Rebirth in 1980: The Farm Wife Makes a Comeback
Chapter 314: Who Lied?

Chapter 314: Chapter 314: Who Lied?

Taotao asked, "Can we set off big fireworks?"

Jian Zhiqin replied, "Yes."

Taotao asked, "Can we buy tasty treats?"

Jian Zhiqin naturally answered, "Yes."

That’s why Taotao was so serious about doing household chores. Although small and not much help, that earnest little figure was enough.

In class, Jian Zhiqin, holding a brush, just couldn’t bring himself to write. He kept wondering how Qin Xiangnuan could write such beautiful characters with a single stroke; an arm is still an arm, a leg still a leg, yet both hands could write, producing different scripts.

One moment it’s square, the next it’s a chaotic scrawl, then it’s standardized again.

He didn’t realize at all that these were different calligraphy styles.

There’s cursive, regular script, and also Yan style.

As for himself, as soon as he grasped the brush, his hand refused to cooperate. He couldn’t tell whether to drag the brush across the paper or lift it; the teacher, old enough to be teaching them calligraphy, spoke in a tiny voice, spouting classical Chinese that choked rather than charmed, and would scold them if they didn’t learn well.

These characters were so difficult to write that none of the students in his class could write them well. Their characters were all skewed, limbs not lining up properly. Every time, the teacher would berate them, saying they were useless, disgracing the national treasure, etc. Jian Zhiqing just couldn’t accept it. He was impulsive and didn’t think there was anything wrong with not being able to write well. It wasn’t they who were insulting the national treasure now, but this teacher. His handwriting was far inferior to his sister’s.

Even if he didn’t understand, he just knew that his sister’s writing was much better than the teacher’s.

"Mr. Yan’s calligraphy is really good," the headteacher praised the teacher upon arrival. Ah yes, this teacher’s family name is Yan, the same as Yan Zhenqing’s. He claimed that he wrote in the Yan style. However, Jian Zhiqin felt that the teacher’s calligraphy lacked color, that his limbs were not coordinated, and, at a glance, lacked grandeur. His sister’s writing was better, like what you see in books, that dragon and phoenix dance thing.

"The teacher’s writing isn’t good at all."

He muttered quietly to himself, and someone next to him overheard him. These elementary school kids, despite their age, formed cliques just the same. Others didn’t matter much, but this one was Jian Zhiqin’s arch-enemy. He was new to the school and used to be prominent in the arts at his previous school. Now, he was overshadowed by Jian Zhiqing, who even danced the "Sakura Dance," reportedly taught by his sister. If she’s so talented, why doesn’t she teach them brush writing?

He stood up with a whoosh.

"Teacher, Jian Zhiqin said that teacher’s calligraphy isn’t as good as his sister’s," he tattled, lifting his chin in triumph. Jian Zhiqin’s face turned red with anger, and he wanted to thrash that student.

Mr. Yan’s face darkened upon hearing this.

He stepped in front of Jian Zhiqin, looking down at him from above.

"Which calligrapher is your sister?" he asked coldly, his eyes glinting dangerously. After all, Jian Zhiqin was just a child, and no student is unafraid of their teachers. Not even their parents’ words could top a teacher’s. So Jian Zhiqin was befuddled on the spot.

"My sister... my sister..."

He stammered for a while, twisting his fingers in his clothes, his face very red, especially in front of so many students. He felt utterly humiliated, and almost on the verge of tears, before he toughed it out.

"Speak."

Mr. Yan’s voice was louder, the tone more severe.

"My sister..."

Jian Zhiqin swallowed, lowered his head, and finally murmured in a mosquito-like voice.

"Teacher, my sister, she makes scallion pancakes. But, my sister’s scallion pancakes taste really good, really tasty."

Qin Xiangnuan had just taken out a book, ready to review, when she heard the school broadcast announcing someone was looking for her. She put the book away and headed outside, not knowing who could be looking for her, especially through a school-wide announcement.

Could something have happened to brother?

Her heart tightened as she walked faster.

But when she reached the school gate, she found it was Jian Zhiqing. What happened? Why did he suddenly come to look for her? She’d been studying here for two years and he had never visited. Could something really have happened?

"Brother Jian, what’s wrong?" She hurriedly ran up to stand in front of Jian Zhiqing.

"Oh, it’s nothing serious," Jian Zhiqing spoke up, his eyebrows knitted mildly, obviously not too worried, which finally made Qin Xiangnuan let go of her anxiety and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"That little rascal is in trouble; you might need to go over," Jian Zhiqing had one hand in his pocket. Referring to ’that little rascal’ took Qin Xiangnuan a moment to understand.

It was Jian Zhiqin.

Jian Zhiqing usually called his brother ’little rascal’, and Taotao ’little fatty’, ’little meatball’. Clearly, ’little rascal’ referred to Jian Zhiqin. Although the boy was somewhat mischievous, he was quite resilient and healthy, rarely even catching a cold. How could he suddenly be in trouble?

"Yes, come with me," Jian Zhiqing said, taking his hand out of his pocket. Somehow, he felt like he had it tougher than his own parents. Since childhood, he’d been responsible for that little rascal, while his parents were like hands-off shopkeepers, neglecting everything. Yet, he had to take care of his brother’s eating, lodging, and troubles.

Qin Xiangnuan felt sympathy for Jian Zhiqing; he was truly a representative of the new generation of male nannies and deserved two little red flowers for it.

Fortunately, the schools that Qin Xiangnuan and Jian Zhiqin attended weren’t far apart – just the distance between the high school and elementary school sections, a short walk away. When Qin Xiangnuan entered the office, she saw Jian Zhiqin hanging his head, looking bullied, and a middle-aged teacher sitting in a chair, dressed in a rather refined Zhongshan suit with a pen in his pocket, his mouth slightly pursed and his gaze arrogant.

Quite proud, but still unable to shake off a certain vulgarity.

Having lived two lives, Qin Xiangnuan could sense people’s temperaments.

This old pedant, with a look of disdain for others, must have been quite confident, and vain, about his own culture. Especially at his age, he must have felt that no one was his junior and that there was something about him truly incomparable to others.