15. A Sight to Behold
Late at night, little Bai climbed up the mulberry tree, boldly declaring she was about to showcase her specialty.
“Can’t you behave yourself a bit?”
Zhang sighed, wanting to scold her gently but fearing to startle her. What if she trembled and slipped? He could only speak softly and kindly, urging her to come down.
“Goose, goose, goose~”
Little Bai laughed, sounding like a goose, perhaps thinking this was the highlight of her life.
She had always wanted to climb the trees in the academy but was closely watched and never got the chance. Tonight, seizing the moment when Teacher Xiao Liu went to the restroom, she brought her little followers along. They gave her a boost on the bottom, and like a caterpillar, she scurried up swiftly—and then...
Zhang arrived.
His timing was perfect, just in time to witness her specialty. She intended to sit in the tree and sing a song.
“I’m performing my specialty,” she said proudly, hugging the tree trunk like a sloth.
“Can you come down, please?” Zhang coaxed.
“Watch me,” she replied.
Little Bai clung to the trunk, using hands and feet like a little monkey, agile and fast. She wasn’t a sloth but more like a caterpillar or a monkey—climbing trees was indeed her forte.
After her little show, she was extremely proud, while Zhang, Xiaomi, and Meng Chengcheng below were nervous wrecks.
Zhang threatened, “If you don’t come down, I’ll climb up and carry you down!”
“What?” Little Bai asked in surprise. “Why are you so angry all of a sudden?”
Since Little Bai often said “so angry” in her dialect, Zhang had looked it up online and learned it meant “why are you so mad?”
He waved dismissively, not wanting to argue further. Better to come down first and talk later.
Little Bai muttered something unintelligible and started to slide down the tree. Zhang quickly put down his backpack, stood beneath the tree, arms open to catch her if she fell.
Xiaomi and Meng Chengcheng saw this and ran to his feet, imitating him by raising their little hands, eager to contribute.
Zhang looked down at the two children and told them to step aside quickly.
“I’m here; you don’t need to help. Please stand a little farther away, okay?”
The dazed Meng Chengcheng stared at him silently, while Xiaomi said, “Just helping out.”
Though not from Sichuan, she had picked up a few phrases of the Sichuan dialect from Little Bai.
Zhang didn’t need their help and urged them to keep their distance so they wouldn’t get squashed by Little Bai.
His worries were needless; Little Bai slid down smoothly and proudly asked, “Did I do well?”
Xiaomi and Meng Chengcheng nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, yes, you did!”
---
Zhang sighed, eyeing her clothes. “Look at your clothes, all dirty.”
Little Bai looked herself over. “Oh no.”
Zhang chuckled, “Oh no? Are you still going to climb trees? Clothes get dirty, nobody will wash them for you.”
She patted herself down and even asked Xiaomi and Meng Chengcheng to help.
“Be gentle, be gentle. Xiaomi, are you hitting me on purpose? Chengcheng, don’t pat my head so hard.”
“Go inside,” Zhang ordered, shepherding the three towards Teacher Xiao Liu and leaving them in her care.
Back home, after showering and settling at his desk, there was a knock on the door. Little Bai appeared again, standing about three or four meters behind, near the stairs, with Xiaomi and Meng Chengcheng, who were more shy than bold like Little Bai.
“Uncle, have you been drinking?” she asked.
Zhang was puzzled why she kept asking that.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh,” she sighed deeply with relief. “I came to check on the little shoes. Huh, they’re still here.”
She leaned on the doorframe, tilting her head to look at the small bear-patterned slippers she wore last time, placed on the shoe rack by the door.
What was there to see? Shoes don’t run away—children’s minds are hard to fathom.
“Want to come in and sit? Bring your little friends too,” Zhang invited.
Little Bai shook her head, saying she just wanted to see the little shoes, not him, and was busy anyway.
Zhang was speechless. Such honesty was a slap to the face. Some things are better left unspoken, but children speak without filters.
“Just looking at the shoes? Since you’re here, isn’t it a pity not to try them on?”
Little Bai tilted her head, considering it made sense, but still seemed worried. She asked again if he had been drinking, then insisted he squat down so she could sniff him.
“Are you really afraid I’ve been drinking?” Zhang asked, surprised.
She nodded, explaining that adults who drink sometimes hit children.
Zhang squatted, letting her sniff, feigning casualness. “Has anyone drunk hit you before?”
Little Bai didn’t answer but twitched her nose. Not smelling alcohol, she relaxed, took off her shoes, and happily slipped on the cute little slippers. She trotted around the room in tiny steps, practically flying, then ran to the door to call Xiaomi and Chengcheng for an audience.
The three kids gathered, whispering and critiquing. Afterward, Little Bai took off the slippers, put them back on the rack, slipped on her sandals, said goodbye to Zhang, and went downstairs with Xiaomi and Chengcheng.
It was rare—finally willing to wear the little shoes. But it was a blow: busy Little Bai really only came to see her slippers, not to visit him, and certainly not because of any friendship between them—if such a thing even existed.
After Little Bai left, Zhang closed the door, returned to his desk, and opened his computer to study films.
He used to browse video sites directly but changed his habit this time, first visiting a film review website he had browsed before, where ratings were more objective.
Suddenly, he noticed 56 unread messages on his account at the top right.
He had registered an account called “Impressive Zhang” when posting his last review.
Why so many unread messages? Zhang clicked curiously.
“Seafood Noodles” replied to your article “A Hormone-Pumping Popcorn Movie.”
“Under London Bridge” replied to your article “A Hormone-Pumping Popcorn Movie.”
...All were similar responses.
“Ah, these are replies to my last review,” Zhang realized.
He clicked on the top one to see what “Seafood Noodles” wrote.
“Director Wu’s films require rich life experience to understand. Obviously, the author is too young, only noticing the film’s style and techniques without grasping the deeper meaning behind. I really pity the author.”
He then opened “Under London Bridge’s” reply, hoping for a positive comment but was disappointed—it was another critique.
“‘The Chaser’ is a rare martial arts gem in recent years of Chinese cinema, inheriting tradition while innovating, balancing commercial appeal and artistry. It is expected to sweep the top three domestic film awards this year. I’m a film directing student, so I have the right to speak. The author clearly pretends to understand but doesn’t, dismissing details as lacking and depth as absent, then writing a thousand words. Instead of that, better to read more books.”
This reply had over a thousand likes and more than a hundred comments, even more popular than Zhang’s article.
“The big shot has arrived.”
“Not updating today?”
“If you have time to argue, make more videos.”
...
It seemed “Under London Bridge” was an internet celebrity.
Zhang clicked on the account, entering the homepage. Indeed, it belonged to a popular creator on the Xilili video barrage website, with over a million followers. No wonder they claimed more authority, since they made film review videos.
Zhang browsed a while, closed the page, reopened his article, and scrolled through many replies. Most echoed “Seafood Noodles,” disagreeing with him, claiming it wasn’t “The Chaser” that was shallow, but him.
He returned to the review page for “The Chaser” to read other comments.
In just a few days, the number of reviews had surged. Zhang was speechless—true to the saying, directors spout nonsense, and fans lay the tracks.
They even accused him of pretending to know! Zhang thought for a moment, then registered an account on Xilili, keeping the username “Impressive Zhang.” After exploring the rules and process for uploading videos, he opened a document and began writing a script for a video analyzing “The Chaser,” building on his previous thousand-word review.
Rarely so serious, Zhang spent several hours writing, but by the time he was halfway through the script, the clock showed 11 p.m.—quite late.
No need to rush tonight; recording the video would take even more time.
He saved the draft, closed the computer, and gazed out at the night to ease his eyes.
Long hours before the screen left his face oily, so he washed it, tidied his messy hair, put on his shoes, closed the door, and went downstairs to check on the children.