During the New Year, one ought to write cheerful stories.

The corridor was somewhat dim, flanked by rows of rooms. The doors were closed, but light streamed through the small windows set into them. Compared to outside, here one could hear more music—mostly pianos. Fortunately, the sounds varied in distance and did not seem chaotic.

Walking along the corridor, he glanced through the little glass windows into the rooms. Most of them held girls practicing piano or vocal exercises. He thought to himself, they really are diligent. There was no pop music in these rooms; they played Mendelssohn and similar composers, sang in classical and folk styles.

He passed several music rooms in succession and then saw that familiar figure seated at the piano, playing melodiously. He lingered a moment, and soon the music stopped; she answered a phone call and appeared to be getting up. Zhang Pa hastily retreated, head down, moving quickly toward the rear exit. Soon he heard a door open, and the girl, carrying her bag, walked out.

He listened as her footsteps faded away, slowed his own pace, turned to look back, and saw a strikingly handsome young man standing at the end of the corridor, greeting the familiar figure. The two of them left the music room together.

Zhang Pa felt no urge to chase after them to see what happened. He slowly returned to the piano room, tried to enter, but the door was already locked. Music rooms had their own clock-in systems.

He stood there a while longer, then turned toward the rear exit.

On the other side, there was another corridor. As he walked along it, Zhang Pa’s phone rang. He hurried to answer; it was Fatty and the others asking where he was, why he wasn’t home.

He casually made up an excuse: “I’m out eating noodles.”

“What noodles? Come back for drinks, we’ve bought plenty of dishes,” Fatty said.

Zhang Pa replied, “I’m not coming. You guys eat without me,” and hung up.

At that moment, music drifted from the far end of the corridor—pleasant and captivating. Zhang Pa thought for a moment, decided to watch the spectacle, and quietly walked over.

The room was large—a dance studio with several girls inside.

Two were stretching their backs, some sat on the floor watching, another recorded with her phone. In the center of the studio, a girl in black practice pants was dancing.

She wore white soft-soled dance shoes, loose black athletic pants, and a white fitted top. Her long, glossy black hair was tied in a casual ponytail, swaying rhythmically with her movements. The outfit was unremarkable, and the song was a Western pop tune, but the girl’s dancing was mesmerizing—so beautiful that even Zhang Pa, who rarely paid attention to such things, was drawn in.

Her dance seemed to possess a soul, stirring the air itself, creating a beauty that made one forget her features.

Most men watching dance focus on legs and revealing costumes, only looking at the face once satisfied with those. Like the dance numbers at the Spring Festival Gala—many men only stare at short skirts and legs.

But this girl’s dancing made one overlook all that, drawing attention to the craft itself. It was as if one were watching a peacock dance—who would care about her legs or face?

This was a kind of spiritual artistry only dancers truly master, elevating performance to another level.

The girl in white in the dance studio danced with such grace; every movement seemed to speak, telling her own tale of sorrow.

Zhang Pa watched for over three minutes. When the song ended and the dance stopped, the girl lingered at the center of the room. The next moment, applause erupted, and the other girls crowded around her, praising their teacher’s dancing.

So she was the teacher. Only then did Zhang Pa look at her face.

Some people seemed born for dance: legs and arms in perfect proportion, even the length of the neck, the size of the head, the shape of the face—everything ideal.

A small round face, fair skin, large eyes, tiny mouth. She seemed approachable; though her expression was calm, she radiated a comforting aura that made others want to draw near.

Zhang Pa was enchanted, staring dazedly for quite a while.

Scientists say a gaze can exert pressure. Through the glass, the girl in white, still chatting with her students, must have sensed it; she turned and met Zhang Pa’s eyes.

Startled, Zhang Pa felt nervous and wanted to leave—but then thought, since they’d never meet again, he might as well look a little longer. So he stood there, separated by the glass, locking eyes with the beautiful teacher.

The teacher’s expression remained calm. Seeing Zhang Pa staring, she stared back.

Noticing the teacher’s unusual gaze, the students all turned to look. Zhang Pa grew nervous again, waved his hand, mouthed a goodbye, and turned to leave.

Then he went home, intent on finishing today’s update. Yet on the way back, he remembered the beautiful teacher, thinking how wonderfully she danced. And then his mind drifted to that once so familiar figure, recalling how she left the music room with a young man…

He sighed; whichever kind of woman, neither had anything to do with him—why dwell on it?

Anxious to update his work, he hailed a cab home, only to bump into Wang Baihe as he got out.

Wang Baihe eyed him curiously, “Where did you go?”

Zhang Pa replied, “Work.”

“Yeah, right, always making stuff up.” Wang Baihe went home first.

Zhang Pa climbed the stairs and, upon entering, immediately turned on his computer…

Thus another day passed. But last night, before sleep, his mind was full of the image of that figure leaving with the young man, and the beautiful teacher dancing.

The next morning, he got up, washed his face casually, and booted up his computer to work.

In the morning, Fatty called, telling him to hurry up with work—they had a meeting that afternoon.

Zhang Pa knew this meant trouble and said he’d be out selling books in the afternoon.

“Sell your brain! Get to work,” roared Fatty, hanging up.

Zhang Pa sighed. They just wanted to vent.

Sure enough, at one o’clock, Fatty called again to hurry him. Zhang Pa answered he’d be there by two. Fatty could only agree.

So at two o’clock in the afternoon, everyone gathered in front of the small convenience store to discuss matters, the main topic being how to find a venue—plainly, how to get revenge on yesterday’s slightly chubby pervert.

Today, the group was even more complete, six more than yesterday’s brawl.

When Zhang Pa arrived, the effeminate one and Fatty were making battle plans.

Zhang Pa said, “Don’t you guys ever get bored?”

“Nothing else to do anyway,” Fatty replied, “We unanimously agreed to carry out a revenge plan. As the victim, do you have any ideas?”

A polite way of asking—translated, it meant: how do you want to get back at him? Whether it’s splashing paint or urine, just say the word and we’ll do it.

Zhang Pa sighed, “I really shouldn’t have moved to Xingfuli—met such a bunch of scoundrels.”

“Stop pretending to be a big shot. You’re the biggest scoundrel here,” Fatty shot back.

Zhang Pa said, “He already gave ten thousand… let’s drop it. I’ll split five thousand with you all, okay?”

“Five thousand? How do we split that among so many?” Fatty said. “You could put it into the crew fund… By the way, how much is the script written?”

Zhang Pa replied, “You fight all day—how am I supposed to write?”

“Then go write. We’ll take care of the pervert,” Fatty said.

“Come on, seriously,” Zhang Pa pulled out his trump card, “Tonight, Da Hu’s barbecue. If you want to fight, don’t come to eat.” He turned and left.

Fatty’s crew immediately followed, “Deal—barbecue is more patriotic anyway.”

Zhang Pa thought for a moment, then asked, “Were you all just waiting for me to treat you to barbecue?”

“No way! You should trust our noble character,” Fatty denied.

Zhang Pa said, “Enough, it’s definitely your idea. You’ve already mooched twice in the past few days—next time, it’s your turn.” With that, he headed home.

He spent some time updating the plot of “Weight One Hundred Ninety,” and soon it was half past four. A bunch of shameless guys were already waiting in the street, acting like randy cats, making all sorts of strange noises.

Zhang Pa shut down his computer and went downstairs. “You guys are unbelievable.”

The Turtle said seriously, “It’s us who should be amazed by you.”

Zhang Pa stopped talking and led everyone to Da Hu’s barbecue. Once seated, he noticed a few rarely seen faces and started chatting with the effeminate one, “Not out chasing girls?”

“Not in the mood. I’ve always thought brotherhood was more important than beauty,” he said naturally, as if it were true.

Zhang Pa ignored him and questioned another man, “What brings you back?”

This was a burly fellow—a provincial-level fitness athlete, nicknamed Big Strong. He liked working out, later became a coach at a gym, met a wealthy woman, moved out of Xingfuli, and started living the good life.

Big Strong said, “Two coaches left my gym, and I’m short two security guards. Just wanted to ask if any brothers are out of work—if you don’t mind the low pay, help me out for a few days.”

Zhang Pa caught the slip, “Your gym? It’s yours now?”

Big Strong replied, “Last year, business was bad, so my wife took it over.”

“Damn, you’re a crow turned phoenix—the first to make it in our crowd?” Turtle said, “So tight-lipped? Such a big deal, and you didn’t treat us to drinks?”

“How could I? Business is still slow, spending the woman’s money every day, and I’d have to spend her money to treat you? I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” Big Strong said, “Rare chance to come back, so I’ll give you some gym cards—drop by when you’re free.”

Fatty shook his head, “Forget it, it’s too far.”

Turtle took a card and asked, “Any more women like yours? Introduce me?”

Big Strong replied with disdain, “Stop it. You all know my wife’s three years older than me, divorced once. Give her to you, would you want her? Your mom would kill you.”

“If she’d invest in a gym for me, it’s not out of the question,” Old Meng chimed in.

Big Strong said, “You know the biggest difference between us? I’m smarter. No matter how wild, I refuse to get tattoos. Remember, most women want a man who’s reliable for the long haul. If you cover yourself in ink, who’d dare marry you?”

“Come on, foreigners have tons of tattoos.”

“That’s foreigners. Even domestic sports stars don’t go as far as you. Hey, Zhang Pa, you’re the most educated in our bunch—swing by my gym sometime, see if there’s a money-making idea?”

Zhang Pa said, “You’re overthinking it.”

Big Strong pondered, “Actually, I have a suggestion. The city holds fitness competitions every year, each gym gets spots. If you all train with me for six months, we can enter the contest.”

“Don’t joke. No one even knows about these competitions. Even if we all join, what’s the point? It costs money just to sign up—not worth the trouble,” Zhang Pa said.