Chapter 58: Aunt Is Very Anxious

This venture was practically a gold mine with no competition in sight, so Hongtao could not afford to waste a single day. Even if it meant having his father call in sick for him, he had to rush to the post office to buy as many monkey stamps as possible. As long as he didn’t draw undue attention, he would buy every sheet he saw—whole sheets, singles, everything he could get his hands on. Unfortunately, although the post offices in BJ issued large quantities, there were also many buyers, and he was late to the game. He couldn’t very well block others from purchasing, so in the end, he managed to acquire only three complete sheets. Most of the rest were half sheets or less, which could only be broken down into blocks of four or singles.

The monkey stamps were valuable, but they were no quick fix. At best, he’d have to wait at least ten years before they became useful. Hongtao did not consider this his main business—just a side venture, gathering some retirement money for himself. When he’d actually need them was anyone’s guess; it all depended on how his future played out. If things didn’t go well, he might just have to rely on these stamps to get by in his later years.

As the Spring Festival faded into memory, Hongtao settled back into the monotony of daily life: going to and from school, collecting bicycles, and browsing consignment shops. Now, the teachers at school had split into two camps regarding him. The majority saw him as a misfit, a troublemaker, a rule-breaker, and a pariah—someone they didn’t want to step on or engage with, yet were always waiting for a chance to bring down. A small minority, however, did not think poorly of his character; they saw him as merely rebellious, but extremely intelligent—a student who, with patient guidance, would surely achieve great things.

With teachers divided, the students naturally followed suit, often even more radically. Most of his classmates ignored him, both fearing and resenting him, yet also curious—all a consequence of teachers’ and parents’ warnings. Only Jin Yue and Zhang Dajiang steadfastly stood by his side; they were the only two in the class who willingly spoke to him. There were also two younger boys who lived either in his building or near his grandmother’s house, who would sneak in a word with him when teachers weren’t watching. Their parents, perhaps knowing Hongtao better, hadn’t imposed strict orders on them.

Hongtao didn’t mind being ostracized; in fact, he preferred it. He wished everyone would leave him alone or even send him home, so he could just show up for exams and leave. Even if his classmates hadn’t isolated him, he wouldn’t have fit in—their interests didn’t align, and he had no intention of forcing himself to blend in. To him, they were just passersby; it didn’t matter whether he knew them or not.

Director Bai had always been Hongtao’s strong supporter, but she was isolated herself. Rumor had it that his situation had even reached the principal’s office, with several teachers personally demanding his expulsion, claiming their classes were unmanageable otherwise. But Director Bai withstood the pressure, and Hongtao’s stellar performance—scoring full marks in every subject—helped her case.

Getting top marks in language, math, and ethics wasn’t uncommon for first graders in their first semester, but Hongtao also had perfect scores in music, art, and physical education. Faced with such a student, the principal was at a loss. They couldn’t very well tell his parents, “Your child is too good at studying; he shouldn’t come to school!” So the principal adopted part of Director Bai’s suggestion: let things be and observe before making a decision.

Director Bai had worried about Hongtao’s isolation and had discussed it with his father, but they couldn’t find a good solution. After all, she couldn’t alienate herself from all the other teachers for one student. However, everyone soon realized this tactic had no effect on Hongtao. He still napped through class without missing a minute, handed in no homework except for art, and during breaks, he was always the first at the ping pong table—so long as he attended school, that table belonged to him. If he was in a good mood, others might get a chance to play, but most of the time, it was just him and Zhang Dajiang.

Because of this ping pong table, his young uncle spent the semester on high alert. Even if he wasn’t downstairs, he’d be watching from the third-floor window to make sure his nephew wasn’t being bullied, only then enjoying his own break. At the slightest sign of someone challenging Hongtao, he’d gather his group of teammates and swarm down like a pack of wolves, ready to fight to the end.

Lower-grade students didn’t dare provoke them, and upper-grade students wouldn’t risk a full-blown conflict over ping pong. Hongtao’s uncle and his crew were highly organized, never attacking en masse, but forming small groups of two or three and taking turns. This made it difficult for teachers to handle—if you caught them fighting and dealt with them, another group would immediately take over, and so on. In the end, even if the target of their bullying had a legitimate complaint, it became untenable. The teachers couldn’t simply claim that if you’re at odds with one or two students, it’s their fault, but if several classes’ worth of students have issues with you, it’s still their fault.

In truth, this was a scheme Hongtao had suggested to his uncle—a tactic he’d used in his previous life during middle school: organized bullying. If you had enough united friends, the teachers were powerless; even if they saw through your ploy, they could only look the other way, at best advising the victimized student to avoid provoking you—better fewer troubles than more.

All things considered, Hongtao was quite satisfied with how this half-semester had gone. The teachers left him alone, and the students didn’t dare cross him. The cost was simply giving his uncle a little more money to win over like-minded classmates, and his father had to shoulder a tarnished reputation as well. At parent meetings, his father was also shunned by other parents—except for Jin Yue’s father, even Zhang Dajiang’s parents dared not associate with him.

At the end of March, his grandfather brought home a 12-inch Changcheng brand black-and-white TV made in TJ. This was thanks to Hongtao’s persuasion, and he even secretly contributed funds. It wasn’t about showing off; their neighbor had just bought a TV, and his father kept wanting to go over to watch the news but was too embarrassed. So Hongtao encouraged his grandfather to buy one too—what’s three hundred yuan? Just withdraw it from my savings account!

With the TV, his grandparents found themselves in a bittersweet dilemma. The joy was in becoming the go-to spot for neighbors, adults and children alike, whether for opera, news, or old movies. His grandfather, especially, would sit proudly in the center, teapot in hand, enjoying the compliments while watching the shows. The pain was the constant chaos at home—it felt like a theater, and peace was out of the question unless they kept the TV off. But how could they refuse neighbors who’d known them for decades? Not turning it on defeated the purpose of buying it, so on it stayed.

One day, the TV was showing a Romanian film called “The Explosion,” which Hongtao had never seen or heard of, so he pulled up a small stool to watch in front of his grandfather—a seat reserved only for him, even his uncle would be shooed away. The film was about a fertilizer freighter catching fire at a small dock on the Danube, facing imminent explosion that could obliterate the dock and nearby town. Then the story cut off—he hadn’t finished watching. His aunt stealthily approached and whispered in his ear.

“Xiaotao, I checked on that thing you told me about at the Revolutionary Committee—they said you can apply now. Where should I go to apply?”

“Apply for what?” Hongtao loved old movies, and just as the plot was reaching its climax, he didn’t immediately catch on.

“The clothing shop you mentioned!” His aunt’s eyes, which had been shining with excitement, suddenly dimmed—his answer made her feel she’d been tricked by her nephew again.

“Oh! Let’s go, let’s talk outside. Grandpa, excuse me, let me through.” Hongtao finally understood, quickly stood up, and pulled his aunt through the crowd to the courtyard.

“Hey, the fire’s about to be put out, look at those flames—so exciting, aren’t you going to watch?” His grandfather, too caught up in the action, didn’t even sip his tea, and seemed to relish the drama unfolding on the small screen.

“I have to pee!” Hongtao lied casually and ran out with his aunt.

“Did you get all the details? Who told you it was possible to apply?” Hongtao pulled his aunt into the coal shed, a quiet corner where no one could overhear.

“Grandma Fang at the Revolutionary Committee told me. She said lots of educated youth are returning to the city now and many people are out of work—families in difficulty can apply to make a living on their own.” His aunt repeated what she’d learned—the Revolutionary Committee was the grassroots government body, much like the neighborhood committee in later years. Back then, it had real authority, akin to the police station, and its word was law.

“Did you ask her how to apply?” Hongtao listened carefully—he understood, but the crucial question remained: exactly how to apply, and where?

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