Chapter 4: The Goal Is to Become a Pokémon Master

It is often said that half of a boy’s memories of school are made in the restroom, and Zhang Shutong thought there was some truth to this.

As he lifted the rubber door flap, the room was packed with people, bustling like a lively meeting.

He hadn’t intended to use the restroom, nor to join any gathering—just to reminisce. But those memories were too unpleasant, so after a quick glance and pinching his nose, he stepped back out.

At that moment, someone patted him hard on the shoulder, and a familiar voice followed:

“Bro, no need to thank me!”

Zhang Shutong was startled. Just a few hours ago, he had been stabbed, so whenever someone approached from behind, he got unnerved.

Turning around, he saw Du Kang grinning cheerfully.

A flood of thoughts condensed into one sentence:

“You really haven’t changed at all.”

Zhang felt nostalgic. Du Kang had a baby face and looked younger than them, but he never seemed to age.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m complimenting you on staying youthful. What did you say just now? ‘No need to thank me’?”

“I handed in your homework. It was nothing. Treat me to some spicy strips?”

“Your pick, but I might be a bit late after school, got something to handle.”

Zhang laughed. Just like eight years ago, the two of them chatted as if no time had passed. But after a few words, Du Kang glanced at his watch and suddenly ran off, shouting while running:

“I’m going to pick up the milk! Don’t forget what you promised me next class—KFC feast!”

Wait, what promise?

Zhang was left utterly confused.

He stood there a while, thinking this guy was just like always, speaking in half-sentences.

That was Du Kang—a boy every class had, always rushing about, busy but seemingly without a clear purpose.

But that “picking up the milk” was serious business.

The “milk” referred to was student milk—a small square carton, a nutritional product promoted around the early 2000s.

It came in all flavors: vanilla, strawberry, papaya, chocolate... even plain milk no one drank.

Zhang knew most schools distributed the milk in the morning, usually between the first and second class breaks. But on their island, the milk had to travel by water, so it couldn’t arrive in the morning. Midday was too close to lunch, so distribution was moved to the afternoon.

Every class appointed a “milk carrier” who collected the cartons from a warehouse behind the teaching building and handed them out in class—a role, if nothing else.

People say school duties before university are useless—no real power, no credit—but as far as Zhang knew, this milk carrier job had its perks.

Namely, extra milk.

To account for transport loss, they always delivered several extra boxes each time, amounting to several cartons per class. How to divide these extras? Teachers didn’t bother; it was up to the milk carrier.

Du Kang was clearly loyal, never letting outsiders get a share. The extra cartons always ended up with their tight-knit group, eventually becoming like regular supply stock.

He even remembered that Qingyi liked chocolate, Ruoping preferred papaya, Du Kang himself favored vanilla... Zhang was surprised to recall such details.

But memories are tricky—some things you think you remember, you’ve really forgotten; others you’ve forgotten but suddenly recall, as if they never left your mind.

He remembered so clearly because of a ridiculous twist—he liked strawberry flavor, and by chance, Lu Qinglian did too.

So, whenever there was extra strawberry milk, Du Kang agonized over who to give it to: the close friends or the girl he liked.

Yet, he was loyal enough that despite almost crushing the milk cartons in reluctance, he always handed them over to Zhang in the end.

Sometimes he’d plead pitifully, “Just one box, let me keep one more.”

Then the three of them would tease him.

“Seeing red, forgetting loyalty,” said Ruoping.

“Prioritizing love over friendship,” said Qingyi.

“Totally agree,” said the only beneficiary—Zhang himself.

Looking back, Zhang couldn’t help but laugh at his own lack of conscience.

After all these years, Du Kang never managed to win over Lu Qinglian—maybe it was just those few boxes of strawberry milk that stood between them.

And that was Zhang’s fault.

Next time, he firmly resolved not to drink it.

He then returned to the classroom, grabbed his backpack, and lined up in the corridor, waiting for the next class to change seats.

The homeroom teacher was already at the front, sleeves rolled up, shouting:

“You bunch of little brats, hurry up! Those going to the bathroom, make it quick—only five minutes...”

“Move faster, you there, you there, stop sneaking around like a weasel stealing chickens! Don’t you know how to pick up your backpack?”

“Oh, Shutong, come up front, you’re first anyway.”

The man was about twenty-six or twenty-seven, slightly older than Zhang’s past self, standing over six feet tall, with a hooked nose, long face, strong square jaw, exuding a resolute aura.

His voice was loud enough to echo, shoving anyone who displeased him, lacking the gentlemanly manner he showed when speaking for Lu Qinglian earlier.

Yet the students weren’t annoyed; some grinned and talked back playfully.

This was their homeroom teacher—the one Zhang liked most during his school days—Song Nanshan.

Song was a classic roughneck. The top button of his shirt was always missing, his hair unkempt, a blue stubble clinging to his chin, a bit disheveled yet ruggedly masculine.

During class, his sleeves were perpetually rolled up to the elbows. Once, at a city public lesson, he didn’t notice the grade director coughing behind him, still writing wildly on the blackboard, spitting with enthusiasm.

He could be unreliable too—once he lost a test paper and had to pull a stool to sit beside a student to teach.

But don’t underestimate him. Song had been a teacher at a top city high school, moved to the island for a title evaluation, supposedly to gain prestige. Though he should have left after, he stayed on.

He got along well with the students, open-minded, able to command authority yet mingle freely. His closest bonds were with Zhang and his close friends.

He had a red car, something called a Focus, manual transmission.

On weekends, he liked to drive aimlessly, sometimes bringing Zhang and the others along. They’d sniff the lingering cigarette smoke inside, watch the teacher skillfully maneuver the mountain roads with fluid turns, until Ruoping got car sick and had to get out.

He also liked to take them fishing, though his skills were so poor he despised himself.

Song taught English, and thanks to him, Zhang’s English was always good. He passed the CET-4 and CET-6 exams by freshman year, and even his later home-based job involved translation.

Looking back, Zhang realized he’d never dropped below second place in English during middle school, making the teacher proud enough to call him his "favorite."

But the English class representative was Lu Qinglian—perhaps a sign his love wasn’t deep enough.

Song then called out loudly to him:

“You didn’t do well this time—only fifth in the monthly exam. Confident you can make top three next time?”

Zhang thought that not being third from the bottom would be good enough, glanced at him, and couldn’t help but remind:

“Your cigarette pack is showing.”

“Oh, oh...” Song quickly tucked it away, then turned back to call the students.

The class seat rearrangement took place after the monthly exam. Even this was made into a spectacle—

Other teachers, more calculating, arranged seats strictly by exam scores.

Some, more responsible, divided the class into four-person study groups, shifting groups monthly.

But Song Nanshan created a “priority seat selection” system.

It wasn’t useless; Du Kang jumped nearly twenty spots forward to mid-tier, though still far from Lu Qinglian, who was always first.

Zhang was second.

Then he finally remembered what Du Kang meant by the “promise” — he’d help him secure a seat.

Teenage boys were complicated, shy yet stubborn. Du Kang wanted to sit near Lu Qinglian but dared not be her deskmate; front or back row was best.

What to do?

Ask Zhang to sit in front or behind her, then be Du Kang’s deskmate, a complicated operation.

Zhang found it both amusing and endearing.

It wasn’t a big deal; adolescent crushes were serious business. Since Du Kang rarely spoke up, Zhang didn’t mind helping.

With the teacher’s urging, the students lined up, and Song began calling names:

“Second, Zhang Shutong.”

No mention of first, because the top spot was forever reserved for Lu Qinglian—she never lined up or packed up. She’d pick a spot and simply move her desk there.

Everyone got used to it, even the teacher started from second place.

Zhang entered the classroom and saw the girl sitting by the window.

The island lay north of the Qinling-Huaihe line, so the classroom was heated, with radiators under the windows.

At this time of year, the warmth was on, and the coziest spot in winter was by the window; in summer, near the wall.

This suited Zhang perfectly, and it seemed Lu Qinglian knew this well—no wonder she was top of the grade.

He wasn’t as young anymore—though still not old—but as a child, he had no concept of cold; he’d run around the house in short sleeves with the fan on in autumn.

In recent years, he always wore long underwear to bed, never exposing his shoulders.

When choosing seats near Lu Qinglian, he thought about not wanting to be watched from behind, so he sat just to her side-back, leaving the seat directly behind for Du Kang.

After settling, he propped his chin and watched students enter, trying to match names.

“…Du Tingting,” a slightly plump girl.

“…Zhou Ziheng,” a boy with darker skin, who paused upon seeing Zhang.

“…Meng Qingyi,” a cool boy with black messy hair, white turtleneck sweater, hands in pockets, expressionless, a poker-faced handsome guy.

He gave Zhang a thumbs-up and a look of admiration—probably meaning “You rock.”

Zhang returned the thumbs-up, saying “You’re cool too,” though he didn’t fully understand his friend’s meaning.

He felt a bit embarrassed—Du Kang was picking up milk, and if someone wanted to sit beside him, he’d have to refuse, feeling like bullying a kid.

But after looking around, no one within the top ten seemed interested in sitting nearby.

Lu Qinglian’s front row was taken, but behind her, except for Zhang, was a vacuum zone, as if bad luck kept everyone away.

Zhang was puzzled.

He knew many boys liked Lu Qinglian; logically, someone should have come to sit by her. Even ignoring feelings, sitting near the heater was a good spot.

Was it him?

He patted his own face.

He had been staring too intently at each newcomer to recognize them, probably looking grim.

But no matter how “cold” someone was, they shouldn’t be scary enough to scare people off.

Just then, a short-haired girl hurried over and tapped his desk. Her pale pink manicured nails caught his eye.

Before he could speak, Feng Ruoping whispered:

“You still asleep?”

“What?”

“Why on earth did you choose to sit next to the ‘young lady’?”

She covered her mouth, giggling, giving him a meaningful look—much like when she had looked at Lu Qinglian’s photo earlier.

Young lady? Next to her?

Suddenly, a long-buried memory stirred.

Zhang glanced into the desk hole beside him—there were still some books left unpacked—and immediately understood.

That seat belonged to Gu Qiumian. Though he had glanced at her seat before, he hadn’t memorized it.

She had a peculiar habit, or rather a strong sense of territory, like a young lioness. After transferring to their school and changing seats for the monthly exam, she moved to the window side and never shifted again.

No dramatic scenes like the “young lady tossing cash, sneering, ‘This is my seat, move along or else’” had played out.

Most people seemed to tacitly agree it wasn’t worth provoking her.

This brought up Gu Qiumian’s strange niche in the class ecosystem.

On the island, students were classmates at school, but outside, many were related or connected through their families—fathers who were cousins, grandfathers who were old comrades.

So social circles were fixed.

For example, after basketball on Friday, a certain aunt might visit someone’s home on the weekend, and her son was the kid who dunked that day.

Friendships extended beyond school and often included family—a rare experience for city kids.

Because of this, Gu Qiumian hadn’t made proper friends in class but mingled in small circles, prioritizing “fitting in.”

Especially among girls, social groups were sharply divided.

But if one tried, integration wasn’t impossible—like when Zhang first arrived, he had no friends either, but suddenly made a few and became tight with them.

Gu Qiumian wasn’t the type to blend in, yet no one dared to deliberately exclude her.

Though it might sound arrogant, in fact—

She had isolated everyone else in the class single-handedly.

You might sneer at her social skills, but you couldn’t deny her pride and wealth.

The “young lady” clearly understood relativity. After a humiliating incident involving chocolate, regardless of who was right or wrong, she refused to endure being cold-shouldered, so she simply expanded her circle outside the class.

Couldn’t fit into their clique? Fine, she’d build her own.

Gu Qiumian’s cronies were all outside class.

Across the four grades of middle school on the island, she had captured many “Pokémon,” as the kids called them.

Sometimes, she’d take them out for fun.

Every Saturday at ten sharp, they’d gather at the dock, bikes neatly lined up on both sides.

Then a black Audi rolled into the center of the group, a pale, slender leg emerged from the window, and everyone followed the leg’s owner onto the ferry.

—Though bikes could ride on board.

The island ferry had no cabin, just a huge deck. Walking cost three yuan, bikes five, cars ten.

But the young lady had no bike and couldn’t ride one. She refused to have her family’s driver follow, and walking alone while everyone else rode bikes would be embarrassing.

So, everyone walked.

Once ashore, a few taxis would be called with a wave, and she directed who went into which car.

Then with a raised chin, the convoy of red and silver cars would sweep toward the nearest dojo—no, shopping plaza—looking like a scene from a TV drama.

Gu Qiumian paid all the fares.

Once Zhang went off-island to buy books and ran into this group. He was wrapping his gum in paper, puzzled by the swarm of students.

Someone whispered:

“Bro, how’d you push your bike onto the boat? Brave, huh?”

They frantically gestured at his bike.

After a long chat, Zhang felt speechless.

He even forgot about his gum, bit down hard, and hurt his soft mouth, developing a new nervous tic.

When the ferry docked, Gu Qiumian appeared, arms crossed, hair blowing over her lips, striking a victorious pose.

After a moment, she asked:

“Zhang... Shutong?”

Her tone was like Ash calling out “Char...izard?”

Thank you for still remembering my Pokémon.

Back then, he had no elaborate feelings, just nodded coolly, treated it as a chance meeting, hopped on his bike, leaving the young lady alone in the lake breeze.

The title of “traitor” was firmly assigned.

Gu Qiumian never lacked playmates. Sometimes she’d invite a few close girls for karaoke, all at her four-story villa on the island.

In Zhang’s and his friends’ vocabulary, the “castle” was that place—only to be admired beyond the imposing iron gates.

A whole basement level was a home theater.

Though she had no proper friends in class, that didn’t mean no boys secretly liked her.

What topics do fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boys discuss?

Zhang’s answer: fish in the lake, straight sticks found on the way to school, and comic books.

But unfortunately, everyone else talked about the prettiest girls.

Their class was divided into Lu Qinglian’s camp and Gu Qiumian’s. The former was numerous and powerful; the latter existed but was discussed cautiously, as if afraid of revealing feelings.

The seat beside Gu Qiumian was often left empty for boys secretly admiring her.

She knew this and sometimes found it annoying, but it wasn’t entirely the boys’ fault.

She loved snacks and had a special pocket in her bag, not only eating herself but feeding her cronies.

Once, Du Kang lost a truth-or-dare game and was forced by Ruoping to ask Gu Qiumian for snacks. Everyone tried to hold in laughter, but she actually nodded and gave some.

They were stunned as she casually poured out a pile from her bag and asked Du Kang to take whatever he wanted.

But most of the time, if she brought extra snacks she didn’t want, she’d casually share with her deskmate.

She was generous, but as the saying goes, the giver is unaware, the receiver is grateful.

Boys that age would suspect a girl liking them if she looked their way more than once; being given snacks was a dream come true.

One unlucky boy got too full of himself.

He was Gu Qiumian’s deskmate, just gifted a few wafer sticks. Chewing and boasting loudly, crumbs fell from the last row to the podium.

Then, in a moment of poor judgment, thinking he was close enough to her, he told a dirty joke.

A crude joke about a girl’s body, usually only shared among boys and occasionally with close female friends, depending on intimacy.

But no one expected him to replace the subject with Gu Qiumian herself.

He chuckled after telling it, but her face immediately turned cold. She threw his pencil case to the floor.

“Say that again?”

The boy was humiliated, and although prideful, he repeated it loudly, ending with an angry:

“What’s wrong with you? It’s just a joke!”

Gu Qiumian didn’t even glance at him and walked away.

The next class, the boy was called out, reprimanded, sent home for a few days, and upon return, transferred to another class.

Only then did people truly realize who Gu Qiumian was.

Before, they thought the two groups were from different worlds, never mingling.

But in reality, she just didn’t want to mingle. If pushed, it was like eggs against stones—their world would shatter like wafer crumbs.

After that, many terrifying rumors about her family spread, some even malicious.

Whether she knew or not was unclear, probably not, as no one told her.

But even if she did, she carried an aura of “I don’t care what happens to others,” unaffected in class, occasionally drawing faces on the glass when in a good mood.

Now, the face drawn was right next to his.

Zhang finally understood those surprised looks.

Gu Qiumian was like a rose with thorns; if you didn’t provoke her, she’d ignore you.

But if you crossed her, you’d have to hear stories about the school’s distinguished alumnus, the donor to the library and playground, the island’s super-rich man—Gu Qiumian’s father, Gu Jianhong.

Zhang knew he couldn’t afford to offend so many.

Come to think of it, where did he sit back then?

Probably in front of Lu Qinglian, deliberately avoiding that seat.

He hadn’t expected that a slight change of thought after returning could flutter the butterfly wings of fate, altering the past.

Changing seats now was still possible... he thought.

Checking the time, “that thing” had just happened recently.

He dimly recalled their relationship had plummeted to rock bottom.

But before he could act, the homeroom teacher’s voice rang out again—speak of the devil:

“Next, Gu Qiumian.”

The tap-tap of small leather boots echoed on the floor.

Then, a pair of lively, beautiful eyes glared over.