Chapter 33: The Drunken Consort

Huang Guolun thought that Huang Tao was about to curry favor with Bai Yao by offering her some ice cream.

But that wasn’t the case.

Instead, the little rascal ran up to Bai Yao, tilted his head up, and asked her with utmost seriousness, “Sister Bai Yao, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” she replied.

“The word ‘sticky’—how do you say it backwards?”

When they were together, Huang Tao often bombarded her with all sorts of eccentric questions. Bai Yao had long since gotten used to it. She thought for a moment and answered, “Sticky-née?”

“Hee hee, I love you too. Sister Bai Yao, you look so pretty today!”

“Pfft.”

Bai Yao burst out laughing at Huang Tao’s childish flirtation, feeling a little embarrassed. She took his chubby hand and chided him, “You really know how to win a girl’s heart.”

“Of course! I’m way better at it than my dad!”

Hand in hand, Bai Yao led Huang Tao back to Huang Guolun’s side. Huang Tao munched gleefully on his ice cream, his face full of pride. He even shot his father a look as if to say: Did you learn something?

Huang Guolun was at a loss for words. He thought to himself that he really couldn’t let the little troublemaker watch TV anymore—what nonsense was he picking up? If this kept up, the kid would turn into a playboy!

Not wanting to argue with Huang Tao any further, Huang Guolun hurried the two of them into the car and set off for the northern suburbs.

Since it wasn’t a school day, Bai Yao wasn’t wearing her uniform.

She had specially changed into a new outfit, hoping to make a good impression on the elders of the Huang family.

But what she wore wasn’t exactly new. It was one of the sets Huang Guolun had found in Chen Jia’s closet—a batch he’d given to Bai Yao.

The fitted white clover T-shirt was something Bai Yao had already worn before, but the white, lightweight cotton sports jacket and the matching clover-patterned yoga pants were from a series personally designed by Chen Jia.

The brand exuded youthful vitality and a sense of style.

Sadly, after Chen Jia passed away, the fashion label she’d created faded away as well.

Many of those clothes from Chen Jia’s wardrobe had never even been worn.

Feeling it was a pity, Huang Guolun had given them all to Bai Yao, considering it a perk for tutoring Huang Tao.

Before giving them, he told Bai Yao that these were new clothes designed by his late wife, and since he didn’t know how else to handle them, he hoped she would accept them without reservation.

Bai Yao had no qualms at all.

It was a kind gesture from Teacher Huang, a way of looking after her, and she accepted it warmly.

Though she usually didn’t pay much attention to her appearance, as a young woman, dressing up nicely did lift her spirits.

Just as Huang Tao had said, Bai Yao was more striking than usual today.

In both face and figure, Bai Yao was a rare beauty—untainted, elegant, and luminous.

Even with a cropped haircut and no makeup, in her youthful, stylish clothes, she had a captivating presence.

Walking down the street, she resembled a model from a fashion magazine—short-haired, chic, and impossible to ignore.

If anything could be considered a flaw, it was her voice, which detracted from her perfection; otherwise, there was nothing to fault.

Even Huang Guolun, who was usually calm and unruffled, found himself stealing a few glances at her, feeling slightly unsettled.

But the source of this feeling wasn’t Bai Yao’s beauty. Rather, it was that, dressed in that white-and-green tracksuit, she faintly evoked memories of Chen Jia in her youth, before she’d given birth to Huang Tao.

All the way, Bai Yao sat in the back, chatting animatedly with Huang Tao, who kept praising her beauty in every way he could think of, until Bai Yao was almost embarrassed by his compliments.

From time to time, Huang Guolun would chime in, complaining about the pains of working overtime on weekends: “If only I could spend the weekend with you two in the northern suburbs. Weekend overtime is the worst—nothing’s more exhausting than working weekends.”

“What’s so exhausting about working weekends? Waking up in the middle of the night because you have to pee—that’s the real torture,” Huang Tao replied with his typical blunt honesty, leaving everyone speechless.

Huang Guolun just laughed helplessly. “You might have a point, but working overtime tires me out more.”

“Dad, it’s better for you to be tired. If you’re not tired, then I will be. That’s what being human is—being tired. Otherwise, why would we be called humans?” Huang Tao grinned mischievously.

“Don’t get too cocky, kid. Just because I’m not around doesn’t mean no one will keep you in line.” Huang Guolun turned to Bai Yao, “Bai Yao, I’m giving you a mission today: don’t let Huang Tao watch any TV at all. If he dares, turn him into a popsicle.”

“Dad, who do you think you are to order Sister Bai Yao around? She’s the Snow Witch! If you make her angry, she’ll turn you into a popsicle first!” Huang Tao relied on Bai Yao’s authority and asked, “Sister Bai Yao, you won’t listen to my dad, right?”

Bai Yao answered regretfully, “He’s my teacher—I have to listen to him. And you should listen to your teacher too.”

Huang Tao was puzzled. “Why? He’s just a teacher, but you’re a Snow Witch!”

“Don’t forget, even witches can’t do whatever they want. They’re bound by the Witch’s Code,” Bai Yao said, using the code to explain. “No one in this world can act with absolute freedom—not Mr. Huang, not you, not me. We can’t change the way the world works, so all we can do is change ourselves to adapt. Freedom is always relative. There’s no such thing as absolute freedom, or absolute fairness—only absolute balance.”

To most children, words like these would be incomprehensible. But Bai Yao knew Huang Tao would understand at least some of it.

Through these days together, she realized that this little scamp’s maturity and intelligence sometimes reached an adult’s level.

Often, when she spoke to him in what seemed like profound terms, he’d be taken in.

This time was no different.

Hearing Bai Yao’s earnest explanation, Huang Tao nodded thoughtfully and said, “Sister Bai Yao, I think you make a lot of sense. All right, I won’t make things hard for you this weekend—I’ll watch less TV and play more on my phone instead.”

At some point, Huang Tao had already swiped Huang Guolun’s phone and was playing on it as he ate.

Huang Guolun fumed, “Hey! When did you take my phone?”

“What do you mean ‘take’? You left it on the armrest yourself.”

Suddenly, Huang Tao waved the phone and asked Bai Yao an odd question: “Sister Bai Yao, why do app icons start shaking when you’re about to delete them? Are they scared?”

“Probably—they’re trembling with fright,” Bai Yao said, finding his childlike logic adorable.

“Then why do some apps that can’t be deleted still shake?”

Bai Yao thought for a moment. “Maybe they’re just showing off.”

“That makes sense!” Huang Tao exclaimed, enlightened. “Sister Bai Yao, you’re so smart. You’ve solved a problem that’s puzzled me for ages. You really are an ice-cold, clever Snow Witch!”

“Not bad, I suppose.”

Having been flattered by Huang Tao so many times, Bai Yao couldn’t help but feel a little light-headed.

She didn’t know why, but whenever she was with this little rascal, she felt especially happy and relaxed.

Even her most precious commodity—her time—didn’t feel wasted in his company.

Before, she had never experienced such complete relaxation and enjoyment of life. She was always studying or working, and her only form of release was singing rock in bars to vent her pent-up emotions—but even that was just work.

But now, with Huang Tao and Huang Guolun, Bai Yao found herself truly savoring life, despite the ever-present tension in her heart urging her to earn enough to bury her grandfather.

Yet, after being cheered up by Huang Tao’s innocence and mischief again and again, she genuinely felt that these days were so much fun, as if she’d never really lived before.

“Taozi, don’t just eat by yourself—share some ice cream with your Sister Bai Yao. If you eat the whole bag yourself, you’ll end up with a stomachache,” Huang Guolun reminded him.

“Sister Bai Yao doesn’t like snacks like I do. If she did, I’d have shared already,” Huang Tao said, turning his chubby face to Bai Yao. “Right, Sister Bai Yao, you’re not a foodie, are you?”

How was Bai Yao supposed to answer that?

She could only laugh and say, “Of course not. Go ahead and eat—but don’t eat too much. Too much ice cream really will upset your stomach.”

“I thought so. Only girls with small chests are foodies.”

“Hm?”

Bai Yao didn’t follow his logic.

“Because, as they say, ‘flat-chested, always hungry!’”

Huang Tao explained with a straight face, “Girls with nothing up front are always hungry, so they have to keep eating—they’re destined to be foodies. But if a girl is well-endowed, like you, Sister Bai Yao, her stomach won’t be hungry and she won’t eat much. You always eat so little, and that’s because your chest is too big—well-endowed girls aren’t hungry.”

Bai Yao was so embarrassed, she wished she could shrink her chest a few inches.

Huang Guolun was mortified, too, and demanded, “Who taught you that ‘flat-chested and hungry’ means this?!”

“The Big Teacher did—on TV! He said, ‘flat-chested, always hungry; well-endowed, never hungry.’ He also said girls’ favorite flower isn’t the rose or the peony—it’s the ‘money flower.’”

Huang Guolun nearly fainted. “I’m warning you, don’t watch the Big Teacher’s show anymore—it’s not meant for kids!”

“Why not? He teaches us all sorts of things! For example, he said that paper airplanes fly the longest when you throw them on your knees—it’s so true. I tried it, and they really do fly super far!”

Huang Guolun was baffled. “How is that possible? How can kneeling make a paper plane fly any farther?”

Bai Yao’s eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. “Maybe it’s because of ‘Kneeling Concubine’s Drunken Flight’?”

Huang Tao, thrilled to have found a kindred spirit, shouted, “Exactly! ‘Kneeling flies the farthest!’”

Huang Guolun nearly coughed up blood.

“The Big Teacher also had another interesting theory. Do you know which fruit is the hottest—pineapple, pear, dragon fruit, or mango?” Huang Tao asked.

Bai Yao took a guess. “Dragon fruit?”

“Nope. It’s pear,” Huang Tao said with a mischievous grin. “Because—it’s a ‘hot iron perm’!”

Huang Guolun was thoroughly defeated, too drained to discipline Huang Tao any further, leaving it to Bai Yao to handle.

All the way to the northern suburb villa, Huang Tao’s mouth didn’t stop—not eating, then telling Bai Yao one silly joke after another, sometimes coming out with things he didn’t even understand himself.

Both Huang Guolun and Bai Yao were left in awkward silence, unable to explain to Huang Tao, the scene equal parts hilarious and excruciating.

Huang Guolun grew more and more worried about Huang Tao, fearing his intelligence would make him too susceptible to misleading things on TV.

He even worried that Bai Yao, spending so much time with Huang Tao, would become corrupted by him.

He’d hoped Bai Yao’s identity as a witch would keep Huang Tao in check.

Who could have guessed that Huang Tao was so formidable! He’d even begun to subtly influence Bai Yao.

Was there truly no one in this world who could keep Huang Tao under control?

Huang Guolun could only sigh in despair.

But what he truly needed to worry about hadn’t even happened yet.

The seed of ambition that Huang Guokun had once planted in Huang Tao’s heart—a dream of becoming a child star and conquering the world—had been forgotten in the sprawling fields of his heart after Bai Yao’s arrival.

Huang Tao had spent these days playing with Bai Yao, forgetting all about his dreams of stardom.

But when the day came that he remembered, that would be when Huang Guolun truly had a headache on his hands.

That morning, at nine o’clock, after dropping off Huang Tao and Bai Yao at the northern villa, Huang Guolun didn’t even set foot inside—he turned around and rushed straight back to the city, heading to the school to help prepare for the anniversary celebration.

As in previous years, the main venue for the celebration was the school’s auditorium, which could seat 1,500 students at once.

But this year’s event was on a whole new level. The school had invested heavily in a professional lighting and stage design team to upgrade the auditorium’s facilities, in order to accommodate the performances of some well-known actors and singers.

For the 50th anniversary, they had invited a star-studded lineup: the renowned military singer Yan Liwen, soprano Hui Jiaqi, famous violin soloist Ma Shuo, pop singer Tang Jing, and more than a dozen other artists.

For a high school, this was a dazzling array of talent.

Some of the performers had other engagements and would perform at the start of the celebration before leaving, after which the student performances would begin.

Three artists—Yan Liwen, Hui Jiaqi, and Ma Shuo—along with Chen Kenan, vice director of the city’s Jin Fan Art Troupe, would serve as judges for the student showcase, evaluating the performances with professional expertise.

After two full days of work over the weekend, the auditorium was finally ready.

On Sunday afternoon, all students participating in the showcase had to attend an internal rehearsal.

Any act deemed too poor during this rehearsal would be cut to avoid embarrassment.

It was during this rehearsal that the Liu-Guan-Zhang trio ran into serious trouble.

The three, overcome with nerves, found themselves unable to sing onstage—they forgot everything they’d practiced, failed to keep up with the rap’s rhythm, and turned their song, “Born Stubborn,” into a complete mess, drawing laughter from the teachers and students present.

Halfway through their performance, the head of the internal review group, Vice Principal Zhou Gang, couldn’t take it anymore. He waved his hand to stop them. “Enough, enough! What on earth are you singing?!”