Think About What You Did

by Huina Zheng

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

At school, aside from the two Chinese classes I taught, every minute of my day was fragmented. From morning on, I spun like a top: monitoring pupils during lunch, making sure they ate, then keeping them quiet during nap time.

When the break bell rang, I switched to “hall monitor” mode. I had to scan classrooms like a radar, pull apart kids shouting or wrestling, pace the halls like a guard dog and stop any running, skipping, or stair-jumping. Even the smallest misstep could mean trouble, and I was always the first to be blamed.

Ironically, teaching from the podium was the easiest part of my day; at least then, I had to worry only about textbooks and homework, not about being a human surveillance camera. “I’m doing this for the kids,” I told myself. “It’s for their own good.”

I thought of Teacher Su: responsible, patient, loved by every pupil. But even she used to strike our palms with a wooden ruler when we broke the rules.

Maybe there was no right way to be a good teacher. Or maybe I just hadn’t tried hard enough.

Sometimes, guilt crept in. Watching the kids slump over their desks, I thought of my own childhood breaks: wild and free, skipping rope or chasing friends on the playground.

When Li Ming volunteered to take out the classroom trash every noon, I noticed something off. It should’ve taken him five minutes, but he would return half an hour later. I followed him from a distance. He slowed his pace, walked the longest route, took his time, tossed the garbage, then skipped a lap around the track before strolling back at a snail’s pace.

I returned to the classroom without confronting him. Watching his smug little bounce, the way he kicked pebbles along the path, I just didn’t have the heart to say anything.

For a whole month, I kept quiet. Meanwhile, minor incidents kept happening. A girl from another class got knocked over. She couldn’t identify who did it, so I questioned my entire class until I found the culprit. Another time, Li Mei rushed in to report a hallway fight. I dragged my aching legs to the scene to figure out who bumped whom and who threw a punch.

And then, one day, right after snack break, I was grading papers when Li Mei burst in. “Teacher Chen! Lin Yu’s bleeding! He hit the wall in a fight!”

When I arrived at the nurse’s office, Lin Yu was sitting with his head tilted back, a cotton ball pressed to his nose. His knee was slightly scraped, his sleeve damp. Nothing major.

“It was Zhang Jie. He pushed me,” Lin Yu muttered.

The nurse gave me a reassuring glance. I brought Lin Yu back to class, called Zhang Jie in, asked what happened, then phoned Lin Yu’s mother.

“No big deal?” Her voice scraped like a blade across glass. “I want to see the surveillance footage. Now. If this happened because of your negligence—”

“There are no cameras inside the washroom.” I kept my voice even. “They were playing. It was a minor accident. Lin Yu just had a light nosebleed—”

“Playing? Minor?” she sneered. “I’ll be at the school in thirty minutes. I’m going to the principal. If this school can’t keep pupils safe—”

I cut her off: “A female teacher can’t monitor the boys’ washroom.” My hand tightened around the phone. “If you have concerns, we can discuss them when you arrive.”

“I’m recording this call!” she snapped. “Don’t think I’m scared of you teachers—”

I hung up.

When the bell rang again, I turned my phone face-down and walked to the washroom. Cold water hit my face. In the mirror, my eyes were red. It was the third time this semester that a parent had threatened me over something so small.

When I returned to class, Li Mei was already at the podium leading the reading. I told the pupils to self-study and left her in charge of discipline.

When I knocked on the principal’s door, he was making tea. Steam rose as I explained everything.

He sighed. “In these cases, the teacher should start by apologizing, downplay the issue.” He poured two cups of tea and pushed one toward me. “But you... you clashed with the parent. You made small things into big ones.”

I stared at the tea leaf floating in my cup.

“When the parent comes, you apologize first.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?” He looked up. His glasses flashed.

“Because I’ve decided to resign.”

“You—”

“Thank you for your support these past few years.” I stood and bowed, textbook-perfect. Then I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me.

* * *

I grabbed my bag from the office and left. The street outside buzzed with life-shops lining both sides, traffic streaming past. A pancake vendor cracked eggs onto a griddle. The stationery shop owner scrolled through her phone. I walked on, blankly, until a screech of brakes snapped me back. A food-delivery scooter grazed my sleeve.

I crossed the intersection, turned left, and kept walking. I didn’t know where I was going. My feet led me to a park.

I sat on a stone bench. The sun filtered through the trees, scattering light across the pavement. A tiny ant was dragging a breadcrumb, struggling over the tip of my shoe.

At home, I hadn’t opened the curtains in days. Takeout boxes piled into a small mountain on the kitchen floor. Greasy plastic bags shimmered with questionable oil.

Three days ago, my boyfriend had flown to Chengdu for his daughter’s wedding. He was probably too busy to call. I didn’t contact him, either. I figured it was time I learned to be alone. I wanted to call Teacher Su to tell her I’d quit teaching. I opened my contacts more than once, found her name, but couldn’t bring myself to press the call button.

My screen lit up. A seventh missed call from the principal. Twenty-three unread WeChat messages blinked red. I could already imagine their tone: polite at first, then restrained, then cold and official. My resignation paperwork felt like a sword hanging over my head. I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

I knew quitting over something like that was impulsive. And I also knew that even if I had the chance to do it all over again, I’d have made the same choice, though I couldn’t quite explain why, even to myself.

My boyfriend said it was just the final straw, that too much had been building up lately. Maybe he was right. I really hadn’t been able to stop, to breathe. But when I curled up on the couch, staring into space, it didn’t feel that simple. Maybe it was the resistance I kept seeing in my pupils’ eyes. Maybe it was the constant clash between the authority I was supposed to hold and the need to be liked that I couldn’t shake.

But more than anything, I thought it was the realization that I wasn’t igniting their curiosity; I was slowly, methodically extinguishing something in them. And that broke me. Even though my rational mind kept insisting it wasn’t my fault, that no teacher could be blamed for this alone, there was still a voice inside that said: Enough.

* * *

A stranger looked back at me from the washroom mirror: messy hair, dark circles under her eyes. “It’s time,” I told myself. I changed into a black dress. I brushed my hair, looked at myself in the mirror. My face looked sallow. I dabbed on some BB cream, then added a rose-nude lipstick.

On the way to school, I stopped at Mixue for a brown sugar bubble tea. Just a few young people were inside. A couple stood close, fingers laced, the boy rubbing the girl’s knuckle as they stared at the menu, deciding what to get. A young mom sat sipping a mango drink while her toddler sucked on a strawberry milkshake in a stroller, cheeks puffed and flushed. I wanted to walk over and tell her: kids that young shouldn’t be drinking that. But I wasn’t a teacher anymore, so I kept quiet.

When it was my turn, a good-looking guy with a ponytail asked what size I wanted. A string of numbers was tattooed on the inside of his wrist, maybe a date.

“Large.”

“Normal sugar, less sugar, or none?” he asked.

I thought for a moment. “Normal.” My body needed sugar to calm down.

“Would you like any add-ins? Pudding, red beans, coconut jelly...”

I hesitated again. Decision paralysis. Behind me, someone clicked their tongue. I turned: a man in a plaid shirt, belly peeking from under his T-shirt, acne glowing on his forehead. The irritation was familiar. I shot him a look, then chose red beans.

“Ice level? Regular, less, or none?”

I sighed. These days, even ordering a bubble tea felt like a maze: stop and choose at every fork, weigh risks, guess outcomes; each choice a gamble on the future. I tried to be rational: it was late April, the weather was warming up. Less ice made sense. But when I opened my mouth, I said, “Regular ice.”

When I finally got the drink, I was almost moved to tears. I took a sip. The cold, sweet, silky milk tea slid down my throat. A small surge of energy spread through my body. I sat down and tried to savor the tea, but I couldn’t stop sipping. When the straw began to slurp, I realized I was chewing the plastic seal. The pearls at the bottom were clumped together. I shook the cup. They stayed stuck. Typical. I’d always been impatient.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to give things up just yet. Maybe a part of me still wanted to teach.

I stood, the cup slightly crushed in my hand, ice clinking inside. I tossed it in the bin and walked toward school.

When was the last time I’d walked this way? Six days ago? Three? My memory felt like a rain-soaked newspaper: blurred, stuck together.

At the school gate, the metal door was shut. The guard booth was empty. On Old Zhang’s chair hung a faded uniform. I stood in the sun, dazed. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was my mother. I didn’t answer. I let it ring until it stopped.

I checked the date: Saturday. No wonder no one was here.

Four yellow bollards sat at the entrance. I sat on one. My phone buzzed again. I stared at my shadow on the pavement: it was tilted, like a black plastic bag tossed aside.

I pulled out my phone and opened the chat with the principal. Can I take back my resignation? I typed. Can we talk Monday? I hit send. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and walked away.

Proceed to Challenge 1094...