Facing Zhu Erting’s accusation, I was at a loss for words. How could I explain myself to prove that I treated her as a friend? I’d already told her the whole story exactly as it happened, the only thing I hid was Gan Ling.
It was precisely because I hid Gan Ling that the incident didn’t add up logically in my life. I was fumbling around on my own, unable to spark that rebellious flash, and Zhu Erting keenly noticed it.
But how could I explain things between me and Gan Ling? Start from Zheng Ningning’s death? Now I had no secrets left—confess and be lenient, pour it all out to my one and only friend? How could I describe the undercurrents between Gan Ling and me, that secret understanding beyond the killer, built on the blood from seven years ago like a sandcastle, a little boat adrift and unstable? My words were already fragmented, my thoughts a chaotic mess. The street was filled with rumbling traffic, the roadside trees giving off a scent like ash from a furnace bottom. I opened my mouth, but not a single word came out.
Zhu Erting said somewhat sulkily, “I’m going to get some mala tang. You coming?”
I said yes.
Our two electric scooters were like tiny fish, swishing their tails as we entered the mala tang street, weaving through a group of kids heading to cram school. We parked, and one kid blew a huge bubble, tilting his head back, knees bent, waist thrust out, strutting proudly in a square gait to show off to his friends. The bubble popped with a snap, smearing half his face. The kid didn’t mind the mess, using his hands and tongue to stuff the bubble gum back into his mouth, then puffed out another big one—but it wasn’t as big as the last, with a hole that made it deflate.
When the mala tang arrived, we also ordered some fried stinky tofu on the side. Zhu Erting picked up a piece and waved it in front of me, making me smell the stench, then waved a piece of duck blood, deliberately teasing me because she knew I wouldn’t touch either.
Zhu Erting had always been open-minded and easygoing, but I was never good at expressing my feelings toward her. I saw her as a friend, not just a coworker who ate meals together and watched kids with me, but I always shrank back into my own space, passively accepting her gestures. Her visiting me, confiding her troubles to me, asking for my help when she had problems—
This time, though, Zhu Erting didn’t press further. It was like she knew a lot was stuck in my throat, about to spill out. She patiently finished the stuff in her bowl that I wouldn’t touch at all. When she looked up, my words had bubbled up and were ready.
I still said it.
It was a long story. I started from seven years ago, talking about Zheng Ningning, about Zheng Ningning’s death.
I got to Zheng Chenggang coming to kill, asking me bloodily if I was afraid of him.
Zhu Erting paused her chopsticks, her mouth twitching stiffly before she couldn’t hold back: “Should’ve known to take you somewhere fancier.”
The mala tang shop was noisy and chaotic, kids from elementary and middle school running around, the floor littered with disposable chopsticks and dirty plastic bags. Spilling my secrets here felt like tossing out a wad of trash— it flashed by in the din, nothing too solemn, which made it easier for me to speak.
I kept going, talking about my nightmares and my inexplicable obsession with staying at Bright Kindergarten, which led to breaking up with Lu Jinshi. Then, seven years passed, and Principal Zhao told me I was in big trouble—Gan Ling had come knocking.
“So that’s how it is. But what does that have to do with you going out with Li Yongquan?”
So I kept going. I said there was a weird atmosphere between Gan Ling and me. I didn’t go into too much detail—Zhu Erting wasn’t my therapist. Her udon noodles had soaked in the bowl until they looked unappetizing. I told her to eat quick; she just pushed the bowl aside.
So I kept going, to that night when I felt really off. I suddenly craved food intensely, so I forced myself to eat—not out of hunger, but to fill an emotional void. Predictably, I threw up, felt awful and totally emo’d out. Right then, Gan Ling handed me a pillow, and in a moment of impulse, I went back.
“Then you slept at… Gan Ling’s place?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you’re saying you two are still in contact because of this thing you both clearly know about?”
“You could say that.”
“So, you came back to Neng County because she told you to?”
“Also because I wasn’t feeling great myself…”
Weirdly, in front of Zhu Erting, I could honestly admit my feelings. I wasn’t well, so I came back with righteous justification. Maybe I’d finally learned something from Gan Ling.
“But why did she tell you to? You going after some puppy boy doesn’t mess with your secret, or the killer stuff… not a big deal. Why push you on this?”
“She thinks I’m bad at saying no, that I’ll get taken advantage of. Like, if she didn’t remind me, I’d probably just swallow it when stuff like this happens and do nothing.”
Zhu Erting nodded. “Fair point.”
I bowed my head in shame. My image was set in people’s minds: Jiang Xiaohui, the spineless pushover woman.
After hearing my secret, Zhu Erting pondered deeply, using my story to finish her meal, and packed up the leftover stinky tofu. She said I’d told her too much today; she’d digest it quietly and come ask more once she’d sorted her thoughts. For now, I just needed to answer one question.
“You’re so obedient to her—why? That has nothing to do with whether she wants to kill or not, right? It’s not like obeying her means you’ll reform her, make her fixate on you. No logic there. Are you like her pet? Comforting her? But from what you said, after you came back, you’re bothering her deep into the night—hardly healing…”
Zhu Erting was always so direct. I was stunned for a bit, parsed the main point of her words, and tentatively replied, “Maybe because I’m bad at refusing?”
We hopped on our electric scooters, and the topic ended there. Zhu Erting got the gist of events and knew I did treat her as a friend. On the way back, riding side by side, she said she’d think hard about it for me too. I said forget it—how to face the coworkers and Li Yongquan on Monday was the real issue.
Zhu Erting bellowed, “I don’t care!”
I couldn’t hear: “What?”
She slowed down, turned toward my ear and shouted, “No biggie! Who the hell is Li Yongquan!”
“Sorry!”
“No worries! As long as you’re okay!”
I never thought I’d suddenly drop this burden without prep, smashing it down. My body felt an lightness I wasn’t used to, but with a new weight added. I’d carried this secret for seven years; with Gan Ling’s part, it became especially different. That night, I tossed and turned, opening WeChat waiting for Zhu Erting’s reply, dying to know what my story weighed in others’ eyes and how to fix it.
Then it hit me—I hadn’t actually confessed my real anguish to Zhu Erting.
Because my real anguish was stuck in my mouth, impossible to voice, like a sealed curse. Gan Ling’s revenge, my inner journey, the killer and Zheng Ningning, Gan Ling and me—all tangled together, woven into life’s fabric like an ugly stain.
While waiting for Zhu Erting’s message, I got one from Principal Zhao.
Have you thought it over?
I said I needed more time. It all happened so suddenly— even the plum tree had been rooted there over seven years; no rush to uproot it in a day or two. Principal Zhao sent over a WeChat contact, telling me to chat with her friend if interested.
Sometimes you feel your life changing silently. When you snap back, the boat’s already at the wave’s crest, plunging into the next one, hull pitching and spinning, everything on board shifting. You grab one thing, another floats away. In the end, something always slips control, veers off course. Before the wave dies down, who knows what you’ll lose.
The bedroom light stayed on. I bunched the blanket at my feet, zoning out for a long time.
No messages came. My phone battery finally died. I figured tomorrow was a workday, so I’d see Zhu Erting in person and ask her thoughts. Just as I relaxed, sleepiness hit—then instinct woke me, reminding me it was Saturday. If I didn’t go out, I wouldn’t see anyone.
