Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Farewell Dinner

High school students of Li Mu’s generation, especially those attending elite schools, were generally well-behaved; few smoked or drank, unlike the flood of such habits that would sweep through high schools just a couple of years later. Yet at the farewell dinner, it seemed every boy had suddenly learned to smoke and drink.

After submitting their college applications, most of the class hurried off to the gathering together. The class monitor had reserved an enormous private room in a mid-range restaurant, with four tables perfectly accommodating all the students attending the farewell dinner. In the science class, boys outnumbered girls about three to one, so everyone naturally sat according to their personalities.

No one knew who had bought several packs of soft Red Plum cigarettes, but there were two packs at each boys’ table. At first, only a few who actually knew how to smoke lit up, but as the drinking continued, by the latter half of the meal nearly every boy had a cigarette dangling from his lips. Yet most had no idea what they were doing; the smoke barely passed through their mouths before they exhaled, never letting it filter through their lungs. To Li Mu, this wasn’t secondhand smoke—it was as if everyone was feeding him smoke directly.

The girls were unusually tolerant today. Normally, they couldn’t stand the smell of tobacco, but now, in a room thick with haze, not a single one uttered a word of protest.

Li Mu glanced around at the boys beside him. No matter their appearance, each had a flushed face and reddened eyes. He couldn’t tell whether it was the sadness of impending separation or the swirling smoke filling the room.

With so many eyes shining red, it was inevitable that someone would break first. A boy whose name Li Mu couldn’t recall, after coughing on a mouthful of smoke, suddenly buried his head in his arms and began to sob loudly.

Immediately, the room erupted in cries, curses, and words of farewell.

The girls cried too. Li Mu, watching from afar, saw that Su Yingxue’s eyes were red as well; she was only a step away from tears.

Li Mu had always thought these children were immature, so childish—yet he forgot that at this same dinner years ago, he had been the third to cry.

Now, back amid the scene, the superiority he once felt faded, and his own eyes began to sting.

This meal marked the ending of a chapter for each person present. It was a farewell to a group that had shaped their lives, and with uncertainty and nervous anticipation, they would embrace the next stage.

Li Mu didn’t want to cry, so he picked up a Red Plum, shoved it between his lips, and awkwardly lit it. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs.

In his previous life, Li Mu had been a smoker; when he couldn’t write code, cigarettes had served as a mental lubricant. Yet in this life, he felt no physical craving, so he’d avoided them—except now, it seemed only nicotine could hold back his tears.

Su Yingxue watched Li Mu surreptitiously. Seeing how skillfully he drew in a deep breath of smoke, let it linger, and then exhaled in a thin stream through mouth and nose, she was astonished.

This was the manner of a seasoned smoker—the same practiced gesture her father made when troubled by a difficult case.

Li Mu had finished half his cigarette when he noticed Su Yingxue’s reddened eyes watching him. Their gaze met. He didn’t instinctively look away; the combined effects of alcohol and nicotine made him mouth three silent words to her.

“I’m still here.”

Su Yingxue couldn’t hold back anymore. She turned away, and two streams of tears rolled down her cheeks.

A group of boys, drunk beyond their usual limits, unleashed an astonishing capacity for drink. The three tables of boys consumed over a hundred bottles of beer—an average of four or five per person, impressive for seniors about to graduate.

The vice monitor, a girl, saw everyone had eaten enough and drunk more than enough; she didn’t dare let them continue. The KTV was already reserved, and if everyone got drunk here, there would be no point to the next stop.

She hurried to pay the bill, then returned with a worried look, walked over to the tipsy class monitor, and whispered, “Monitor, we went over budget—the beer alone was more than three hundred. What will we do about the money for singing later?”

Earlier, everyone had chipped in fifty yuan. Each table’s dishes cost less than three hundred at current prices, but with the added cost of drinks, the total bill reached fifteen hundred. They’d hoped to save eight hundred for KTV, since the biggest private rooms weren’t cheap, and came bundled with drinks and snacks.

The class monitor was muddled, holding up a hand as if to speak, but couldn’t manage a word. Li Mu called the vice monitor over, asking quietly, “How much short?”

“Just under three hundred.”

Li Mu nodded, discreetly pulled a thousand yuan from his pocket under the table, kept one bill, and slipped the rest into her hand. He whispered, “Keep it quiet. Order plenty of food and drinks at the KTV so everyone can have a good time. Save some for taxi fare home afterward.”

Luckily, Li Mu had a thousand yuan with him. At this moment, he wanted everyone to enjoy themselves fully—no one should have to scrounge for extra cash.

The vice monitor quickly protested. “I was just going to ask the monitor to have everyone chip in another ten each—that’s plenty. Besides, this is your own money…”

“Just stop,” Li Mu gestured with his chin at the group of intoxicated classmates. “Look at them—no one’s sober enough to listen. Take the money, use it, and don’t worry about repaying me. Just make sure everyone’s taken care of.”

She hesitated, but seeing Li Mu was not drunkenly playing the hero, finally nodded lightly.

Li Mu asked, “The KTV’s set?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s not far—five or six hundred meters.”

“Good,” Li Mu said. “I’ll rally the boys. Tell the girls we’re about to leave.”

She returned to the girls’ table. Li Mu stood, filled his glass, and surveyed the chaotic scene—thirty boys gathered in small groups, shouting, or crying in each other’s arms. He grabbed an empty beer bottle and rapped it against the table for half a minute, drawing their attention, before announcing, “Come on, get moving! Next round—KTV, singing and drinking!”

The boys, already tipsy, cheered at the prospect of singing and drinking at KTV. They downed their last glass and stood to leave.

The girls didn’t rush out, seeing the boys in such a state. When most of the boys had left, the vice monitor said to the girls, “Let’s go too.”

The girls stood and trickled out. Su Yingxue approached the vice monitor, gently tugged her hand, and asked in a low voice, “When you went to see the monitor earlier, what did Li Mu say to you?”

The vice monitor glanced around, then whispered, “Li Mu gave me nine hundred yuan, told me to make sure everyone has a good time and gets home safely.”

Su Yingxue was stunned. “Nine hundred?”

“Yes,” the vice monitor sighed. “Gave me a fright—a semester’s tuition and fees is only eight hundred…”

“Is he a bit out of control, drunk?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” the vice monitor replied. “I double-checked, and Li Mu told me to keep it discreet and take care of everyone.”

Su Yingxue nodded gently and asked no more.

...

“That laughter reminds me of my flowers…”

From the moment they entered the KTV, the drunk boys clamored to play this song. There were only two microphones, so the song was passed around and sung five or six times.

Every round, two or three boys shared a mic, singing like pigs being slaughtered. Each boy who sang shed tears.

The girls didn’t compete; they sat quietly listening. However badly sung, they were moved to tears.

Li Mu wanted to stop the endless loop, but the song system had no touchscreen in those days, only a complicated remote. To select a song, you first found its number in a songbook, then punched it into the remote. Who knew which brute had the remote now—Li Mu couldn’t even see it. All he knew was that after every round of “Those Flowers,” someone would shout, “Once more!” and the replay button would be pressed.

It was maddening. Li Mu felt his ears assaulted, nearly at the breaking point.

He wanted another cigarette, but they were all gone. He went outside, bought a ten-yuan pack of Jinling, smoked one downstairs, then returned to the private room.

Luckily, when he came back, the wild bunch had finally stopped singing “Those Flowers.” Otherwise, Li Mu would have considered going home to sleep.

Two girls were singing Cecilia Cheung’s “Star Wish”—a pop hit of the era.

Li Mu found a quiet corner to sit. The boys nearby chatted and drank; some still had things to say, some still had tears to shed.

After “Star Wish,” Faye Wong’s “Red Bean” began. A voice came through the microphone: “Yingxue, Yingxue, it’s your ‘Red Bean’!”

Hearing Su Yingxue’s name, Li Mu’s attention sharpened. He’d never heard her sing before; KTV had only become popular in Haizhou that May, and this scene had happened in his past life too. But back then, he’d been the one drunk beyond recognition—by the time he arrived, he was already a puddle on the floor.

When the intro ended, a gentle, clear female voice floated from the speakers. Li Mu silently praised her—she sang beautifully. Though her voice lacked Faye Wong’s ethereal quality, it was easily worth an eighty-five.

This song had always been, in Li Mu’s heart, one of Faye Wong’s most classic works.