Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

When I got home, I put my things down and took a shower.

I haven't showered for five days, and I feel like I'm going to rot.

Fang Yuan carefully avoided the wound on the back of his head, and wiped his body several times with a towel before he was finally clean.

As I was leaving, the phone rang.

There's a telephone at home; his dad needs it for work.

"Fang Yuan? You've been discharged from the hospital?"

It was Huang Xiaoming on the phone; his voice sounded excited.

"Yeah, I just got home."

As Fang Yuan dried his hair, he asked, "How are you? Is your foot better?"

"How could it be so fast? It's a fracture! The doctor said it will take at least a month to heal."

Huang Xiaoming sighed on the other end of the phone.

"But it's okay, my dad brought me to Beijing without my knowledge, so the art exam wasn't delayed."

Fang Yuan leaned back on the sofa, draping a towel around his neck: "How did the exam go?"

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"Passed." Huang Xiaoming's tone was a little strange; it wasn't excited, nor was it unhappy.

It's that feeling of "I've gotten through it, but I don't know how to describe my current feelings."

"You passed?" Fang Yuan was taken aback.

"Isn't that a good thing? Why does it sound like you've eaten a bitter melon?"

"It's over, but..." Huang Xiaoming paused for a few seconds.

"Never mind, it's hard to explain over the phone. I'm going home tomorrow, I'll talk to you in person. By the way, are you alright with your head?"

"Mild concussion, nothing serious."

"That's good. You know, we're so unlucky, we even got scratched by a car while we were out having fun. My mom said she's never letting me ride a bicycle again."

Fang Yuan smiled and said, "You should buy a car too."

"I don't have money to buy a car, are you going to give me some?"

"I'll buy it for you when I win the lottery."

"Give me a break, you don't even know which way the lottery shop door faces."

The two exchanged a few words and then hung up the phone.

Huang Xiaoming and he lived across the street from each other. Their families were considered to be neither rich nor poor in Qingdao.

The two have been friends since childhood, with Fang Yuan being one year younger.

Fang Yuan knew that in his previous life he had passed this exam, and from this point on, the future Master Huang began his life of destiny.

Fang Yuan tidied up the house.

His mother has been gone for a year, and his father is not at home, so he lives alone in this house.

He doesn't usually tidy up much; his things are always scattered around.

I don't know what's wrong with me today, but I just can't stand anything.

I took a rag and wiped the table, then swept the dust off the floor and even wiped the windows.

After tidying up, he sat down at his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a notebook.

The cover says "Diary". He bought it when he was in the first year of junior high school, wrote a few pages on it and then threw it away.

Fang Yuan flipped through the book and saw that the first few pages were filled with random, messy writing in crooked handwriting that looked childish.

He tore out the first few pages, turned to a blank page, picked up a pen, thought for a moment, and wrote down a line:

February 28, 1996, sunny. Discharged from the hospital. Huang Xiaoming passed the art exam.

After writing this, I looked at the line and felt quite bored.

But then I felt I should write something down.

It's not for others to see, but for myself to remember.

In the evening, Fang Yuan cooked some food for himself.

This is one of the hobbies I developed after my mother passed away, because my father is away from home most of the time.

Of course, I spent even more time going to Huang Xiaoming's house for meals.

In the morning, Aunt Zhang brought him enough food for the day before she went to work.

In the afternoon, three loud "bangs" were heard, conveying a sense of eagerness.

Fang Yuan went over and opened the door.

Huang Xiaoming was standing at the door. To be precise, Huang Xiaoming was standing with a cane.

His right leg was in a cast, from his ankle all the way to his knee, all white, with crooked writing on it—

"Get well soon," "Go Huang Xiaoming," "Happy fracture"—I don't know who wrote these.

Fang Yuan paused for a moment, then glanced at the door across the hall—

The door to Huang Xiaoming's house was open, and his father was carrying luggage inside.

"You're back?"

Fang Yuan stepped aside, "Come in, come in."

Huang Xiaoming hopped in, leaning on his crutches.

Fang Yuan closed the door behind him and helped him up.

Huang Xiaoming hopped to the sofa, plopped down, propped his right leg (which was in a cast) on the coffee table, and let out a long sigh of relief.

"Finally home," he said.

"On the way back from Beijing, my dad carried me on and off the train like he was carrying a sack of potatoes. My back almost broke from his grip."

Fang Yuan looked at his silly childhood friend, and his eyes stung a little.

In his past life, Huang Xiaoming, who was at the height of his power, took great care of himself.

I sat down next to him and glanced at the leg in the cast:

"What's wrong with you?"

"Bone fracture,"

Huang Xiaoming glanced down at his legs, his tone nonchalant.

"I sprained my ankle when I jumped off the bicycle. I didn't feel any pain at the time. I stood up and took a couple of steps, but then I couldn't walk anymore."

Huang Xiaoming said,

"I'll have to use crutches for the next month, like a disabled person, it's so embarrassing."

Fang Yuan smiled and went to the kitchen to pour him a glass of water.

Huang Xiaoming took the cup, drank a sip, put it on the coffee table, and curled up on the sofa, looking at Fang Yuan.

"Is your head alright?" he asked.

"He's alright now. He needed six stitches and had a mild concussion."

"Six needles?" Huang Xiaoming grinned.

"Then you're in a worse situation than me. I just have a crack in my bone, while you have a gash on your head."

"If you bump into the curb, how can you expect it not to get a cut?"

Fang Yuan touched the gauze on the back of his head.

"Alright, stop talking about me. How did your art exam go?"

Huang Xiaoming did not answer immediately.

He leaned back on the sofa, looking at the calendar hanging on the opposite wall—

A blonde woman in a swimsuit—I don't know where Fang Yuan's dad got her from—seemed to be organizing her thoughts.

Fang Yuan didn't urge him, and waited.

"You passed," Huang Xiaoming finally spoke, his voice lower than before, "You got your professional qualification certificate."

"Isn't that great?" Fang Yuan said.

"It's over, but—"

Huang Xiaoming paused for a moment, then reached up and scratched his head.

"Fine, I'll tell you from the beginning."

He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out and put it in his mouth, then took out a lighter.

Huang Xiaoming was just like this in his past life. He started smoking secretly in his second year of high school and smoked for more than 20 years without being able to quit.

"On the day of the third exam," Huang Xiaoming said, a cigarette between his fingers, squinting.

"Our group of six was tested on impromptu skits. When the topic was drawn, I was stunned—'Farewell at the Station'."

"This question isn't difficult, is it?" Fang Yuan said.

"The questions weren't difficult, but the difficult part was that there was a student in my group who had repeated a year of high school. He had taken the exam three times last year, and he was so composed on stage that it made me nervous."

Huang Xiaoming took another drag of his cigarette.

"When it was my turn, my mind went blank, and all I knew was to do was follow the rehearsals. After the performance, I knew I had messed it up."

Fang Yuan listened without interrupting.

"After the performance, there was a separate interview. When the examiner let me in, I had only one thought in my mind—that's it, I definitely don't have a chance."

Huang Xiaoming flicked the cigarette ash onto the ground.

"I went in, stood there, and the examiner looked at me for about three seconds before saying something."

He stopped and took another drag of his cigarette.

Fang Yuan looked at him: "What did you say?"

Huang Xiaoming stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, looked up, and said with a complicated expression, "He asked me to demonstrate catching crickets."

Fang Yuan was taken aback, then almost laughed. Is this how art school entrance exams are done?

"How did you perform?"

Huang Xiaoming nodded. "I refused. I said there are no crickets in Qingdao."

Fang Yuan leaned back on the sofa. "Well, you're something else. The rumors from my past life are true."

In his previous life, Huang Xiaoming's performance in exams could be described as "crashing the party".

The teacher asked him to demonstrate his physical form, so he did some radio calisthenics.

He demonstrated catching crickets, saying, "We don't have crickets in Qingdao."

When he was acting out hitting someone, he said very seriously, "I don't hit people. Hitting people doesn't make you a good kid."

When performing swearing, he said in a serious tone, "We Qingdao people never use swear words when we speak."

During the talent show segment, Huang Xiaoming sang a song called "Fiery Ballad".

The song has many high notes, which is obviously not suitable for an exam performance. Huang Xiaoming frequently sang off-key and cracked his voice, which amused the teachers.

Some of the teachers who were recruiting students at the time raised objections, saying that the child was too much like a block of wood.

But teacher Cui Xinqin said, "Even if it's wood, it's still a beautiful piece of wood that can be molded."

Cui Xinqin later explained why she admitted him: "At that time, I felt that I had never seen such an innocent child with such a bright smile. Although he was not very good at acting, this can be improved through learning. In terms of his own qualities, his face alone is worth 300 points. He was born to do this."

Okay, that's when I started to meet my benefactor!

Huang Xiaoming suddenly remembered something, took a folded square piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Fang Yuan.

"Take a look at this."

Fang Yuan took it and opened it. It was a "Notice of Examination for the Performance Major of Beijing Film Academy" with Huang Xiaoming's name and examination number printed on it, along with a red official seal.

"Having passed the professional examination, you are permitted to participate in the National College Entrance Examination."

Fang Yuan read it aloud, then handed the notice back to him, saying, "Well done."

Huang Xiaoming carefully folded the notification letter, put it back in his pocket, and finally a slight smile appeared on his face:

"What's the use of passing the professional exam if you can't pass the general education exam? Do you know how many points I scored on my general education exam last semester?"

"How many?"

"Three hundred and twenty."

Fang Yuan's lips twitched.

A score of 320 is not even enough to get into a vocational college.

"So now I have to work hard on my academic subjects," Huang Xiaoming said.

"My dad said he's going to hire a tutor for me this semester; I need to catch up on both math and English."

He glanced at Fang Yuan:

"And you? What do you want to do in the future?"

Fang Yuan was taken aback.

This is the same question again.

His father asked, and now Huang Xiaoming is asking too.

"I haven't decided yet," Fang Yuan said.

Huang Xiaoming glanced at him and said:

"You need to think of something quickly. We used to be so clueless, that won't do. I've already decided: I'll apply to the Beijing Film Academy and become an actor. You need to find a goal for yourself too."

Fang Yuan smiled.