Qin | Part 1

Qin, the last character of her name, the first girl he has ever wanted; his blue sulk, his rosy mirth; his capricious slut, his luscious tart; his prurient virgin, his innocent nymphet; a cherub tearing out his guts, a siren chanting at his ears; a seraph gnawing his mind, a pussycat nibbling his arm; a muse galvanizing his loin, a banshee penetrating his pride; mumbling this syllable to himself and leafing again through those redolent memories, he cannot put out the fire or put down the beast.

Part 1

2011, a few months before he graduated from the college, he could hardly wait to spurn all the charlatanic subjects in that cesspool asphyxiating his intellect and to shun the professional slaughterers injecting venom of mediocrity into blood veins of young talents. His patience wore thin at the thought that he had frittered away all the invaluable four years on moronic courses and academic bureaucrats. He grabbed a job and rushed to be a full-time teacher in a small educational institute.

"I don't give a fuck about the shitty diploma."

Fractious and presumptuous, he inveigled himself into believing he was prepared to embrace the cruelty and treachery of the narrow market, yet he had no idea at all that a real world had stored a huge cache of barbs and acids to perforate numerous holes in his confidence.

His class, his princedom, was imbued with grotesque charisma, peppered with plots from dark thrillers and twisted humor and ribald jokes and draconian philosophies of life, bizarrely appealing to the cohorts.

Ten months before the Gaokao - the national college-entrance Exam - of 2012, a teenage girl picked up recommendations and enrolled in his classes.

He met Qin in his princedom.

She proceeded in stony silence, without taking a note or answering a question, just gazing at him throughout the introductory lesson. Afterwards, he approached her and asked if she had a problem with what he taught. Her voice emitted poise and aloofness:

"I like your class. But I don't think you have found your own style yet. Your teaching methodology, the structure of your lesson plan, the progression of specific contents, the explanatory anecdotes, and even the funny quips, all are nothing but duplicates of your superintendent's. Punchlines and quotes here and there, but where is your own voice? And the good vibes? I didn't hear anything distinct that truly excited me."

The deprivation of originality and an imposed role of a doppelganger of the veteran were in fact amiable expedients, by which a greenhorn could conceal his knowledge gaps, cover up his inexperience, meet the generic demands of the market with minimal costs, and, most important, generate short-term adequate profits for the institute.

But now, her pertinent remark sounded a bit personal. A brat, cunning yet insightful, sneaked behind his facade, catapulting suspicions onto thick walls of his pathetic ego to leave pocked holes. But a pseudo-educator had to wear the mask of magnanimity. He didn't retort, waiting for her subsequent bombing of Nagasaki.

All of a sudden, she stretched out her thumb and index finger, and pressed them upon the back of his right forearm, and, without touching his skin, her slender fingers rubbed the hair gently, pinching and plucking a couple of curls briskly. Chuckling at the slight tingling she caused, Qin beamed a naughty smile at him:

"The hairier his body is, the scarier his libido is."

An involuntary throb clutched at his heart. In an educational setting where most teenagers were cultivated to be sophisticated liars, indoctrinated to be solipsistic egoists, trained to be double-dealing hypocrites, seduced to be power-hungry courtesans, emasculated to be taciturn oxen, and manipulated to be snitching rats, Qin, a 19-year-old lass, quaint, vulgar, frolic, coruscated with raw luster in a mirthful manner, waiting right here to be polished and tarnished.