Chapter 11: I Gave Her an Elsa Sticker

A feverish woman was sprawled out sleeping haphazardly on a sofa on the street. In the middle of the night, a couple of drunkards staggered by alone, each clutching a bottle of booze. Though this woman seemed strong, like she had a habit of working out and could probably take down a bunch of burly men single-handedly, she had a high fever that night.

I pulled back the curtains and peered outside. That pitiful sofa was huddled in the darkness, in a corner beyond the reach of the streetlights.

I couldn’t help but wonder where Gan Ling had been staying these past few days, where she was charging that phone of hers, when she was going to change out of those filthy clothes—could she really be sleeping rough on the streets? But if she was Zheng Ningning’s mother, she must have a home to go back to. If her home wasn’t in Neng County, she at least had relatives to crash with, right? Even without that, Neng County hadn’t had a single confirmed COVID case in years, and the motels were still open for business at cheap rates.

In the end, I couldn’t bear it. I boiled some water, changed clothes, filled a big red-and-green thermos with hot water, rummaged through my plastic bag of meds, tossed out a bunch of expired pills, and found a few aspirin tablets. I thought about it and put them back, then stuffed two packs of Banlangen into my pocket instead.

I pitied her.

I pitied all those who suffered.

This kind of pity made me seem exactly like the “Holy Mary” Gan Ling had called me. But she didn’t know the Bible never even mentions a Holy Mother—there are seven Marys in there, all ordinary mortals. One of them was inexplicably chosen to give birth to a great child and was later honored with the title of “Saint” by his mother because of him.

Suddenly, I thought of Gan Ling again—a woman the complete opposite of a saintly mother. Her daughter had been dead for seven years, and only now did she show up. She hadn’t even visited once while her daughter was alive.

I wavered a little.

Gan Ling really knew how to get under my skin. She saw right through my tough exterior and unreliable mouth. I wanted to spill the truth, dying to say it out loud—but I just couldn’t. Before heading downstairs, I did some mental prep, stared into the mirror for a moment, and once again shoved the events from seven years ago back down.

When I went down with my stuff, Gan Ling was still curled up in that corner, safe so far. The drunks didn’t seem to know how many bottles they’d downed. I squatted down and nudged her shoulder. She turned her head, and without saying much, I placed the Banlangen and hot water by her head. Gan Ling’s eyes fluttered open a bit. She propped herself up, unscrewed the thermos, blew on it, and then said, “You really are a bit… of a Holy Mary.”

“Whatever, I don’t have any other ideas. Do what you want, just don’t die here—my conscience couldn’t take it.” I patted my hands and stood up, glanced at the thermos, gritted my teeth, and figured I’d just consider it thrown away.

Gan Ling poured some hot water into the cup lid and blew on it slowly. I lingered for a second, then turned to head back.

She wouldn’t talk unless I had my back to her, it seemed. Suddenly, she called out, “Teacher Xiao Jiang.”

“What?”

“When Ningning died, would your conscience have bothered you then?”

I quickened my steps to avoid answering that.

I desperately wanted to reply. The moment I opened my mouth, bamboo would shoot up rustling around me, the sound of knives hacking through stalks crystal clear. I heard Zheng Ningning’s dying plea.

“Teacher Xiao Jiang, save me.”

I clamped down hard, forcing myself to stay composed. But once I got home, I felt drained. I turned off the AC, curled up under the covers, played Wu Tiao Ren and Xu Ruyun through my earphones—nothing could drown out Zheng Ningning. Her mother had come to claim her life on her behalf.

My conscience hadn’t let me off for a single moment.

The next morning, sporting dark circles, I opened the door and saw the thermos and half-bag of Banlangen placed in front. It looked like it’d been warmed over a fire; the plastic bag had melted, sealing the opening. I took it back inside, stashed it away, and briefly pushed the matter from my mind.

The security office had already called in repairmen to climb the pole and fix our surveillance cameras. Li Yongquan was super eager, hands on hips, steadying a ladder that didn’t need steadying, then gesturing and pointing from the side. Probably because fixing his motorcycle cost more than my e-bike repairs.

Rehearsals with the kids were in full swing, bringing us one day closer to Zheng Ningning’s death anniversary with each session.

Zheng Ningning died on May 22nd.

Every year, I brought flowers to Zheng Ningning’s grave. Every year, I went to her grandma’s place to get an earful.

This was the seventh year. By Neng County custom, you burn paper for seven days before the anniversary to welcome the deceased home. The ghost would feast at the house, so you had to eat well every day for those seven days—the spirit would sneak eats at night. But I didn’t have the habit of burning paper, and Zheng Ningning’s ghost wouldn’t know my place anyway. I could only keep it in my heart.

Getting scolded was mostly the first and second years. From the third year to last, her grandma had aged fast, too feeble to curse anymore. She’d hunch over picking trash. I’d help out for a day; she wouldn’t yell if I brought stuff. She’d give a cold laugh, mutter a few words I could barely hear. After I dropped off the goods and finished the chores, she’d shoo me out.

The performance was on June 1st. Never mind the Preschool Class show—Zhu Erting’s Sunflower Class big kids had zero creativity. After racking their brains, they went with the class name: “Let’s do Planting the Sun!”

I shot back right away, “That’s an old nursery rhyme from how many years ago? You’re even older than me—pick something else.”

Zhu Erting wouldn’t budge, saying it perfectly showed the class spirit. I finally sang her “Thank you,” and she gave up. Sunflower Class ended up doing a short play: The Rabbit Who Didn’t Like Carrots. At noon, she sat cross-legged, finished the last line, cleared away the spicy rabbit head on the table, boxed it up, and tossed it in the fridge.

She started assigning roles, mulling over the kids: “The rabbit’s definitely Yihan—she’s the boldest, not scared of people, no stage fright.”

“I think Li Xiaole would be good too,” suggested a teacher nearby. Zhu Erting chewed her pen, thinking: “But we gotta consider what they want.”

“Your class kids are a bit shy. You have to assign tasks, or no one raises their hand.”

The three Sunflower Class teachers huddled, discussing animatedly—their progress was the slowest, so the talk was heated.

I stood by the little red flower chart at the back of the classroom, tallying. The kid with the most hands up for questions was Yihan, with twelve little red flowers trailing. The Elsa stickers went to her. I opened the drawer for them and spotted a pack of Soft Cloud cigarettes with two left inside.

I never smoked, but I remembered the brand—the killer had one just like it back then.

I paused, then thought it was off. What teacher would come to Sunflower Class to smoke? We all kept our distance—rooftop or by a window, out of kids’ sight. What was it doing scattered here?

Yihan came back from the bathroom, saw me with the drawer open, and shrieked as she ran over: “Elsa! Mine! Mine!”

I hurriedly slammed the tall drawer shut and locked it. In front of all the little girls, I found the second one’s long-haired Elsa and stuck it on Yihan’s hard-shell backpack.

When Frozen 2 came out, these kids were still in small class, barely knowing Elsa. Plus, Neng County’s culture level wasn’t high. Later, I projected Frozen 1 and 2 on the computer in the auditorium for all the kids who’d moved up to middle class. Elsa became everyone’s idol—girls loved her, boys too.

I’d always thought Elsa’s best ending in the second one was dying in Arendelle. I liked a flawed, painful, sacrificial end. But I never dared tell a soul. If even a word slipped through my teeth and anyone heard, I’d no longer be the kids’ favorite Teacher Xiao Jiang. When Elsa turned into an ice lump, twenty-one out of the twenty kids watching cried. Zhu Erting wiped tears, telling me my download was just too HD.

Last year, when I brought flowers for Zheng Ningning, I hid an Elsa sticker in the bouquet and stuck every buyable Frozen character except Hans and the creepy Duke on her tombstone. I hoped one would be Zheng Ningning’s favorite—but she didn’t seem like a princess-prince kinda kid.

I’d never known what Zheng Ningning liked.

When I taught Zheng Ningning, I was twenty. I had energy to observe others, but mostly myself. I hadn’t figured out how to deal with the world; my kid-watching wasn’t as sharp as now.

Zheng Ningning was plain and ordinary, introverted. Before I could observe her properly, tragedy struck.

All I could do was plaster our class kids’ faves on that bare tombstone, like a grandma force-feeding treats to make sure the kid was full. But I didn’t believe Zheng Ningning was there. The cemetery was silent as death; everyone slumbered. I didn’t dare disturb, backed away slowly. My flowers and stickers got torn by the wind soon enough—no one accepted my intentions.

After work, I looped back to Sunflower Class, unlocked it, took the cigarettes, sniffed the drawer—no smoke smell—cleaned the room, no ashes. As I tidied, Li Yongquan poked his head in the doorway, startled to see me: “Teacher Xiao Jiang, you still here?”

“You haven’t left either.” I replied dryly. Li Yongquan rubbed his nose, glanced around—no one—and strode in to unlock something.

I was surprised, held up the cigarettes: “These yours?”

Li Yongquan immediately snatched it away. A hint of embarrassment flickered across his face. He glanced around, pulled out a cigarette, and offered it to me. I waved him off, and he stuck it in his mouth. He cracked open the window and blew smoke rings outside.

Then he started pouring his heart out to me. “I was so damn annoyed yesterday and didn’t want to go home. Sunflower Class happened to be unlocked, so I ducked in here for a smoke as I passed by. I left in a rush and got all flustered—ended up locking my own smokes inside. I was worried the kids would spot them the next day and it’d look bad.”

Once someone starts spilling their woes, I had to chime in. “No kids saw them. I did and put them away.”

“Thanks to you.” Li Yongquan flicked his ash and hocked a loogie out the window downstairs.

My throat was getting itchy too, and I was about to take my leave when it seemed like he was just getting started. “Teacher Xiao Jiang, you’re older than me, so I’ll call you sis—sis—”

That “sis” hit me like a soul-out-of-body experience. I froze in place, legs forgetting how to move. “Go ahead.”

“How do you women think? I just don’t get it…”

“How exactly… don’t you get it?”

“My girlfriend…” Li Yongquan flicked his ash again, let out a tsk, and stared out the window in deep thought. He stayed silent for a long stretch.

The whole kindergarten was crawling with his “sisters,” yet he’d zeroed in on the one woman least interested in his sob stories.

I mulled it over for a bit before speaking up. “Don’t overthink it. I don’t even know your girlfriend. Whatever it is, you two need to talk it out—outsiders can’t say squat. I’m heading out. Air out the smell, shut the windows tight, and don’t leave anything behind this time.”