Chapter 10: The Community Bus

Q: When did you find out that Cui Muhuo hates bitter things?

A: That day.

–

It was that very day.

At the fruit stand by the school gates, the young boss with her hair in double pigtail braids and wearing an apron spoke briskly to Chi Buyu:

“September mangos are super sweet! Guaranteed!”

Chi Buyu wrinkled her face, which was flushed from the humid heat, and clenched her jaw as she scanned the pile of golden mangos. They all looked pretty much the same. Then, playing a quick round of Point Soldier Point General, she picked out the one she figured was the sweetest, juiciest, biggest, and most perfect for a patient.

The next second, the piercing wail of an ambulance siren echoed from the road behind her.

She hurriedly pocketed that September mango, her bright green military training uniform making her stand out like a sore thumb. Under the school’s perpetually barren coconut tree at the gates, she raised her hand high and shouted at the top of her lungs,

“Over here!”

Afterward, that September mango rode with her in the ambulance, bumping and jostling all the way. Finally, it ended up stuffed coldly into the pocket of the pale-faced Cui Qijin, who took advantage of a moment when Chi Buyu and the instructor weren’t looking to whisper to the doctor:

“Can we skip the really bitter medicine?”

At the time, Cui Qijin had the mango in one pocket and a black Sony Walkman in the other. Both pockets bulged out, making her look like a tough little kid putting on a brave front.

Chi Buyu sat on a blue plastic chair outside the emergency room. She bent down to roll up her sagging pant leg from all the running.

At the same time, she curiously peeked inside and spotted the Sony Walkman peeking out from Cui Qijin’s pocket.

She thought to herself sneakily: So this classmate brings her Walkman to military training—to secretly listen to music while standing at attention?

Then her mind wandered absurdly: What does this sickly girl listen to? Sun Yanzi or Taylor?

She couldn’t hold back her thoughts and burst out laughing.

Until she heard the scrape of shoe soles on the floor, blending with her laughter—a pair of mango-yellow Vans skate shoes stopped right in front of her.

She looked up in a daze.

From this angle, she could see Cui Qijin’s long, straight, dark lashes hanging down, casting shadows over her pale eyelids in the bright sunlight.

This classmate didn’t look well at all. Chi Buyu frowned, feeling genuinely worried.

“Thanks,” said Cui Muhuo in a voice that had no strength left to it, weak and listless.

Her hand hung limply at her side, the fresh puncture wound from the IV still taped up. She dropped the words without much expression and headed toward the hospital exit. Her high ponytail, tied up, swayed loosely as she walked down the corridor.

After a few steps, she paused and turned back.

She stood silently in front of Chi Buyu for a moment before forcing out a few indifferent words:

“But I’m not afraid of bitter.”

“Huh?” Chi Buyu looked up, a bit confused. Her side bun, loosely tied, bobbed down with the motion.

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Cui Qijin froze for a second. Her straight-lined lips twitched. She seemed about to say something, her mouth opening, but nothing came out.

Finally, her unenthusiastic gaze landed on Chi Buyu’s side bun, which was about to fall apart, and she said in a tone of resignation:

“Your emphasis lands as crookedly as the way you tied your hair.”

With that, before Chi Buyu could even react, she strode off in those Vans skate shoes, her steps perfectly straight. Clearly, this classmate wasn’t the easygoing type.

Chi Buyu let out a quiet sigh.

On the way back, they rode the bus with the instructor.

It was one of those small community buses that had just started running, weaving through the narrow city streets. Wooden body, rock-hard seats.

It rattled along slowly, swaying side to side.

Chi Buyu started feeling carsick after just one stop. In her haze, she rested her head against the glass window for some air.

Every now and then, she’d blink open her eyes groggily and see the instructor’s head—her long black hair pinned up in a bun—and the world would still spin wildly, like it had flipped upside down in her vision.

She felt awful.

She pressed her face against the sun-warmed glass. It was hot, and she could faintly smell the wooden scent, which only made her feel worse.

She always felt terrible on this community bus.

But if she didn’t lean against something, it’d be even worse. Amid the dizziness, the bus lurched to a stop at a station, doors hissing open. In that sudden forward jolt, she nearly threw up.

Just then, someone boarded, and she heard a baby’s wail. Then a figure stood over her, casting a faint shadow.

The community bus had few seats. Assuming it was a mom with her kid eyeing her spot, Chi Buyu pursed her lips and mumbled with her head down:

“Sorry, I’m really carsick and can’t give up my seat. Go ask our instructor—she used to be in the military, should be sturdier.”

The instructor might have heard and come over to chew her out.

But Chi Buyu couldn’t care less anymore. The baby was still crying in the bus. The person standing beside her seemed to chuckle softly, the sound blurred by the rushing wind.

No response came to her rambling words.

Not until the rickety community bus lurched back into motion did she hear the slow drag of a window sliding open—the one in the seat ahead of her, cracked just a bit.

A gust of hot wind rushed in, carrying a faint whiff of mango. It actually felt a little better. In her daze, she opened her eyes and saw the hands pushing the window—pale and slender, with some bruising on the back.

She wanted to look closer, but suddenly a military training cap— the ugly one she’d complained about—pressed down on her head from above. Something cool slipped into her ear, and a singer’s silky falsetto filled it, clear amid the fog, bright in the blur.

“If you’re carsick, just sleep for a bit.”

The voice had regained some strength—not as weak as before. It was standard Mandarin, a little husky, like after a heavy cold.

Chi Buyu blinked in confusion, not quite processing. She tried to lift her head to figure out what was going on, but couldn’t—

The person pushed down on her cap brim first, as if deliberately keeping her from looking up. “No need to thank me. It’s so the auntie and her baby can have a seat.”

Her slim chin tucked in slightly. After a long pause, she added deliberately:

“Oh, and thanks for the mango.”

Sunlight streamed through as the community bus crawled along the road.

The person standing in front of her wore a military training uniform. Her dangling hand swayed with the old wooden bus. Bruises from the poorly administered needle marked the back of her hand, her pale skin thin and translucent, faint blue veins visible beneath.

Her pockets still bulged as before.

One held the guaranteed-sweet September mango, the other a Sony Walkman tangled with headphone wires.

One end of the wire wrapped around her slender, bony fingers; the other led to Chi Buyu’s ear. Slowly, it dawned on her:

So the Walkman had been playing David Tao.

“I just can’t be your friend~”

Night lights blurred in the haze as an old wooden community bus rolled past Love Adrift Street, swaying lazily. Chi Buyu glimpsed a few girls in nearby high school uniforms inside.

One with a backpack slung over both shoulders lounged by the window for air. As it passed her, the melody and a slightly husky female voice drifted out.

It was already 2024, and kids still loved David Tao, still covered “Ordinary Friends.”

“Chi Buyu.”

The wooden community bus, bridging 2013 to 2024, finally chugged away. Cui Qijin’s voice had matured over the years, gaining a richer timbre.

Chi Buyu snapped back to reality.

She saw Cui Qijin still staring at the box of medicine in her hand and instinctively pulled it back a little.

But the next moment, her eyes fell on Cui Qijin’s mouth—

Cui Qijin’s lips were naturally thin. Some said people with thin lips were cold-hearted. Chi Buyu had never bought that. And now, though Cui Qijin’s lips were a bit more swollen than before, Chi Buyu just felt guilty.

She noticed the faint scab on Cui Qijin’s red lips and the lingering puffiness. Suddenly, without reason, she recalled last night, when they’d kissed in the dark.

Cui Qijin had asked where the mango came from.

In her drowsiness, she’d remembered that guaranteed-sweet September mango. But later, Cui Qijin had said it wasn’t sweet, leaving her feeling so wronged. She couldn’t help biting down on the woman’s slightly upturned lip pearl, lingering there, nibbling tenderly.

In the latter half of the night, she’d slipped into an old dream, back under the coconut tree at the high school gates, sweaty as she yelled at the pigtail-braided boss:

“Pfft! Liar! The sweetest mango isn’t even from September!”

The boss hollered back, asking what month it was from.

She declared righteously: January.

“You gave it already—want it back now?” Cui Qijin’s cool voice cut in again.

Chi Buyu yanked her thoughts back in a panic.

Her ears flushed red. One hand, still in a glove chilled from piling snow, pressed to her burning face. With the other, she waved the medicine box.

“Then put some on?”

Cui Qijin stared at her for a moment, peeled off her disposable glove, balled it up, and took the 6+ Months ointment from her hand. “Next time you save someone, don’t do it like this.”

She gently pushed Chi Buyu’s hand away. Her face was pale, and she said bluntly:

“Like an elbow strike.”

Chi Buyu tucked in her fingers. “Got it.”

Cui Qijin tossed the used glove into the trash and gazed at her without speaking, as if she had something to say.

Chi Buyu kicked at the snow by her feet, hesitating whether to bring up last night first.

Or did Cui Qijin not want to mention that little mishap best forgotten?

As she agonized, a voice called from above:

“Shuishui, come here!”

She looked up to see her cousin You Ying leaning out, calling her. Chi Buyu shouted back:

“Coming!”

When she looked down again, Cui Qijin had averted her eyes, her lashes lowered over the medicine box.

Chi Buyu tried shoving both hands into her pockets.

But the thick gloves wouldn’t fit. So she blinked dryly and said:

“Uh… be good and put the medicine on, okay?”

She clamped her mouth shut right after. Why’d she say “be good” all of a sudden? Did seeing her cousin remind her of the little niece?

But the word felt awkward between them. Especially now.

Chi Buyu thought this as she sneaked a glance at Cui Qijin.

Cui Qijin lifted her eyelids to look at her, seemingly unbothered by the slip-up.

“Then I’m heading back.”

Chi Buyu breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. “Okay.”

Cui Qijin hummed in acknowledgment, turned, and strolled leisurely back the way she’d come, showing no sign of bringing up last night.

Chi Buyu finally stuffed her hands into her pockets. She glanced at the Loopy Snowman on the bench, then at the mango Cui Qijin had left behind, and called out:

“Cui Muhuo, your mango!”

Cui Qijin paused a little sluggishly amid the noisy night street and turned to look at her. Not at the mango.

Chi Buyu hesitated for a moment.

After a while, Cui Qijin walked back over slowly and picked up the mango she’d left on the bench. She said casually, “Thanks.”

Then she turned to go.

Chi Buyu watched her retreating back and murmured softly, “No problem.”

Cui Qijin turned around again. She frowned faintly at her for a moment, then let out a sigh into the cold wind. Her white breath swirled in the air as she said, out of nowhere, “I gave all the tissues I brought to Chen Wenran.”

“Huh?” Chi Buyu blinked, not catching on. “What?”

“Never mind.”

It was as if she’d finally made up her mind. Cui Qijin smoothed out her furrowed brow and crunched through the snow toward her.

Just then, car horns blared in chaotic discord, like the jagged lines of a heart monitor gone haywire after an accident.

Chi Buyu stood frozen in place.

She watched Cui Qijin approach step by step, bundled up in her oversized padded coat, her face tucked away out of sight. Amid the first snow that was already starting to melt, Cui Qijin slowly extended the hand she’d kept in her pocket.

But then it hovered uncertainly in the air for a few seconds.

Instinctively, Chi Buyu raised her own hand, ready to wipe her face with her glove during those endless moments.

“Don’t move!”

Cui Qijin was quicker. The warmth of her knuckle finally brushed Chi Buyu’s nose tip as she wiped away that bit of chill.

“Why press a glove that’s been picking up snow to your face?”

Her tone held a hint of warning. Her movements were swift—she wiped a few times and quickly pulled her hand back.

But then she parted her slightly scabbed lips, tilted her chin up a touch, and added disdainfully, “Don’t let your cousin see this and think I’m bullying you.”

In that instant, it hit Chi Buyu—they still had one little kiss left, one that hadn’t been planted yet.