I Was Doing Well Back Then

At that age, I knew nothing of matters between men and women. Not long after graduating from elementary school, I received an admission letter from a prestigious middle school, much to the delight of my parents. But was I truly happy? Why did I feel afraid and lost?

Perhaps I was running away, afraid of growing up. I remember thinking, after that summer, I would be a middle schooler. The thought stirred a hint of excitement, yet I dreaded the arrival of that day.

Summer passed quickly. I arrived at the school with my mother to register, unfamiliar with this new place. I saw the older students from the higher grades registering on their own; maybe that was what maturity looked like.

At the registration desk, a teacher asked, “What’s your name?”

“Hugo.”

“Are you a girl?”

A girl? Even now, those words sting like mockery. Back then, my hair was too long and my manner too gentle, so I was saddled with an unflattering, effeminate nickname.

After I explained myself, the teacher apologized, but I didn’t dwell on it. Thinking back, I really was quite unkempt.

Perhaps I’d grown used to being alone—indifferent to others, comfortable by myself. I thought solitude was wonderful; no one disturbed me, and I could enjoy the quiet pleasure of reading at my desk.

At first, I had no friends. Over time, though, I made my first friend—a girl, who would later be called my girlfriend.

“Hugo, stop reading! Come play with me,” a lively girl called out.

“Zi Mo, I don’t like sports. Please don’t torture me. Isn’t reading better?” I