Cheng Xing returned to the same Xinhua Bookstore he had visited before. Several days had passed since his last trip, and many more since the start of September. He thought that by now, the bookstore should have textbooks in stock. Even if high school books weren't available, surely there would be some junior high books.
"Boss, do you have any junior or senior high school textbooks now?" he asked as he stepped into the store.
"You've come at just the right time!" the owner responded with a smile. "We just received a new shipment this morning. They're all here—I just finished putting them on the shelves. Take a look and see what you need."
Cheng Xing made his way over to the shelf with the textbooks and began scanning the books, starting from the first year of junior high. He grabbed all the math books, from junior high to senior high. In addition to the math books, he also picked up some physics, chemistry, and English textbooks.
When he laid the books on the counter, they piled up nearly half a meter high. Cheng Xing estimated that there were probably close to thirty books in total. For someone who hadn't been paying attention to his studies for years, this was a monumental stack. It represented nearly a decade's worth of education—a journey other students would typically cover over ten years. But Cheng Xing aimed to learn it all in just one.
For someone like Zhou Yuan, who had only started slacking off midway through his first year of high school, catching up on a few months of missed material might have been possible. But Cheng Xing's situation was different. While he wasn't inherently incapable, his early years had been marred by a lack of focus, favoring fun over academics. This had led to significant gaps in his knowledge, especially in math, where the foundation from elementary school was essential. Though he had potential, catching up would require far more effort.
He couldn't rely on his teachers for help, so his only option was to find a tutor.
If a student had missed only half a semester or a year of high school and was willing to ask for help, teachers at No. 1 High School would be more than willing to assist. High school material was relatively straightforward, and most teachers liked to see students persevere. Their duty was to teach, and they hoped their students would do well enough to attend their desired universities. But if Cheng Xing were to show up with an elementary school math textbook, asking for help with addition and subtraction, no teacher would take him seriously. It would be like a high school student walking into their Chinese teacher's office asking for help with spelling words.
Luckily, Cheng Xing had brought a bag with him, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to carry all the books.
After packing them neatly, he paid and left the bookstore.
Just as he was about to hail a taxi home, Cheng Xing noticed a familiar figure near the entrance of the bookstore. It was Jiang Luxi.
She stood by her bicycle, which had a wooden board strapped to the front basket. Painted on the board was the word "Tutoring," with a list of rates beneath it: 20 yuan per hour for high school, 15 yuans for junior high, and 10 yuans for elementary school.
The rates were incredibly low.
It was a Saturday, and the Xinhua Bookstore, the largest in the area, was packed with activity. Parents had brought their children to buy books, but no one seemed interested in Jiang Luxi's offer. In stark contrast, several tutoring stalls across from her had crowds of parents around them, drawn by more polished advertisements.
Cheng Xing glanced at the other stalls. Their prices were significantly higher than Jiang Luxi's. None of their signs mentioned elementary school tutoring; they started with middle school, with rates for first and second-year students at 30 yuans per hour, third year at 40 yuans. For high school, the rates were 50 yuans for the first and second years, and 70 yuans for third-year students preparing for exams.
Cheng Xing wasn't surprised. The tutors at those other stalls were older, more experienced, and likely specialized in tutoring. If parents were looking for a tutor, they'd choose someone professional over a 16 or 17-year-old student. And parents who could afford private tutoring typically wanted the best. If they were already spending money, they were willing to pay for more experienced tutors, who could offer both knowledge and discipline—qualities that young tutors like Jiang Luxi may lack.
Despite the low fees, no one seemed interested in her offer.
Cheng Xing shook his head. Jiang Luxi was simply too honest.
The other tutors had professional, custom-made signs detailing their experience—how long they'd been tutoring and how many students they had helped get into prestigious schools or universities. Jiang Luxi, on the other hand, had painted the word "Tutoring" on a piece of wood, and you could smell the paint from a distance. Her title as the top scorer in the Ancheng City middle school exams wasn't mentioned. She stood there meekly, looking almost fragile, as if a gust of wind might knock her over. It wasn't surprising that no one was approaching her.
Cheng Xing guessed she had just arrived on her bike, likely from home. She looked exhausted, her lips chapped and beads of sweat clinging to her forehead. Even though it was just after 1:00 PM, the bike ride from her home to Ancheng No. 1 High School had taken over an hour. That didn't even count the distance from the school to the bookstore, so she probably left home around 10:00 AM.
It seemed she hadn't eaten yet. In the basket of her bike, there was a yellowed, slightly scorched bun. In the north, apart from steamed buns bought from stores, which were white, homemade steamed buns were usually yellow. This particular one was slightly burnt on the bottom, a common result when the bun touched the steamer's bottom. He recognized the burnt edges—his mother often steamed buns at home, and his grandmother did the same when they visited during the holidays.
He had always been particular about his food, especially as a child. Burnt buns were a major pet peeve. He would throw a tantrum if it happened, and his parents or grandmother would remind him that things were different when they were young. Back then, white flour buns were rare, reserved for special occasions, and the slightly charred ones were considered a treat. The smoky flavor of the burnt parts added something special.
But that was a long time ago. How many people today would eat a scorched bun as a meal?