Think About What You Did

by Huina Zheng

part 1

My first-grade classroom was on the ground floor of the school, just a stairwell away from the washroom. Every day, when I came down from the third-floor office, I would hold my breath at the landing. Despite the pupils’ daily cleaning schedule, the washroom reeked of disinfectant, urine, and stale dampness. Still, during breaks, kids would gather there, chirping away, inexplicably gleeful. Whenever they saw me walk past, they froze, lips clamped shut like mice spotting a cat.

I never used that washroom. Not just because of the smell but because it was meant for pupils. Each squat toilet was separated by low walls, but none had doors.

I liked to keep my classroom door shut to block the odor. The kids didn’t seem to mind. All 42 first-graders sat in neat rows, eyes on me. The desks were arranged in pairs, with just enough space between rows for an adult to pass through. Except for the two Chinese lessons I taught, I arrived before the bell for every class. After all, I was their homeroom teacher.

On most days, during those ten-minute breaks, I sat at my desk before the blackboard, marking homework until class started again. Two pupils on duty patrolled like little guards; one pacing inside the room, the other keeping watch out in the hallway.

The others sat quietly, doodling, daydreaming or whispering with neighbors. Anyone caught shouting, jumping or loitering in the hallway — unless headed to the washroom — got their name written down and handed over to me. I rarely yelled. But when I did, their eyes went wide with fear. “Teacher Chen, I... I’m sorry...” If it was a girl, tears usually fell fast.

I didn’t understand why they feared me. I had never raised a ruler, never forced anyone to copy lines, never humiliated a single child.

The class monitor, Li Mei, was elected by her peers. She was a well-behaved, diligent girl, always sitting up straight and listening attentively in class.

“Teacher Chen,” she said one day, frowning like a little adult, “Luo Da was caught eating cookies in the boys’ washroom. Lin Han saw him and told me.”

She was one of the few who weren’t afraid of me. She always reported to me without hesitation. I told her to have Luo Da stay after school.

“I’ve already told him,” she said. “I told him to think about what he did before you talk to him.”

I froze; she was using my exact words. Think about what you did. That was what I always said. Li Mei seemed to know exactly what to do.

Looking at her serious little face, I wasn’t sure whether to feel pride or sadness. She was only seven. At her age, I had been playing in the mud, sleeping in late, dodging homework. Was I too immature or were kids today growing up too fast?

But when I thought of the pupils who gave me headaches that made my temples throb, I felt that Li Mei was heaven-sent.

Then there was Liu Bin: chubby and sturdy, the tallest in class. In lessons, he appeared to be diligently taking notes. But when I walked closer, his notebook was filled with skulls and piles of poop, complete with a label: Teacher Chen’s lunch.

Smack! The ruler hit his desk. The whole class froze.

He looked up, a cherubic smile spreading across his pudgy face. “Teacher Chen, are you constipated again?”

Laughter exploded. A few girls turned beet red, shoulders shaking.

“Anyone still laughing, stand in the back!” I shouted.

The room fell into muffled coughs and suppressed giggles. Some buried their faces in their arms.

“You, Liu Bin! Stand!” I shouted, pointing at him.

“Yes, Teacher Chen.” He rose and waddled to the back of the room, brushing his belly along desks, “accidentally” knocking over three notebooks. At the back, he winked like a triumphant general.

I had lost all motivation to teach. I told the class to take out their notebooks and copy all the new vocabulary words from the unit. It wasn’t punishment or collective discipline; they had to copy them for homework anyway. I just made them do it early.

I sat down at my desk, pulled out my phone, and opened a chat with Teacher Su. I typed:

These days you can’t hit or scold kids. It’s enough to drive a teacher crazy.

I glanced at the time: 9:45. We’d been in class for only ten minutes. Teacher Su was probably hiking. Since retiring, she’d adopted an impressively healthy lifestyle: hiking every morning or playing ping-pong when it rained.

What would she think if she saw my message? How would she respond? Would she think I was too negative? Disappointed?

I deleted the message, word by word.

I just hoped that when I retired, at least one pupil would remember me with gratitude.

After school, I called out to Luo Da with a stern face: “Come with me!”

He shrank his neck, turned around slowly, his little hands twisting his backpack straps.

“I heard you were eating cookies in the washroom?” I glared. “Did it stink?”

He lowered his head, his voice a mosquito’s whimper: “I was hungry.”

“Why didn’t you eat breakfast?” I tapped his forehead.

“Couldn’t eat.” He pouted, scraping his toes on the floor.

“No breakfast, and then snacks in the toilet?” I crossed my arms. “If the whole class follows your example, the washroom will turn into a cafeteria!” I couldn’t hold it; I snorted.

Luo Da peeked up and giggled, too.

“Still laughing?” I fake-scowled. “Next time, I’ll call your mom in. Got it?”

He nodded fast.

“Eat breakfast tomorrow!” I waved him off. “Go home!”

He dashed off like he’d been pardoned, but halfway down the hall, he turned back and gave me a big, toothy grin.

* * *

When I was in elementary school, I was known as a failure. Everyone thought so: my parents, neighbors, relatives, teachers, even my classmates. I didn’t blame them. I thought so, too. I figured I’d drop out after sixth grade and start working.

I never wanted to get out of bed. Only when my mother came in swinging a clothes hanger at my thighs did I finally crawl out. On the way to school, I liked to stop and pick up stones. By the time I got to the gate, it was locked. The guard would frown: “Why not just come at dismissal?” When I slipped into the classroom through the back door, the second period had already begun. I never handed in homework. I folded paper planes in class.

“You’re hopeless!” my homeroom teacher yelled, twisting the soft flesh of my inner arm, nails digging in. But I never cried. Compared to my mother’s broom handle on my calves, that felt like an ant bite.

Everything changed in fifth grade, when I met Teacher Su. One day, I hid in the girls’ washroom and refused to come out. She found me and gently asked what was wrong. I cried, “I’m dying. I’m bleeding, and it won’t stop.”

“Where are you hurt?” she asked, scanning me in panic.

I pointed. She exhaled, relieved. She told me to wait there, then went outside the school to buy sanitary pads. She explained what a period was. She showed me how to use a pad and did so as patiently as if she were teaching math. As the water washed away the blood, she said, “You’re a young woman now. I’m proud of you.”

I felt a sting behind my nose. So this was what it felt like: to be treated as a person, not a problem. She felt to me like a mother. No, like the kind of mother I wished I had.

* * *

My own mother didn’t care about me. If my father stayed out, she beat me and screamed that it was all my fault, that he had gone off to have a son with a younger woman because of me.

When I told my boyfriend it was because of Teacher Su that I studied hard and became a teacher, he smiled. I told him I always called her on Teacher’s Day, and he patted my hand. I told him my father wasn’t all bad. Even though he cheated, he never divorced my mother. He bought me this apartment when I started college in Guangzhou. My boyfriend stroked my hair like I was his daughter. But I was twenty-eight, two years older than his daughter.

My boyfriend was my father’s age. But I liked him. Not because of some daddy issue. Not for money. He worked for the railway and didn’t earn much. I liked how he listened — quietly, patiently — when I complained about my pupils at school, my mother, my salary, my weight, big or small things. He poured me a glass of orange juice. He never interrupted or told me to cheer up.

On weekends, he came to my place. He made my favorite sweet-and-sour ribs and braised pork trotters. When he filled my bowl at dinner, I felt loved. He cared about whether I was eating well. But he always nagged me to sleep earlier.

“Staying up late is bad for you,” he said. “You’re turning into a panda.”

“Being a national treasure isn’t so bad,” I laughed, curled on the sofa scrolling through Xiaohongshu. On my days off, I liked staying on the couch, phone in hand.

“How’s your daughter’s wedding?” I asked.

“Almost ready,” he said and told me all the details: hotel, guests, cost per table. “Do you... want to come?” he asked.

“I don’t.”

“And your mom?”

I knew what he meant. My mother had been pushing me to marry since I graduated. She even arranged blind dates. I always hung up on her. I never told her I’d fallen for a man her age during senior year. But I never planned to tell anyone. I never planned to marry him.

He understood. Over the past two years, he’d carefully asked what I thought about marriage. I thought he just didn’t want to waste my youth.

“If...” he swallowed, “you marry someone else, we can part on good terms. Or even stay friends.”

“If we break up, we break up clean,” I said. “If you can still be my friend after that, maybe you never truly loved me.”

I wished I could cry — even shed a single, sincere tear — when I said that. But I didn’t feel like crying at all.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...