A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

November 19th, Saturday.

Lin Shubai reached for his phone on the bedside table and glanced at it—it was 8:15. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number with the area code 028, from Chengdu.

"Feed?"

"Lin Shubai? Hello, hello, this is Zhou Hang from Science Fiction World magazine." The voice on the other end of the phone had a distinct Sichuan accent.

Lin Shubai sat up, his mind quickly switching channels. "Hello, Teacher Zhou."

Zhou Hang's tone was very friendly, as if he were catching up with an old friend. "Oh dear, I sent you a text message yesterday, but I haven't received a reply yet. I was going to call you yesterday, but I was afraid of disturbing your class, so I waited until today to call."

"I'm sorry, Teacher Zhou, I didn't see the message yesterday." This was the truth; Lin Shubai really didn't notice the text message yesterday.

"It's alright, it's alright, studying is the priority. Here's the thing, we've read both of your manuscripts, 'Dinosaurs in the Afternoon' and 'Artificial Beauty,' and the editor-in-chief said they're good and we'll use both of them."

"Let me tell you, I've read the ending of 'Dinosaurs in the Afternoon' several times. The family hugs each other, and outside is a scene of the apocalypse—that feeling of not putting on a brave face or wailing, but quietly hugging each other in the face of despair is so well written. One of our young editors even got teary-eyed after reading it."

Lin Shubai thought to himself, "Shinichi Hoshi is indeed amazing. He can write a story about the end of the world in a way that is neither sentimental nor cold-blooded."

Zhou Hang continued, "And then there's that movie, 'Artificial Beauty.' I was stunned for a long time after watching the poisoned wine scene. The boss went to great lengths to make money with robots, only to be poisoned to death by the wine he recycled. What's that called? It's called 'Too clever by half, and you end up losing your life.'"

"Does Professor Zhou still read 'Dream of the Red Chamber'?"

Oh, I forgot to mention, ancient classics like "Dream of the Red Chamber" and "Journey to the West" still exist in this world.

Zhou Hang chuckled. "I read everything. A science fiction editor can't just read science fiction, or they'll be like a frog in a well. Let me tell you about the payment. The two articles together are 5,200 words, and at 500 yuan per thousand words, that's 2,600 yuan in total. We'll transfer it via bank transfer. You have a bank card, right?"

"some"

He just opened this account last month. Before that, he didn't have a bank card and always had to send his royalties by postal money order. He would take his ID card and money order to the post office and wait in line for 20 minutes each time. The people in front of him were either old men paying their utility bills or old women sending packages. It was really troublesome.

That card now lies in a desk drawer, alongside award certificates and publishing contracts—a small "Lin Shubai asset package."

"That's fine. Send me your bank card number, and I'll have the finance department transfer it to you on Monday. It should arrive in about three to five business days." Zhou Hang paused for a moment. "By the way, do you have any other manuscripts? Our column accepts short science fiction stories all the time, from 3,000 to 8,000 words. The quality of your two pieces is top-notch here."

Lin Shubai thought for a moment. There were still twenty-eight chapters left in Shinichi Hoshi's collection, but he didn't want to release them all at once. Firstly, it was too daunting, and secondly, there was no need for it. "I'm still writing them. I'll submit them to you when I'm done."

"Okay, okay, I'll wait for your manuscript. I won't rush you. Take your time writing it, and give it to me as soon as you're done." Zhou Hang's tone carried an implication that "you absolutely mustn't submit it to another publication."

After hanging up the phone, Lin Shubai put his phone next to his pillow, turned over, and prepared to take another nap.

My phone vibrated again.

This time it's Liu Yang.

"Shubai! Are you up yet?" Liu Yang's voice boomed from the receiver, with the sound of a television in the background, sounding like some kind of cartoon.

"Just woke up, what's up?"

"I have something important to tell you! Do you remember my Chinese score on my last quiz?"

What score did you get?

"You don't remember? I got 98 points! 98! I only got 70 on the last monthly exam, that's an improvement of 28 points!"

Lin Shubai thought about it and realized that 98 points was indeed worth celebrating. Liu Yang's Chinese score had been hovering around 70 or 80. He had previously reportedly scored as low as 52 points, which was his personal lowest score ever. Old Chen sat in the office for a full ten seconds in silence in front of Liu Yang's paper before saying, "Liu Yang, you are challenging my professional bottom line."

"so what?"

"So my mom was overjoyed! She said that ever since you helped me with my essay, my Chinese has improved dramatically, like it's been blessed! My mom said it's a qualitative leap! Then my dad said from the side, 'We should treat them to a meal,' and my mom said, 'Yes, Sunday noon, are you coming?'"

Lin Shubai realized that the core purpose of the call was not to deliver good news, but to convey an invitation.

"Are your parents inviting me to dinner?"

"Yes! Sunday noon! At my house! My mom said she's going to cook her own specialties, and she said if you come, she'll bring out all her best-kept secrets." Liu Yang added, "You can't not come, my mom has already gone to the market to check it out."

"Scouting out the location?"

"She said that the first thing to do is to check if the ribs are fresh and if the fish is alive. She said that when you're treating someone to a meal, you have to be sincere and you can't just buy some random things to fool them."

Lin Shubai couldn't help but chuckle. "Okay, I'll go. What time?"

"12 o'clock! Just come to my house. You know the way, right? It's the apartment complex behind the school, building number 3, unit 4, fifth floor, room 502."

"Let me write this down." Lin Shubai took a pen from the bedside table and wrote a few numbers on the back of his hand.

After hanging up the phone, Lin Shubai looked at the crooked numbers on the back of his hand and thought to himself that although Liu Yang was usually carefree, his parents were quite particular. Some people were just polite when it came to treating others to meals, but Liu Yang's mother was serious about it.

He got out of bed, dressed, and went out the door.

In the living room, Wang Xiulan was wiping the TV cabinet. The Sony TV had been sitting there for almost a month, and she wiped it every day, making sure to clean every nook and cranny. After wiping, she would step back and inspect it to make sure there were no fingerprints left before she was satisfied.

"Mom, I'm going to Liu Yang's house for lunch tomorrow."

Wang Xiulan paused in her rag, turned to look at him, and asked, "Which Liu Yang? The one in your class?"

"Yes, that's the one."

Why would someone invite you to dinner?

"He improved in Chinese on his last quiz, and his parents think I helped him with his essay, so they want to thank me."

Wang Xiulan nodded, folded the rag, and said, "They're just being polite by inviting you. Don't go empty-handed; bring some fruit or something."

"it is good."

"Also, when you get there, don't just focus on eating. Talk to their parents. Don't act like you're at home, where you just sit down at the table and start shoveling food down your throat. Finish your meal in three minutes and go back to your room."

"I can't finish a meal in three minutes even at home."

"You only have three minutes. It takes me longer to cook than you eat," Wang Xiulan said, turning and going into the kitchen.

Lin Shubai stood in the living room, feeling that something about his mother's words seemed off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.