This semester, I took over two Chinese classes for the ninth grade, and little C was in one of them. When I first saw her, I thought she was the kind of girl who would get lost in a crowd—slightly chubby, not in an endearing way, but with a solid heft; her face was not small, but rather large, and her skin was not fair and radiant, occasionally dotted with a few red pimples, like abrupt splashes of color on a not-so-smooth canvas; her eyes were not big to begin with, and when she smiled, they became two narrow slits, yet she wore a pair of glasses as thick as “bottoms of wine bottles,” and the gaze behind the lenses was surprisingly sharp; her ponytail was not neatly tied, with a grayish-black hue, perhaps due to the heavy academic load that left little time for grooming, making it look a bit messy. But this seemingly ordinary girl, after spending time with her, always revealed some unforgettable vibrancy.
On my first day of class, I simply introduced myself with my surname He and asked them to call me Teacher He, then invited the students to introduce themselves one by one. Just as the bell rang for the end of class, as I was packing my lesson plan to leave, little C, sitting by the door, suddenly looked up at me and asked brightly, “Teacher, how old are you?”
I was taken aback—this child was too direct; a female teacher’s age is not something to be asked casually! I decided to tease her: “Guess!”
She tilted her head, stared at me for a few seconds, and confidently said:“I think you’re in your thirties!”
“Haha, there’s no one in their thirties like me,” I couldn’t help but laugh, “I’m already in my forties, and my son is in his second year of high school!”
Her eyes suddenly lit up, and her tone was full of surprise:“Really? Teacher, you don’t look like you’re forty at all, at most thirty-three or thirty-four!”
This child is as sweet as honey, and her personality is cheerful. But sometimes, this cheerfulness goes a bit too far—she can’t help but chat quietly with her deskmate during class, and the homework she hands in is just as “carefree” as her personality, with messy handwriting and often missing questions. I’ve criticized her several times, but she quickly forgets and continues to do as she pleases. I privately pondered: if this continues, her grades will likely not improve.
When the results of the first Chinese test came out, little C indeed did not surprise anyone—out of a total of 150 points, she only scored 86, which was below passing. On Monday morning, she rushed to my desk like a small whirlwind, peering at the bright red “86” on the report card, first instinctively exclaiming, “I only scored this much?” But the next second, she grinned, revealing two rows of not-so-straight but very sincere teeth, and promised me, “Teacher, I will definitely study hard this time! Next time I’ll aim for 100 points, I swear!”
I looked at her bright eyes, and my heart softened:“It’s good to have that determination; I believe in you.”
But she suddenly frowned and complained without any context:“Oh teacher, which teacher made this test? It’s too disgusting; I couldn’t answer many questions!”
I pretended to be stern, suppressing my smile to tease her:“What? Did I make the questions? Is there a problem?”
She was taken aback for a moment, then immediately retorted:“Your questions were disgusting; that’s why I scored so poorly!”
“You, child,” I held back my laughter and said sternly, “if you didn’t study properly, how can you blame the questions for being difficult? How can others score over a hundred? You need to think before you speak; your emotional intelligence can’t be this low!”
Just then, the class bell rang, and I waved her off to return; she stuck out her tongue and dashed back to the classroom, her ponytail swaying rapidly behind her.
The next day, just after the morning self-study, another figure appeared at my desk—little C, holding a bag of Xinjiang yogurt and two cheese-flavored snacks, looking a bit shy with her head down: “Teacher, I’m sorry… this is delicious, for you.”
I was taken aback:“Why are you suddenly saying sorry?”
“I shouldn’t have said your questions were disgusting yesterday,” she looked up at me, her eyes full of sincerity, “it was my fault.”
“Haha, silly child,” I couldn’t help but laugh, “I was just joking with you yesterday; I wasn’t angry. You can keep these treats for yourself; I have high blood sugar and can’t eat too much sweet stuff.”
“Teacher, this snack is really delicious!” She placed the items on my desk and, without waiting for me to say anything else, dashed off like usual, leaving behind a clear “You must try it!” echoing in the office.
That day, I happened to skip breakfast, so I picked up a piece of the snack to try—so sweet. Looking at the bag of yogurt still warm from her hand, I suddenly felt that this fiery girl was just like this overly sweet snack; at first glance, she seemed ordinary, but upon closer inspection, she was full of sincerity and charm.