Chapter Twelve: The Director of Discipline

“Oh! This is the first time I’ve heard about such a thing. Why don’t you want to go to the nursery? Isn’t it fun to play with so many other children there?” As expected, Director Bai had fallen for Hongtao’s trick. She didn’t ask any more about his uncle and aunt but instead began to dig deep into Hongtao’s motives.

“There’s nothing interesting in the nursery. It’s just eating, then sleeping, then playing, and then going back to sleep when you’re tired from playing. It’s a waste of time. When I grow up, I want to be a scientist, so my time is precious. I can’t just waste it!” Hongtao tried his best to speak in an innocent, childlike way, but halfway through, he nearly choked on his breakfast and decided to drop the act altogether.

“Hehe, that’s wonderful. Being a scientist is great, and time shouldn’t be wasted… But… but you’re still so young…” Director Bai’s face brightened, and she even started to laugh. Out of habit, she wanted to say Hongtao was too young for school, but then thought better of it, fearing she might dampen his enthusiasm. She was momentarily at a loss for words.

“I may be a bit young, but studying doesn’t take much physical effort. I’ll just listen to two lessons, then go to my grandmother’s house, review in the afternoon—it’s quite easy. It won’t hinder my growth.” Hongtao guessed what Director Bai wanted to say—just empty talk—so he quickly cut her off.

“Mr. Hong is really something, raising such a clever son! I support your approach, but what will you do when winter comes? There’s no heating in the corridors, and it’ll be so cold. Will your parents still let you come to class?” Director Bai couldn’t keep up the small talk any longer. She felt this child was very different from others: he was logical and organized, and though his voice was that of a child, his reasoning was as clear as an adult’s. She’d spent half her life in elementary education and never met a child like him.

“I’ll only study for two months. Once I know more characters, I’ll be able to study Chinese at home by myself. If I run into problems with math, I can ask my dad in the evenings—he teaches math. So by November, I won’t need to come to school anymore!” Hongtao piled one lie on top of another. Though his story sounded reasonable, if a bit over-optimistic, he didn’t feel proud. He was deceiving good people, and if one could feel joy in that, it was hardly a mark of good character.

“Oh, what a boast! Just two months and you’ll be self-taught? I find that hard to believe. Come with me to the office, let me test you!” Director Bai, as if she’d found something amusing, grabbed Hongtao by the hand and started leading him upstairs.

“Director Bai, it’s my first day of study—I only know a few characters and some pinyin. Maybe let me study a few more days before testing me?” Hongtao wasn’t afraid of being tested, but worried the teachers might see through him. Teachers might not excel at everything, but they knew how to read children.

“It’s all right. Every new character you recognize is progress. Come on, don’t be afraid, I won’t make it hard for you.” Director Bai wasn’t fooled and led him up to the second floor, not back to the administrative office but directly into the first-grade teachers’ office.

“Little one, have you practiced writing at home? Mr. Wang, Director Bai, look at this—does this handwriting look like a child’s?” A few minutes later, Hongtao’s fox tail peeked out. No matter how hard he tried to make his writing ugly, the bespectacled old teacher saw through it at once.

“His father is a university lecturer; it’s not surprising he’s taught him to read. Hongtao, tell the teacher—how long have you been practicing writing?” Director Bai frowned as she looked at Hongtao’s work. Hongtao himself didn’t see any point in practicing handwriting, but to these teachers who’d spent their lives scrutinizing student work, every child’s handwriting was as unique as a face; no matter how you tried to disguise it, they could see your true self at a glance.

“…One year…” Hongtao had wanted to say longer, but realized that if he said two years, that would mean he’d started at age two, which was too unbelievable. If Director Bai asked his father, the truth would come out, so he settled on a year.

“Mr. Zhang, take a look. This child is lying!” The math teacher nearby stood up and handed the Chinese teacher a sheet of paper—math problems Hongtao had solved.

“What’s wrong? Mr. Wang, did he answer incorrectly?” Director Bai put down the writing sample and peered at the math problems but saw nothing wrong.

“This kid’s Arabic numerals are smoother than mine, neater than our high school students’. Little one, tell the teacher—who taught you to write these numbers? Don’t lie to the teacher!” The bespectacled old man leaned forward, face creased with a smile.

“I… learned from this…” Hongtao nearly snatched the paper to tear it up. He knew one lie begets ten more, but in focusing on disguising his handwriting, he’d forgotten to make the numbers look childish too. With no choice, he continued the lie, picking up the little notebook his father had given him and flipping to the back, pointing to the solution steps written by university students.

“Oh… Director Bai, this child is more than ready for the first grade. Whether he knows a few characters or solves some problems is secondary. His quick thinking and clear expression are far beyond any first-grader I’ve seen; it shows his mind is already well developed. And most importantly, he’s eager to learn. Even if a child is slow, I can teach him as long as he has the will.” The old man with glasses began to pronounce his judgment, and the other teachers nodded in agreement.

“This is tricky. He’s only four—not within regulations. I’d better discuss this with the district and see if there’s any way…” Director Bai was troubled. The teachers’ job was to teach, not handle administration; it was easy for them to make suggestions.

“Director Bai, I’d better wait until I’m old enough to enroll. For now, I can only study for half a day—any more, and I’d get tired. If you force me to study too much and I lose interest, it would be counterproductive. I just want to listen to classes for two months, and in two years, I’ll start school properly!” Hearing the old man’s words, Hongtao was immediately displeased. He didn’t want to go to nursery, but first grade wasn’t much better: sitting in a classroom for hours, hands behind his back, was torturous. At this point, neither nursery nor school appealed to him; he just wanted to enjoy two comfortable years before thinking about it again.

“Heh! A four-year-old who already knows about diminishing returns. My grandson is a year older than you, and he cries whenever I try to teach him to read. Director Bai, why not talk to his parents first?” The old man, energized by Hongtao’s words, suggested another idea.

“Fine, I’ll visit his home tonight. Hongtao, come, I’ll walk you home.” Director Bai nodded at the old man and led Hongtao out of the office.

“Director Bai, I can go by myself. I know the way—you… you don’t have to see me off…” When Hongtao heard she was planning a home visit, he realized the game was up. Originally, he just wanted to fool his father to stay out of nursery, but now it seemed he’d escaped the tiger’s den only to fall into the wolf’s lair, all that scheming for nothing. In his anxiety, he nearly blurted out “please stay,” finding it harder to speak like a child than to speak English.

Unfortunately, Director Bai refused to let go of his hand, insisting on escorting him all the way to his grandmother’s door, only leaving after watching him enter the yard. Hongtao faced another problem. He flopped onto the bed and didn’t get up until lunch, but still hadn’t found a solution.

After lunch, Hongtao told his grandmother he was going home to review his lessons, then left. He didn’t go home, but wandered slowly down the alley toward the main street. Worrying was useless; no amount of brooding would help. What was bound to happen would happen—he, with his small arms and legs, couldn’t fight against the times. He’d figured it out: if forced to choose between school and nursery, he’d go back to the nursery. It would be uncomfortable mentally, but at least physically he’d be at ease, and being the little tyrant of the nursery wouldn’t be so bad.

“Oh, right, I forgot to bring Da Jiang his paper gun. I bullied you in my previous life, so I’ll make it up to you this time! You’ve met a good person!” Thinking of the nursery, Hongtao suddenly remembered the chubby Zhang Da Jiang, to whom he’d promised a paper gun today—something he’d nearly forgotten.

No matter. Hongtao knew how to make paper guns and had the materials. He found a large screen wall, sat on its flagstone base, took out the little notebook his father had subscribed for him, tore out some pages, and began folding a paper gun for Zhang Da Jiang, using his textbook as a base.

“Hello, teacher. I’ve come to deliver something to Zhang Da Jiang. I promised I’d bring it. My dad must have asked for leave for me—I probably won’t be coming to the nursery for a few days.” When Hongtao finished the paper gun and knocked on the nursery door, the teacher who opened it was the same one he’d once hit with a chair—the one with the long braid.

“All the children are napping. Why don’t you give it to me, and I’ll pass it to Zhang Da Jiang when he wakes up?” The braided teacher was surprised to see Hongtao alone at the nursery; she had a bit of a complex about this tall, skinny child.

“Thank you, teacher… By the way, I was wrong before. Please don’t take it to heart. I’m just a kid—please forgive me, okay?” Hongtao handed the paper gun to the teacher, adding a few words.

“Teachers don’t hold grudges… No, not at all…” The braided teacher, hearing this, looked as if she’d seen a ghost. She hurriedly shut the door, took a deep breath, and then carried Hongtao’s paper gun into the courtyard.