
His father didn’t say a word. They had biked for quite a while before they passed a stall selling fried dough sticks.
"Hey, boss! Two fried dough sticks! And two tea eggs!" Chen Jianguo suddenly shouted, his voice booming with pride.
The two of them sat on small stools by the side of the road.
Chen Jianguo peeled a tea egg and pressed it into Chen Zhuo’s hand. He watched his son wolf it down and suddenly broke into a laugh.
"Son."
"Hmm?" Chen Zhuo replied, his mouth full of egg, his cheeks puffed out.
"From now on... if you want to draw your gears, you can draw them."
Chen Jianguo reached out with a large, calloused hand and gently wiped a speck of yolk from the corner of his son’s mouth.
"But on one condition: don’t overwork your brain. Your mom says using your brain too much will stunt your growth."
Chen Zhuo froze.
He looked at his father’s face, weathered by life and darkened by soot and smoke, and saw the unconditional, clumsy love in his eyes.
In his past life, he’d been so busy with work and social obligations that he rarely had the chance to truly look at his father like this.
In this life, he finally had the chance.
"Dad, I’m not tired," Chen Zhuo said earnestly after swallowing his mouthful of egg. "I’m happy when I’m drawing."
"As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters."
Chen Jianguo chuckled and took a huge bite of his fried dough stick.
"Genius or not, who cares! You’re my son, and your happiness is the most important thing! Let’s go, let’s head home! We’ll have your mom make you her stewed pork! I’m so happy today! The Chen Family has a scholar in its midst!"
The bicycle was on its way again.
Chen Zhuo sat on the rear rack, his hands clutching the hem of his father’s work uniform.
The fabric smelled of machine oil and sweat.
It was the smell of the era.
And the smell of safety.
The wind rustled through Chen Zhuo’s short hair. He lifted his head and watched as the lights of countless homes began to twinkle in the distance.
Seven years old, skipping three grades to go straight into fourth.
The clear ring of the bicycle bell echoed through the streets of 1999.
That was the year Macau was about to be handed over, the Y2K panic was still spreading, and the great wave of the internet was just beginning to swell.
And in the dusk of a small southern city, a seven-year-old boy sat on the back of his father’s bicycle.
Comments