After coming out, I rehearsed walking the stage and familiarized myself with the routine with the other three award presenters. When we reached the backstage stairs, I don't know if it was because the red carpet had been laid in a rush and had some wrinkles, but even though I was watching my step, maybe because the lighting was poor, I tripped on the red carpet and felt myself pitching forward. I was about to tumble headfirst, and I'd even forgotten to scream, when the next second, someone caught me by the waist. I looked up and met Ryan's eyes as he looked down at me. This was, I think, the second time he'd caught me. His eyelashes lowered slightly, his hair appeared slightly mussed from the sudden movement. The colorful stage lights made it hard to read his expression. All I could feel was my own thundering heartbeat. For a moment, I couldn't hear the gasps around me, couldn't see the others rushing toward us. For a moment, I forgot what year, what month, what day, what place I was in. All I could feel was his strong arm around my waist and Ryan's ragged breathing near my neck. And my face turning redder and redder. In my panic, I quickly stood up and thanked him, bowing to him before rushing backstage. Meng Yang, who was warming up for her dance, saw my tomato-red face and thought I'd gone and done something scandalous.
The welcome gala went smoothly. The first prize went to a very cute girl from Class 22 who sang a popular song. Second prize went to Meng Yang for her stunning folk dance. Third prize was... When they announced third prize, I was backstage chatting with another student when the etiquette teacher signaled me to go present the award. I snapped into action—stood up straight, head high, smiling, walked in my high heels across the stage, carrying the trophy toward center stage. As I prepared to hand the trophy to the winner, I looked up and saw that the recipient was none other than the props team representative—Ryan. "Third Prize—Best Logistics and Props Support! Let's give a round of applause for the props team tonight!" I stared at Ryan. He was so tall that even in my high heels, I only came up to his shoulders. Standing at center stage, bathed in the stage lights, with thunderous applause and murmurs of "so handsome" from the audience below. Dressed in the simplest, most ordinary school uniform, he still shone like a star. I held the trophy, looking up at him. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting mine. Without hesitating, I curved my eyes into a smile and solemnly handed him the trophy.
That night back in the dorm, I tossed and turned, the scenes from the day replaying over and over in my mind. The lights were out, and only the moonlight filtering through the window cast a silvery glow on the cabinets. I hid under the covers, unable to suppress my smile. Just thinking about the shadow boy made me inexplicably giddy. I must be crazy. I'm definitely crazy. With these thoughts swirling in my head, I drifted off. And then I had another strange dream. This one seemed to be set—in the Republic of China era. I rubbed my eyes and found myself wearing a red cheongsam, similar to the one I'd worn earlier for the award presentation, though the fabric was much finer. I gently pinched the hem and looked up. Before me stood a bronze mirror, its reflection somewhat blurry, but I could still make out the bold red lips and the finger-wave hairstyle. I looked around at my surroundings. It looked like the backstage of a dance hall, just somewhat old and faded, though the decor was stylish and retro. Unsurprisingly, I was dreaming again. So where was I this time? Would I see the shadow boy again? Puzzled, I steadied myself against the vanity table and stood up. Suddenly, the door of the room was pushed open. I looked up to see a gorgeously dressed woman rushing toward me, talking as she walked. "What are you still doing here? Master Ren from the south of the city has arrived and no one's attending to him!" Before I knew it, I was being dragged out the door. We passed through clouds of perfume, past women of varying beauty, men in tailored suits, the occasional scent of freshly baked pastries, all mingling together in the grandly decorated hall. A crystal chandelier hung in the center, the entire room suffused with a breathtaking luxury. Couples danced in the ballroom, the melody wrapping around every corner. Everything before me was dazzling—I was like a lamb that had wandered into a forest. Before I had time to adjust, the woman dragging my wrist pulled me straight toward a man who had just stepped through the entrance. It seemed to be snowing outside. Snowflakes clung to his coat, vanishing almost instantly. He brushed them off with a sweep of his hand. The people surrounding him shepherded him: someone took his umbrella, another respectfully helped him off his coat and stepped aside. I looked further up. The dance hall's melody stopped at that precise moment, and Ryan's face in the light made everything around it pale in comparison. I forgot what I was supposed to be doing, seeing only Ryan staring back at me. The woman who'd been dragging me pushed me toward Ryan. I let out a startled gasp, his face coming closer, and I could smell his crisp scent. The same as during the day, I thought. Without a word, Ryan's arm wrapped around my waist, steadying me and pulling me closer. The next second, the people surrounding him dissolved. The crystal chandelier went dark. In the hall, there was no one left except Ryan and me. I was bewildered by the sudden transformation. In the dim light, I could barely make out Ryan holding me. Only Ryan guided me forward. Roughly at the center of the hall, the lights suddenly flickered back on, and the music resumed. Ryan leaned close to my ear and whispered, his breath warm against my neck, the air filled with an intimate warmth. "Lin Jingjing, do you know how to dance?" I stared at him in surprise. As his words faded, the space warped and spun. I opened my eyes—to the familiar ceiling.
"Lin Jingjing, come answer this question." The math teacher's familiar voice yanked me back to class. I refocused and looked at the problem on the board. Hong Mei beside me whispered the answer — B. I gripped the desk, looked at the teacher, and said, "B." The teacher didn't respond, just waved for me to sit down. For a long time after that, I never dreamed about the shadow boy again. I don't know if it was because the gala dream had been so stunning, but I was dazed for days. At one point, I remembered a passage from "Dream of the Red Chamber" — I felt like I'd looked into the mirror of romance, only in my case, the reflection wasn't a beauty but Ryan. It gave me a taste of that feeling—growing thinner with love, yet never regretting it. Fortunately, high school life gradually found its rhythm, and though we were in neighboring classes, by some twist of fate, I never ran into him again. Though occasionally, when my mind wandered, I'd recall those handsome brows and eyes from my dreams. Final exams were approaching. While our school had weekly quizzes, monthly tests, and midterms, final exams were taken far more seriously. Not only did they print a full grade-wide ranking with detailed score analysis for every subject, they also held parent-teacher conferences. Students with poor grades would have their parents meet one-on-one with the teacher. It wasn't that I was afraid of doing poorly. I was terrified of the parent-teacher conference. My dad always came to my parent-teacher conferences. From elementary school onward, he'd always take a half day off work to attend. He'd listen very carefully, even taking notes on what the teacher said, and then go over every point with me when we got home. I crouched anxiously outside the classroom. At Sycamore City High, students weren't allowed to sit in on parent-teacher conferences. A bunch of us had cracked the back door open just a sliver, pressing our ears against the gap, trying to get a head start on strategizing. I wasn't in the mood to listen. I could guess what the homeroom teacher was saying without even trying. It was always about how certain students' grades had slipped significantly, how they weren't paying attention in class, how they were daydreaming, eating during morning reading, not studying seriously, being flighty, and so on. Any one of these faults could fuel an endless lecture. And I happened to be one of those "certain students." I went to the corridor window for some air. Someone had walked up beside me and I hadn't even noticed. After spacing out for a while, figuring the meeting was almost over, I closed the window and turned around—only to see a tall figure standing next to me. I looked over. Ryan was wearing his summer short-sleeve uniform, revealing the faint outline of muscles on his arms. He leaned his shoulder slightly against the wall, arms crossed. His hair seemed shorter than the last time I'd seen it, and his eyes were closed, as if he was resting. From my angle, I could see his high nose bridge and long eyelashes. The corridor was bustling—some students still pressed their ears to the door, trying to catch the teacher's words, while others simply sat on the floor reading cheap teen magazines.