On the weekend, those who had scheduled portrait sessions arrived at the bookstore one after another. Since only one person could be painted at a time, and those with more requests took longer, the others had nothing to do. Lin Fang let them sit and wait, either reading books or magazines. If they got too bored, they could stroll around the street or buy some snacks to pass the time.
Most of the visitors were classmates from the city, as those from the village usually went home only once a week. Unless it was their turn to watch the dormitory on weekends, they typically returned home. The city students, relatively better off financially, gave Lin Fang the opportunity to recommend books to them. She told them it didn’t matter if they couldn’t understand the books—if their elders at home were literate, they could explain the content.
Of course, the books Lin Fang recommended were novels and folk tales that appealed to children their age, aiming to spark their interest first. A few also inquired about popular science books, which Lin Fang promptly showed them.
The books weren’t entirely filled with unfamiliar traditional characters; some used simplified script, allowing readers to guess their way through. With Lin Fang nearby to explain, some students asked questions as they read, gradually grasping the meaning and finding it increasingly engaging. A few became so absorbed that they ended up buying a book to take home, promising to consult Lin Fang if they encountered difficulties.
Two others followed Lin Fang’s suggestion and bought books for their grandparents, saying it would help pass the time for them.
“Look, isn’t my portrait better than Dou Yalin’s?”
“Hey, it really is! What about mine? Does mine look better than Dou Yalin’s?”
The girls compared their finished portraits, and Lin Fang found it amusing—envy and vanity were universal. Though Dou Yalin was spiteful, no one could deny her striking beauty, which drove these girls to spend their pocket money or even living expenses just to outshine her. Meanwhile, Lin Fang reaped the benefits.
The fact that some were willing to buy books proved there was a market. With a bit more effort, she could sell even more.
By the afternoon, Lin Fang counted the day’s earnings—eighty yuan—and couldn’t help but feel delighted. The money came quickly, but she knew this was a one-time opportunity. Had she not caused a scene by hitting someone, no one would have noticed her. These students were just caught up in the novelty, and once their portraits were done, the business would dry up.
After painting for hours, her hands ached. She explained to the waiting students that continuing in this state would compromise the quality and asked them to return the next day. With over thirty names still on the list, it was clear this wouldn’t be finished in a day or two.
Though disappointed, the students agreed—after all, they had paid for this. An unsatisfactory portrait would be a waste.
Two boys, engrossed in their books, were reluctant to leave. But since Lin Fang had other plans for the afternoon, she let them take the books home with a five-yuan deposit, refundable upon return based on the book’s condition.
One hesitated and left the book behind, while the other decided to buy it outright. The deposit was five yuan, but the book cost only 2.8 yuan. Buying it meant ownership—if he damaged it, he wouldn’t lose the deposit or have to return it. Even if the deposit were refunded, a damaged book would still be sold to him at full price. Though it amounted to the same cost, owning a damaged book felt worse.
After some convoluted reasoning, he concluded that spending 2.8 yuan was better than five, and he’d get to keep the book. His explanation amused everyone present.
Lin Fang found him amusing and wrapped the book in packaging paper, writing the title and author’s name in calligraphy. She added a simple sketch of the bookstore on the cover and signed his name in the corner.
The girls comparing portraits were amazed. “Wow, Lin Fang, you can write in calligraphy too! It’s beautiful.”
“Calligraphy and painting go hand in hand. If I can paint, of course I can write,” Lin Fang replied, setting the book aside to let the ink dry before handing it over.
Once, while helping Teacher Wang with chores, Lin Fang spotted a piano and couldn’t resist playing a few notes. In her past life, she had learned the pipa and guzheng, but the piano was unfamiliar. Though her playing was recognizably musical, it was chaotic.
Instead of scolding her, Teacher Wang asked if she wanted to learn. Lin Fang eagerly agreed, and Teacher Wang began teaching her the basics, scheduling practice sessions every Saturday and Sunday afternoon. Since Teacher Guo napped for over three hours after lunch, they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Initially, Lin Fang offered to pay for the lessons—after all, piano teaching would become lucrative in the future. But Teacher Wang refused, saying she was happy to pass on her skills to Lin Fang, likely her only student in this lifetime. Though Lin Fang didn’t understand the sadness in her tone, she didn’t press further.
When she mentioned this to Teacher Gao, he sighed and told her to accept the kindness without insisting on payment. The reasons remained unspoken, a mystery of their generation.
Beyond piano, Teacher Wang also taught Lin Fang calligraphy and painting.
Though Lin Fang had already gained some renown in these arts in her past life, she didn’t slack off. Modern styles were less rigidly defined than ancient ones, and there was much to learn from centuries of history.
When lucid, Teacher Guo also offered guidance. Compared to Teacher Wang’s delicate style, his was bold and unrestrained, evoking a sense of galloping horses.
Teachers Gao and Qiu occasionally joined in, though their styles were more conventional. Teacher Qiu, having learned from Teacher Gao, stayed close to his mentor’s approach.
Lin Fang’s afternoon plans involved practicing piano at Teacher Wang’s home. Calligraphy and painting practice mostly happened at the bookstore.
Today, her hands were too sore to play properly, so she stopped. When Teacher Wang asked why, Lin Fang confessed about the portrait business, worried she’d be scolded for monetizing her skills while still learning.
To her surprise, Teacher Wang was delighted. “Portraits? When you’re at your best, paint one for me. I dislike photos—it feels like the flash steals my soul for a while.”
Lin Fang laughed in relief. “I thought that was just a movie trope. You really believe it?”
Then she hesitantly asked, “You’re not upset I charged for portraits?”
Teacher Wang shook her head. “Why would I be? Youth is for seizing opportunities. If I hadn’t painted portraits, I’d never have married Teacher Guo. It’s fate.”
This was the first time Teacher Wang mentioned her personal life. Lin Fang was curious about her marriage to Teacher Guo, who was forty years her senior, but Teacher Wang changed the subject.
“Since your hands are sore, skip playing today. Just memorize sheet music. Teacher Guo’s been acting like a child lately, tearing paper for fun. If he runs out, he throws tantrums. Take my sheet music with you and bring me some scrap paper for calligraphy practice.”
The exhaustion in her voice made Lin Fang drop the subject.
By the time all the portraits were done, Lin Fang had earned 420 yuan—enough for next year’s tuition, with 60 yuan to spare. But she didn’t want to hoard the money; she wanted it to grow.
As a student, 420 yuan wasn’t insignificant, but it wasn’t a fortune either. After some thought, she turned her attention back to the bookstore. The owner had said she could use it however she liked, as long as she didn’t tear it down. (Though if anyone were to dismantle it, it’d have to be the owner himself.)
She enlisted her second brother, Lin Tuo, to source stationery supplies. Since their village shop sold such items, he knew where to get them cheaply. Lin Fang started a stationery business, placing a large sign outside listing all products, prices, and models in clear calligraphy for passersby to browse.
She also played a prank that infuriated Meatball: she made him, who had never held a brush before, copy her entire sign and place it on the other side of the door.
Lin Fang’s sign used two elegant scripts—one bold for categories, the other delicate for prices—while Meatball’s handwriting resembled “chicken scratches.” The stark contrast made him want to kick his sign over, but he didn’t dare. Lin Fang threatened to stop tutoring him if he did, and he couldn’t risk that—not when he was finally buckling down to study.
Asking others for help? No way—a high schooler seeking middle school lessons was too embarrassing. Since Lin Fang already knew his strengths and weaknesses, he swallowed his pride and endured the humiliation.
Lin Fang, of course, had her reasons for this setup.
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