The Eve of Class Assignments

Gu Yue sat at her desk, the lamp casting a small patch of warm yellow light over the pages.

She had not really taken in more than a few words.

(I actually can't understand this.) She flipped to Chapter Three. A single formula stretched across three lines. Her gaze passed over "η=1−e^(−λt)," then returned to her left hand—to half a sesame flatbread wrapped in a tissue at the corner of the desk. Its edges had already gone hard, the bite marks neat, like a specimen of something left unsaid.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

They were neither Tang Wulin's head-down, straight-ahead stomps nor Xie Xie's lazy, swaying three-step rhythm. They were Yun Ying's—the heels of her boots tapping the floor, her spear sheath lightly knocking against her waist behind her, the rhythm brisk as though she were keeping time for herself. Gu Yue's fingertips paused, but she did not look up.

When the door opened, it brought in the rich sesame-paste scent of a tripe stall, mixed with the smell of scallion oil in the night breeze.

Yun Ying stood in the doorway with a paper bag in hand. Her ponytail was a little loose, and there was still a spot of minced garlic by her cheek—clearly from her own serving. She pursed her lips, glanced at the hardened flatbread on Gu Yue's desk, then at Gu Yue's calm, expressionless face. With a snort, she set the paper bag beside Gu Yue's desk.

"Here."

Gu Yue froze for a moment.

Inside the paper bag was another serving of tripe: a plastic bowl with sesame paste evenly drizzled over it, fresh green scallions on top, and curled strips of tripe cooked just right. Steam rose from the opening of the bag. There was no minced garlic—because Gu Yue hated minced garlic.

Gu Yue did not move.

Yun Ying set her own bowl on her desk, unhooked the Flame-Reaver Spear and hung it over the back of her chair. The faint rouge scent on her cuffs mingled with the aroma of sesame paste. She sat down, picked up a strip of tripe from her bowl with her chopsticks, chewed twice, then turned to Gu Yue.

"Xie Xie told me all about it."

Gu Yue looked up.

"You treated Tang Wulin to dinner, but didn't get anything to eat yourself. Then he drained all your money on fried mantou slices and a second bowl of rice." Yun Ying pointed the tips of her chopsticks at the flatbread on Gu Yue's desk. "So you came back and had nothing but that thing to gnaw on. Don't be sad—"

Gu Yue said, "...I'm not sad."

"The corners of your mouth are pinched tight enough to hang an oil bottle from." Yun Ying burst out laughing. "Fine, fine, you're not sad. I'm saying Tang Wulin's just a blockhead. He's not very good at expressing himself, so don't take it to heart. Eat it. I brought it for you. No minced garlic."

After saying that, as though afraid Gu Yue might refuse again, she pushed the bowl another half inch closer to Gu Yue's hand. Some sesame paste smeared against the edge of the paper bag, leaving a pale yellow streak.

Gu Yue lowered her gaze to the bowl of tripe.

The steam brushed against her chin. The scent of sesame paste was richer than the wheat fragrance of the flatbread. The tripe was cooked just right, the scallions merely a garnish, with no white heap of minced garlic piled on top. Her right hand unconsciously rubbed the edge of her communicator—for the fifth time that night—then she picked up her chopsticks.

"Thank you." Her voice was very soft.

Yun Ying was stuffing a second mouthful into her own mouth. Hearing that, she waved her chopsticks. "What are you thanking me for? This young lady's tripe was buy one, get one free." She paused, then added, "...It's not like I brought it specially for you."

Gu Yue did not expose her.

She picked up a strand of tripe. It was hot, crisp and springy when she chewed it, while the savory fragrance of sesame paste spread over the back of her tongue. It was quieter than that meal at the grilled fish restaurant—where he had finally said, "Just treat me to flatbread next time," and taken both her remaining balance and her token of thanks. No one was stealing this bowl of tripe. The scallion fragrance rose on its own, like the night wind in an alley abruptly changing direction.

Seeing that Gu Yue was really eating, Yun Ying hummed a satisfied fragment of some unknown tune. Her own bowl was soon empty. She pushed it aside and leaned back against her chair. Her ponytail brushed the spear sheath as she yawned, moisture glinting at the corners of her eyes.

"This young lady is going to sleep." She dragged out the words lazily. "Oh, right. Classes will be assigned tomorrow. I wonder if we'll all end up together."

Gu Yue swallowed the tripe in her mouth and thought for a moment. "There are a hundred people total, split into five classes. It's possible, but the odds of all of us ending up together aren't high."

"Ah..." Yun Ying licked the last bit of sesame paste from her chopsticks and rose to clear away her empty bowl. "Whatever. Xie Xie will definitely squeeze into the same class as Tang Wulin. Put two blockheads together and let the teacher deal with the headache. I hope they end up in Teacher Wu's class. I heard from the previous class that Teacher Wu is ridiculously handsome, some kind of... cold and aloof male god! Then Xie Xie can take lots of pictures for me!"

Yun Ying picked up the Flame-Reaver Spear and walked to the door. Her hand rested on the handle as she looked back at Gu Yue.

Gu Yue was lowering her head over another bite of tripe. Her violet eyes were downcast beneath the desk lamp, and a little sesame paste had gotten on the corner of her lips without her noticing.

Yun Ying watched her for two breaths, then suddenly smiled. It was not the bright laughter that bounced off alley walls, but something softer, like a smile in the instant before waking.

"Gu Yue, I'm going to bed first."

The door closed softly.

The footsteps in the corridor faded away, while the scallion-oil scent from the tripe stall lingered in the crack beneath the door. Gu Yue sat alone at her desk. The steam in the bowl gradually thinned, and the sesame paste congealed along the bottom. She ate the last bite of tripe, set down her chopsticks, and her fingertips touched the half flatbread at the corner of the desk—it had gone completely cold, hard as the peeling wall of an alley.

She neither bit it nor threw it away.

Gu Yue reached out and turned off the desk lamp.

She sat in the darkness without moving.

The lingering scent of sesame paste on the rim of the bowl slowly mingled with the faint rouge fragrance the night breeze had carried onto her sleeves.

—Then there was silence.