Yan She was completely wasted by the time we left MIK. I had to half-carry her out while she insisted she was "fine to drive." Her friends scolded her, "Yan She, you suicidal? Your cousin still wants to live! Call a damn driver!"
We got a designated driver. On the way home, Yan She vomited on the roadside, slurring, "I'm not drunk... can still drink..." Back at the apartment, it took all my strength to haul her to bed. After tucking her in, I collapsed into my own room, too exhausted to even mess with Jiang Qingqing on WeChat.
Then came the midnight surprise.
I woke to Yan She—still drunk—climbing into my bed. She yanked the covers so hard I nearly fell off. (If she weren't plastered, I'd think she was assaulting me.) Too terrified to stay, I fled to her room. (Better than explaining why we shared a bed tomorrow.)
At dawn, Yan She stormed in, kicking me awake. "Why was I in your bed last night?"
(Oh god.) "How should I know? You were blackout drunk! I put you in your bed, but you sleepwalked into mine!"
"Bullshit. Then why are you in my room?"
"You stole my bed! Should I sleep on the floor?"
She huffed. "I'm not that big. There was space!"
(Yeah, but I value my life.)
After breakfast, Yan She crashed again ("Hangover headache"). I logged into QQ, where "Little Woman" sent a shake message. "Who are you?" I typed—no reply. (Some prankster.)
That evening, Yan She dropped me at school, advising: "Study hard, date cute girls. If you fight—win or run. If trapped, @ me on Weibo. I'll mount a rescue."
As I got out, Gou Mao arrived by bus. Through the window, he gaped at Yan She—stunned. After she drove off, he grabbed me. "Who. Was. That."
"My sister. Want her number?"
His eyes lit up. "Seriously?!"
I smirked. "With your confidence? She'd eat you alive."
Gou Mao sighed. "True. I'm no match for a goddess."
Sunday study hall was homeroom time. Jiang Qingqing arrived early to collect 50 yuan from each student for reference books. Two days apart, she looked unchanged—except today, she wore a fitted white blouse, knee-length skirt, and a sleek updo.
When class assembled, she summoned me. (More water-fetching?) But no—she wanted me to collect money. Normally, the class monitor did this.
"I can't spot fake bills," I protested.
She smiled. "I'll teach you."
(Trapped.) For the entire period, I played cashier under her "tutorial"—checking watermarks, listening for crinkles.
After class, she ordered me to the gate. (More manual labor.) Parked outside was the same Mercedes S350L from Friday. The suited man unloaded a heavy box from the trunk.
"Mangoes," Jiang Qingqing said as I lugged it toward her dorm. (Hope you choke on them.)
En route, she dropped a bomb: "The school knows about your fight with Li Dehai. They'll announce your public warning at tomorrow's flag-raising."
My stomach lurched. "Am I getting demerits?"
"Originally, yes. But I persuaded them to downgrade it."
(Liar.) If she truly wanted me punished, why intervene? More likely, the school had planned a slap on the wrist all along. This was her ploy to make me owe her—ensuring future obedience.
At her dorm, she offered me mangoes. "Take some. Too many for me."
Back in my room, Gou Mao nearly choked. "Are you her secret lovechild? Why does she keep feeding you?!"
That night, Jiang Qingqing initiated a WeChat chat:
"Talk to me?"
(Since when?) I played along: "Sure. Lonely out here."
She replied with a 😊 emoji.
(Game on.)