ONE
Youth is always reminiscent of a large, large sea of flowers, the flow of the green melted into the bottom of the heart of the wet.
I always look downstairs at a piece of flowing green, deep and shallow, faint smile. The breeze gently blew the crystalline hair, the fluttering threads will be like the strings of the music, floating in the air, accompanied by a trace of the aroma of grass and the fragrance of flower petals.
But that thick green and we are distant, we are in the hot summer torment flowers, steamed dry moist, blood coagulation. The dreary heat, the bitter sweat, the test papers like snow, always gave us the feeling that the end was near. And, as it happened, on that hot summer day, the air conditioner in our classroom broke down. So, like a stream without a constant stream of living water, it was vaporized and dried up little by little, and then the sun threw down a fireball, and the once moist land was ablaze. "Brush, brush, brush," the sound of fans in the classroom drying the ears, a large piece of filthy sweat soaked white shirt, the heat of a wisp.
The teacher wiped the sweat on his forehead and said, "See, the harsher the environment, the harder you have to work." We lifted our heads with difficulty, moved our dry and cracked lips, and could not speak. What to say? What was junior year, really, like? We only remember the air conditioning a while blowing cold air a while blowing hot air, only remember after the other half of a burst of cold air blowing, want to iceberg as refreshing, only remember our class like a steamer as hot. The only thing that is still fuzzy in the mind is those who once really existed, those who let me always miss the fragment.
TWO
The sky was dark.
I looked up from a pile of physics problems and muttered breathlessly to myself, "I hope physics isn't too hard on the midterm." My pale face was like a white sheet of paper.
The big P in front of me suddenly looked up and said, "The harder it is, the more I like it!" How is this so familiar? Rather like someone's dominance and bravado. I looked up and saw Big P with a conceited face. But he was entitled to be conceited. It was as if that guy was born for physics, the physics tower we all climbed up the spiral staircase one solid step at a time; he clapped his hands, stretched out a pair of wings out of thin air, and flew up there all at once! It was beyond our reach. So the physics teacher tapped him on the shoulder and looked at him hopefully. So he got one award after another.
We all affectionately called him a "genius", but he shook his head seriously: "NO, NO, NO born stupid?" Then he turned playful and showed a mouthful of white teeth, "I hear 'geeky' sounds better." Freakishly born stupid?
THREE
The day of the midterm is approaching day by day, and the sound of the classroom "brush brush" calculations, quite a symphony of sadness. The class teacher, however, made a "weekly reflection" at this critical moment.
The class teacher threw her hair, high heels in the classroom in every place left a symphony before throwing her hair, said: "There is always a reflection to make progress." The voice was happy as a dance.
"Formalism, formalism." Yuichi shook his head as if chanting.
Knowing full well that it was formalism, my brain short-circuited. In a change from my usual docile politeness, I wrote in my notebook, stroke by stroke, "I'm not a good student who listens."
I was absolutely crazy!
But I'm not. I would stay up in the middle of the night, sitting in front of the open floor-to-ceiling windows with my hair down, staying up all night reading a novel. The cold wind blew in and ruffled my black hair, pale youthful face, the corner of the mouth slanting smile, light rebellion, shallow sadness; I will be in the classroom books stacked as high as a small mountain, the teacher in the top of the gushing, but I quietly guarded in my small world, looking at the use of pocket money bought by the piles of comics and novels.
When the class president was handing out reflection books, I bit my pencil and thought: "The old class should call me to the office and give me a hard lecture, saying something like 'up to now you're still not doing your job'. Then I'll keep my head down, listen carefully, nod my head fiercely, and be my good boy."
As it turned out, on the back of my sprawling reflection, my teacher wrote, "In my teacher's eyes, you've always been a good student."
I slanted my mouth and turned my head to see Yuichi looking at me. "Am I right," he said with a smile and a look of confidence, "He believes in you."
Then I thought to myself, I'm just a little rebellious and a little sad from time to time. Still a good student, at least my grades prove it. At least I am very kind by nature, as pure as jade .