Chapter 14: The Male Tenor's Tutoring Challenge (7)

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You lie back contentedly in the warm water of the bathtub before the floor-to-ceiling window, one arm stretching out from beneath the rose-patterned surface…

You pump the bottle of body wash you brought from the shower over and over, as though it were free.

Ah, it smells wonderful.

Knowing the fried chicken would take a while, you are in no hurry.

After covering yourself in dense white foam, you gather the remaining bubbles into little clumps and place them on the rose petals, proudly naming them “rose-flower glutinous rice cakes.”

You take a solemn commemorative photograph.

Actually, you want to send it to Fu.

But, remembering that he is still young, you ultimately spare him.

Come to think of it, in the photograph you sent earlier, you wanted to raise your middle finger far more than make a peace sign.

The belief that raising your middle finger was “not something a girl should do” was deeply rooted in your mind, though you could no longer remember whether it had been planted there by a teacher or by your parents.

You had seen people raise their middle fingers a few times in real life. Though never directed at you, the gesture always instinctively struck you as rude. At the same time, there was something faintly… cool about the audacity of expressing one’s feelings so directly.

Every now and then, you wanted to try it.

If reality were like a game and you could start over without retaining any memories, you would return to the elevator. After your female classmate said to the teacher, “Teacher, help me persuade her too. It’s no good to know nothing but how to bury herself in studying once she gets to college, right?” you would raise your middle finger at her and say forcefully, “Mind your own damn business!”

Just as you are enjoying the thought, a familiar mechanical noise sounds beside your ear. You look outside through the white gauze curtain.

It turns out your fried-chicken container is descending from the sky.

Huh? Why so soon?

You guess that, since you had not stood guard behind the door this time and were feeling completely relaxed, time had passed more quickly.

You wrap yourself in a bath towel, draw open the white curtain, open the window, and retrieve your fried chicken container.

This time, everything goes smoothly. You are in such a good mood that you even politely say, “Bye-bye!” to the drone.

Still wrapped in your towel, you plop yourself down on the floor by the window and begin eating your fried chicken.

Ahhhhhhh! Why does it taste even better this time?

It is so delicious that you feel as though a pair of enormous wings might sprout from your shoulder blades above the edge of the towel!

As the saying goes, happiness brightens the spirit, and everything tastes better when you are in a good mood. You make yourself a lemon iced cola the same way as before, and after swallowing a mouthful, you feel that even the immortals in heaven could not compare with you at this moment!

You polish off the meal like a storm sweeping across the land, then change back into your original clothes and find your student ID and silver wrench.

You tuck the wrench stylishly into the back of your waistband, stride along with the wind at your heels, and head toward the door that had trapped you so thoroughly in the previous round.

You try the door. As expected, it has been locked from the outside, just as it was last time.

You insert your student ID into the gap beside the doorknob, then repeatedly hammer it farther into the gap with the wrench. After only seven or eight strikes, the door pops open with a click.

As expected, this method really does work on an ordinary interior door!

Some time ago, you saw a news report about a thief who had tried to pry open someone’s security door this way. The door had not opened, and a video doorbell had captured his face, so he was arrested. The footage was even broadcast on the news.

At the time, a thought had flashed through your mind: this method of forcing open a door was probably viable. He must have tried it privately before going out to steal, and the reason he had failed was most likely that the security door he chose was too difficult.

As the facts prove, when the lock is of average difficulty and the door is an ordinary one, the method works perfectly.

The reason you had not thought of it in the previous round was probably that the thief had used a hammer and a white plastic card, while you had not possessed exactly the same tools. That, and the fact that people trapped inside a situation often fail to see the obvious.

You push the door open and cautiously poke your head outside, but you do not see Butler Li in the corridor, despite his claim in the previous round that he would “remain outside the door at all times.”

You had been a little curious to see what he looked like, too. What a pity.

Had he said that last time just to intimidate you?

You cannot figure it out, so you simply stop thinking about it.

It is better without him. Otherwise, you would certainly have had to waste a great deal of time arguing with him.

You make it to the stairwell without encountering anyone.

You follow the stairs down to the second floor and walk toward the far end of the corridor on the right.

Recalling where you saw him stop earlier when you were coming upstairs, you stop nearby as well.

You examine the two doors, one on either side.

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One door is ajar, while the other is closed properly. You peer through the crack in the open door. Though your view is limited, you can easily recognize it as a bathroom.

Did he forget to close the door… or was it something else?

Looking downward through the gap, you finally notice several mottled dark patches on the carpet beneath your feet.

You crouch down and touch one of them. It is damp, and the marks appear to be about the size of shoeprints.

You follow the trail of dark water stains until it leads to a door.

You place your hand on the doorknob and feel the dampness left upon it.

Staring at the closed door before you, you seem to see him hurrying along after his shower, barely drying himself before pushing this door open.

You curl your knuckles and knock, then call through the door, “Fu, I’m coming in, okay?”

The moment you finish speaking, your ear pressed against the door catches a burst of frantic commotion from inside.

So it really is him.

You guess he is busy fixing his appearance.

Kindly, you count down ten numbers for him from outside. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…”

The moment you finish saying “three,” you push the door open.

The first thing you see is Fu, trousers in hand, looking up at you in astonishment.

He remains speechless for three seconds before indignantly shouting, “Why did you come in when you only counted down to three?!”

He is wearing a long T-shirt, and because he is bent over, all you can see besides it is a stretch of long, lean legs.

“Sorry,” you say without much sincerity, then slowly turn your back to him, signaling that he may continue.

Rustling sounds come from behind you. Looking around, you realize that this seems to be his dressing room. You draw out the countdown in a leisurely tone. “Two—one—zero. Can I turn around now?”

“You… can.” You can hear him grit his teeth.

You turn around.

He seems to have suffered a fright. From somewhere, he has found a black belt and fastened it tightly around the waist of his athletic shorts.

The combination is so jarringly mismatched that you cannot help glancing at it twice more.

He appears to panic. His large hands immediately overlap to shield his waist.

You look at his face in confusion. A fierce flush is rising from his wheat-colored skin.

You: “???”

Why do you feel as though he has mistaken you for some tyrant who likes to bully innocent young wives? Did the photograph you sent him give him the wrong idea?

Still, you rather like this reaction of his. It is somewhat… cute?

Oh no. You have actually begun to sympathize with the bully…

The huffing of his nose interrupts your further moral decline.

Worried that he might suffocate from holding it all in, you take the initiative and ask, “What were you going to say?”

His embarrassment turns to anger. “Teacher Su, how can you sneak a look while I’m changing?!”

What an enormous accusation to dump on you…

But you have no intention of explaining yourself.

“You locked my door without permission. I only opened yours after announcing myself.” The implication is perfectly clear.

Struck where it hurts, he falls silent at once.

“But I’m magnanimous.” You wave a hand at him. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Are we going to study in your library, or stay here?” you ask considerately, giving him a choice as you survey the room for somewhere suitable to work.

He stares at you for a while. Only after realizing that you are eyeing his watch storage cabinet with ill intent does he reluctantly force out, “The… li… brary.”

You signal with your eyes that he should lead the way.

He does not move. His eyes tell you, You go first.

You do not move either. Your own eyes tell him, Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re up to something again.

The two of you exchange glances in a prolonged silent battle.

Eventually, you place the canvas bag on your shoulder atop his watch cabinet, which looks expensive and has clearly been arranged with considerable care.

He immediately gives up resisting and walks toward the door.

You hurry after him, following close at his heels.

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***

In the library.

You sit side by side at the desk, one on either side. You feel slightly dazed. Could you really complete the task this easily in this round?

As it turns out, you are getting ahead of yourself.

He takes out the English test paper he wants you to explain. You scan it and prepare to begin with the cloze passage, where he has the most wrong answers.

Following the procedure your high-school English teacher used for cloze passages, you ask him to read through the article first.

The moment he begins, you turn toward him in shock.

You stare at his face as the dull English on the page flows melodiously and fluently from his constantly moving lips. Your expression remains still, but inside, your thoughts are already churning like storm-tossed waters.

With that flawless London accent of his, what could you possibly teach him? How to stumble through English with a distinctly foreign cadence?

Is it still too late for you to run away?

You are truly too embarrassed to speak English in front of him. Sob, sob, sob…

Especially after you had put on such an authoritative teacherly air earlier.

You lower your head in utter despair.

You try to comfort yourself inwardly. What goes around comes around; no one escapes the justice of heaven. Who told you to act so arrogant before? Last round, the two of you had not fallen out, and he had been pretending to be so polite and respectful toward his teacher that he could hardly break character to laugh at you openly…

But this round, you have been having far too much fun. If you were him, you definitely—definitely—would not let this chance to take revenge pass you by!

You can no longer console yourself. You regret everything now, especially indulging in the moment without thinking of the consequences.

“Teacher Su?” he suddenly calls, stopping mid-sentence.

You keep your head bowed and answer with a faint “Mm.”

“Your chest is so flat. What is there worth staring at for so long?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.

He just called you flat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You fly into a rage. You may be flat, but you absolutely refuse to let anyone say so!!!!!!!!!!!

The little brat has not even finished growing and he already dares to call you flat!

So what if you are flat? Did you eat his family’s rice?

You explode. You slap a hand onto his butt, then, seeing the expression on his face as though he has just been struck by a thunderbolt, curl your lips into a wicked smile and spread your fingers…

You give it a squeeze.

He rises from his chair as though jolted back to life. Your hands are quicker than his eyes; you stand with him, your hand following and landing there again.

The armchair rolls backward with a rumble under the force of his frantic movement. At the same time, you give him another squeeze.

Looking at his expression as though he has seen a ghost, you say slowly, “You’re right. I really can’t compare with you. Yours is very perky.”

Having said that, you raise your chin and wait for him to retaliate.

But he remains silent.

You stare at him. Have you frightened him senseless? He is a grown man; he cannot possibly be this fragile…

Gradually, you realize that something is wrong.

The direction of his ghostly stare seems to be over your head.

Your heart tightens. You slowly turn around and follow his gaze.

Against the light, you see a tall figure standing in the open doorway, though you have no idea when he appeared.

Most of his outline is hidden in the shadows of the corridor. Only half of his face is visible, and the reflection on his glasses makes him look utterly grim as he stares straight at the two of you.

From behind you comes a rough, hoarse utterance:

“Brother…”

You look down and raise the hand that, only moments ago, had been pressed against someone’s private parts. Thunder crashes through your mind.

Oh no. You got exactly what you asked for. The “benevolence” you wished for in the previous round has arrived in this one!

This time, you may really be meeting the police…

For sexual harassment?