AUS Chapter 7: Liu Jiang, Who I Can’t Hold Onto

In the bright April sunlight, I stepped into the new classroom to the sound of lively reading, where Liu Jiang was waiting for me. He spotted me from afar, hurriedly stood up, and waved enthusiastically.

Our eyes met, brimming with tears, as if a stirring melody played in my ears. We cupped each other’s faces, tilting our heads to one side—stop.

Hold it!

I snapped out of my overly vivid imagination, looking at the entrance to Number Twenty High School. I took a deep breath, only to choke on at least three clumps of poplar fluff.

The real Number Twenty High School had no gentle morning glow. The facilities were decent, but the students didn’t make use of them, and there was no melodious sound of reading aloud. All I heard as I passed each classroom was a cacophony of booming noises.

For a moment, I felt like I was walking through a zoo corridor, each classroom door like a glassed-in exhibit window, containing squawking birds and beasts.

As I passed Class Four’s door, one of the beasts suddenly stopped its scuffle and poked its head out. “Yang Pingsheng!”

He was calling me. I turned my head blankly, and the beast’s face morphed into a human one—it was the chubby guy from Liu Jiang’s band.

The chubby guy’s name was Guo Zihao, nicknamed Mouse. Though I’d seen him behind the drum kit yesterday, his real role was the lead singer.

He was a bit hefty, and I couldn’t help but take a half-step back to take him in.

To be fair, he was pretty clean-cut and had a good personality. On stage, he even had a bit of charisma. Rumor had it the class beauty from the next room had recently been getting close to him.

Mouse said, “Old Sly is looking for you.”

Another nickname.

Old Sly was none other than the discipline director who’d escorted me to the administrative office yesterday. His surname was Diao, hence the nickname Old Sly, though it was one only students used among themselves.

“What does he want with me?” I asked, slightly puzzled, instinctively scanning for Liu Jiang. Then I realized that at this hour, Liu Jiang was probably freely roaming the school building.

Before answering, Mouse dodged a textbook thrown by a classmate, weaving and bobbing before replying, “No idea. Go check it out!”

I had a bad feeling.

At this time, the discipline director wasn’t in his office but at the school gate, overseeing student arrivals. I suspected he wanted to talk about my supposed mental breakdown, so I approached with my head down, braced for a scolding.

To my surprise, Old Sly spotted me and gave a hearty laugh before asking, “Interested in running for student council?”

By the end of the first period, I was still mulling over Old Sly’s question. Though I was currently a high schooler, I could read the layers of social subtext in his words.

First, if he wanted me to know about this and specifically told me alone, he’d already decided I was the one.

Second, he’d already assumed I’d agree.

The old me had indeed agreed, and though Old Sly called it an election, it was just a formality. In a place like Number Twenty High School, where the bar was low, I was someone who came in with the aura of being noticed by the school leadership from the start.

Even with the mental illness debuff in this life, it didn’t seem to matter.

Being a student council member had its perks. I could be gloriously, uninhibitedly alone. No need to attend morning study sessions, a dedicated office during lunch breaks, and even evening study could be spent killing time in the retired cadres’ activity room. It sounded like the height of privilege.

But if I remembered correctly, student council members had to be on call at all times.

I’d had chances to watch Liu Jiang perform and tag along with his seemingly ragtag but decently competent band as they traveled around. But once I took on the student council role, my interactions with him seemed to turn into a game of him running and me chasing.

As in, he’d climb over the school walls, and I’d chase after him.

Wait—could the system’s prompt to resist the mundane gaze mean I should reject these superficial, bureaucratic benefits?

I let out a sigh of relief. Good. It wasn’t about kissing, so I wouldn’t have to embarrass myself in public again.

With that thought, I turned to look at Liu Jiang. It was math class, but this guy’s mind was nowhere near the lesson. He was staring out the window at the drifting poplar fluff. Sensing my gaze, he turned his head and winked at me.

I mouthed the word “idiot” at him and turned back to focus on the lesson.

Come to think of it, our relationship seemed to be progressing a bit quickly.

Not in any romantic sense, of course, but as friends. Sometimes, when I looked at him without ulterior motives, I realized he was actually a pretty great person.

These past few days, I’d made a show of going home early, video-calling my parents to report my whereabouts. Once they let their guard down, I started showing up at Liu Jiang’s place in the old town again.

The second-floor practice room was still filled with his usual crew of questionable friends. Since they weren’t exactly a professional team, some members occasionally skipped out or were replaced. Ironically, I became the most consistent attendee.

I’d gotten familiar with his family too, exchanging greetings before heading straight upstairs. I’d run into Liu Sisi a few times, but she hadn’t worn the makeup from the day I first saw her—the look that eerily resembled the future Liu Jiang.

Part of me secretly hoped the person at the door that day had been Liu Jiang.

I quietly wished he might be looking for me too. But knowing him, if he really wanted to find me, it would probably be in the real world.

So, would he come looking for me?

After that flicker of hope, I crossed it out with a firm “no.” I had a gut feeling he’d left angry with me, though I didn’t know why.

Maybe because the Liu Jiang by my side right now seemed a little upset.

Mouse was skipping practice today to study with the class beauty. The guitarist had been replaced with a short guy who couldn’t keep up with the rhythm, always a beat ahead or behind.

Liu Jiang’s complaining was as annoying as I remembered. I stepped off the balcony, claiming I was going downstairs to grab a drink, but really, I just needed some air in the courtyard.

His family’s courtyard was nice. After living through this life again, I seemed less drawn to things that looked ostentatious.

Know why it took me nearly six hours to clean my apartment after the sand leak? Because even for a temporary place, I’d rented a hundred-square-meter flat.

How pretentious.

In Liu Jiang’s old courtyard, I stretched my arms, facing the fishpond as I opened a can of soda. Liu Jiang seemed to love this flavor—he always stocked the fridge with it. Or maybe he just liked creamy tastes. I remembered when we lived together, he’d chug milk after every shower.

I twirled the can in my hand. Someone approached from behind. I spun around to find Liu Sisi standing beside me, holding a can of her own.

She wasn’t into Liu Jiang’s creamy soda, opting for a beer. With a pull of the tab, it made the grown-up sound of fizzing bubbles.

Standing beside her with my sweet soda, I had nothing to say.

She spoke first. “You’ve been sticking around a while.”

Me?

She added, “Every ‘consultant’ he’s brought back before ran off after a couple of days.”

I felt a bit smug. Could I be compared to the others?

Wait—every one?

I whipped my head around to ask, “He’s brought back a lot of people?”

Liu Sisi seemed surprised by my question, her expression dripping with exasperation. “Yeah, you don’t know how popular he is?”

Of course I knew.

And yet, despite knowing, I hadn’t considered he might’ve brought back tons of people.

I took another swig of soda, trying to seem nonchalant, and asked, “What kind of people did he bring?”

“You’re not close with him? I thought you two were tight.” The beer was still fizzing. Liu Sisi didn’t bother looking at me directly. “Then again, he’s always been quick to warm up.”

She pulled over a nearby folding chair, sat down, and weighed the beer can in her hand. “Some were from his school, some from other schools, all around your age. You’re in the same grade as him, right?”

I could only nod.

She nodded too. “You’re the most tolerable-looking one.”

The most tolerable-looking one.

I was still chewing on that phrase when I returned to the room. From Number Twenty High School to the next, from freshman to senior year—how many people had he rounded up?

Here I was, thinking his invitation was a mix of instant chemistry and pity, or that our meeting was uniquely spectacular. Now it seemed like I was the one being overly sentimental. This guy was picking up people left and right!

I needed to have a serious talk with him. How could he just bring anyone home?

As I opened the door, I saw no one by the pile of instruments. Turning my head, I found them all huddled around a laptop.

To me, the laptop was an outdated model, its screen colors absurdly oversaturated, but they were engrossed. I leaned closer and understood why—they were looking at an Excel spreadsheet, which, unsurprisingly, none of these students could make sense of.

Liu Jiang was the first to notice my return. He hurriedly called out, “Yang Pingsheng, you’re good at studying. Come check this out.”

I was still sulking about his habit of bringing people home. Setting my soda down, I leaned over the desk with a stern face.

The new guitarist, who’d been sitting in front of the laptop, was intimidated by my expression and promptly vacated the seat.

As a high schooler, I might not have understood those garbled codes, but as Yang Pingsheng, who’d worked my way up to team leader, it was no issue.

I didn’t even need to open the toolbar, fixing the problem with a few shortcut keys.

This earned a round of gasps.

As I prepared to brush off my hands and leave, a pair of hands suddenly landed on my shoulders. I turned to find Liu Jiang’s face alarmingly close, peering over my shoulder.

He looked at the screen, exclaiming loudly, then sighed, “As expected of you, as expected! You’re the best!”

His praise left me dizzy, and I forgot my earlier urge to storm off.

I propped one leg up, pointed at the screen, and bragged, “It’s not that hard. You guys could learn it too.”

This sparked another wave of excitement. Liu Jiang pointed at the screen and asked, “What about calculating all these formulas together? You can do that too, right?”

Too easy. The spreadsheets I handled at work were thousands of rows long.

I knocked it out with shortcuts again. The others were too stunned to exclaim, just nodding earnestly and clapping for me. I suspected this was some trendy high schooler way of showing praise, since Liu Jiang had clapped for me like this a couple of days ago.

I sobered up a bit from the flattery and noticed the spreadsheet’s contents. The left column listed businesses and locations, the right had fees and contact numbers.

With everyone else back to tinkering with the instruments, and Liu Jiang no longer leaning over my shoulder, I turned to ask, “You’re doing more performances?”

He seemed a bit embarrassed, rubbing his nose with a toothy grin. “Might as well, since I’ve got the time.”

Though Liu Jiang’s family wasn’t wealthy, they weren’t struggling either. He even had spare cash to fund his band. Why the rush to make money?

I turned back to the spreadsheet, sprucing it up a bit, then casually advised, “No need to stress about money now. You’ll have plenty of chances to slave away for others later.”

In my memory, Liu Jiang had always been carefree, perfectly suited to that lifestyle. This pragmatic behavior felt unfamiliar.

He just chuckled, not answering my question. I stood up, pushed the laptop toward him, and headed to the balcony for some air.

Looking down at the fishpond, I realized something—I still hadn’t confronted him about his habit of picking up people.

Damn it.