Some guys were reading comic books, others huddled in quiet spots playing cards or strategy games. And then there were the overachievers doing homework right there in the hallway. People were scattered along the corridor, each doing their own thing. And the two of us just stood there side by side, doing nothing. Standing there together, not speaking. The parent-teacher conference ended and we could go home. Winter break was here. Sycamore City High's winter break was the shortest of any high school in the city. That night at home, as expected. I dreamed again. This time, would I dream about Ryan again? I was still in a daze when I heard a door being violently shoved open. I instinctively turned to look, only to see a fierce, snarling face. This face looked awfully familiar—like I'd seen it recently. I thought about it carefully. Wasn't this the madam from the dance hall in my last dream? Her again? Before I could figure it out, the madam—now dressed like an old palace matron—had one hand on her hip and the other reaching out to grab me. "What are you standing around for? Go attend to the young master!" Why was I always serving someone in these dreams? I sighed in resignation. This young master was probably Ryan again. How come he always had such a good life in these dreams? Could the tables turn just once? After so many bizarre dreams, I'd become somewhat numb to it. I gave a perfunctory "yes," pretending to be meek, and followed the old woman through carved corridors, pavilions, and water gardens. Then I was unceremoniously shoved into yet another room. Sure enough, sitting at the desk was the young master—Ryan. Perhaps because it was me again, he was used to it by now. Seeing it was me, he set down his calligraphy brush, stood from his chair, and walked toward me. He was wearing something like a traditional long robe, illuminated by candlelight, looking quite elegant and refined. The scholarly air about him was unmistakable. I watched him draw closer until he stopped just a step away from me. Though in real life we barely even greeted each other, our proximity in the dreams made the air feel awkwardly charged. Before I could step back to relieve the tension, Ryan spoke. His brows were furrowed, and he looked at me with a serious expression, as if something momentous was happening. "How did you only score a 56 on your math exam?" I stared at him in disbelief. What was he saying? How did he know I scored a 56? Perhaps my gaze was too intense—the Ryan in the dream seemed to realize his words were out of place. His usual stoic face grew slightly awkward. He turned his head and blurted out another line. "Your homeroom teacher was calling out the names of students who failed during the parent-teacher meeting, and I overheard." Without waiting for my reaction, he grabbed my arm and steered me to the desk. The desk was covered in sheets of rice paper filled with elegant running script. But what was written wasn't poetry. I leaned in, confused. "Given the sequences {an}, {bn}, {cn}, satisfying: bn = an - 2an+1..." By the time I realized the papers were covered in math problems, I felt like I'd been struck by lightning. I never imagined I'd become so studious that even my dreams were about math. The Ryan beside me seemed oblivious to my shock. He nudged me gently. "For this problem, first you should... and then..." His low voice murmured beside my ear, like a private tutor's lesson. And so, I was forced into the chair, a brush thrust into my hand. The Ryan beside me pointed at the problems, launching into an endless lecture on how to solve them. The red candle burned, right down to the wick. The story of the dashing young master and the pretty maid had somehow morphed into the young master battling the dim-witted maid over math. Perhaps because of the grueling night of studying sequences in my dream, I couldn't even remember how the dream ended. Even though it was a dream, it gave me the very real sensation of pulling an all-nighter to study. I sprawled on my bed, devoid of all will to live. I never wanted to dream again. But heaven rarely grants one's wishes. In that short eighteen-day winter break. I dreamed almost every single night. Every dream featured Ryan. Every dream featured math. Being chased by zombies—turning into a zombie myself, only to be chased in turn by a human Ryan, who shouted as he ran that the answer to that question couldn't possibly be C. In a horror ghost story—hanging as a ghosts from the rafters, while Ryan held up my final exam paper and grilled me on how I'd arrived at the absurd answer of the square root of 467. In the last dream before the new semester, the two of us were walking across a desert. I had a white cloth draped over my head, dressed like an Arab. I collapsed in the sand and demanded to know why Ryan was being so bossy. He gazed serenely into the distance, then turned to me with a faint smile. "Did you forget? Tomorrow's the entrance exam, and the score counts toward your class placement." I jolted awake in a cold sweat. I shook my head. From outside the door, my mom called me to come eat breakfast and hurry to school.
Arriving at school, I was carrying a huge stack of books. Exhausted and out of breath, I leaned against the corridor to rest. Just as I was enjoying the breeze, Ryan also arrived at school. The moment I saw him, all I could think of was the dreams where he'd forced me to study sequences. I felt a wave of nausea—even that handsome face couldn't make me want to look at him twice. I was lost in these thoughts when I heard someone call my name. The voice was impossibly familiar. Just like in the dream. The boy in the school uniform seemed to have gotten a haircut over the break—neat and clean-cut. The sunlight in the corridor wrapped around him. He stood still, a few steps away from me. He turned to look at me, a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Lin Jingjing, welcome back." I looked up in surprise, and Ryan in his school uniform calmly met my eyes.
...
"Lin Jingjing, Lin Jingjing, what are you spacing out about?" Hong Mei saw me sitting at my desk in silence and nudged me. I came back to my senses, Ryan's "welcome back" still echoing in my head. Why would he greet me? We didn't even know each other in real life. I couldn't figure it out. I slowly took out my winter homework and handed it to Hong Mei. I shook my head and stopped thinking about it. Before long, the homeroom teacher swept in. After collecting the homework, she passed out the exam papers. I frowned at the test paper in front of me. What Ryan had warned me about in the dream was actually true. Could my dreams predict the future? That didn't make any sense. The familiar Ryan. The unexpected entrance exam. And... I looked at the math paper at the familiar question types. The ones Ryan had said were commonly tested. Everything was tinged with strangeness. Those dreams, one after another, bounced through my mind, impossible to shake. If the dreams weren't real, then what were these? Unless—Ryan and I were having the same dreams. At this thought, a wave of anxiety washed over me. Our dreams were connected? How could dreams be connected? Was I supposed to go confront him about it? He'd think I was insane. I couldn't figure it out, so I just started working on the test. Perhaps the one-on-one tutoring in the dreams had actually worked. This time, the math paper felt almost effortless. I wrote what I could and felt pretty good about it.
...
I was late turning in my homework after class, so by the time I got to the cafeteria, it was already packed. Meng Yang and I carried our trays, scanning the room desperately for a seat. Meng Yang spotted an empty table and excitedly called me over. I was happy to finally have somewhere to sit, but just as I set my tray down— Before I could even sit down, a familiar scent hit me. "Lin Jingjing, do you know how to dance?" "The answer is C, look at option A..." "Lin Jingjing, welcome back." Memories came flooding back. This scent... the scent from my dreams. It was Ryan's scent. I instinctively turned my head. Ryan had slowly set down his chopsticks. And was looking at me again. With a serious expression. "I taught you those problems on today's test. How did you do? Did you get them?" As his words fell, I turned to stare at him in disbelief. Meng Yang, who had just sat down across from me, immediately looked up when she heard his words. The people sitting around Ryan also stopped eating, their chopsticks hovering in the air. The cafeteria's lunchtime news broadcast droned on in the background, the male anchor's voice lost in the din of students chatting. The clatter of trays, chopsticks, and spoons rang out, sharp and distinct. Ryan and I locked eyes. I looked at him as if seeing a ghost.
That night, the dorm went dark at eleven sharp. Meng Yang turned over on the bunk above me, mumbling something in her sleep. The other roommates breathed in gentle, rhythmic patterns, clearly fast asleep. It was late, but I lay awake, tossing and turning. My mind was a mess. Ever since I'd realized our dreams might be connected, I'd felt off. I couldn't shake the feeling that everything in my head was on display. Then again, how did he know I was having the same dreams as him? Over the next few days, perhaps because schoolwork had gotten so busy. I didn't dream anymore.
The sports meet was approaching.