Chapter 39: Do you know that person? Marry him

Dai Shu, Chief Editor Zhou Mingwei, and the rest of the editorial staff all praised "Alive" more highly than the last, boosting Chen Xiaomi’s confidence further.

Intuition told her that if she seized this opportunity, her name would quickly ring through the industry, and her life would ride "Alive" into a brilliant moment.

She could also shed the label of “got in through family connections” at People’s Literature.

But she wasn’t sure if the later sections could remain as brilliant as the beginning.

Chen Xiaomi murmured to herself—this was the only thing she worried about and wasn’t certain of.

It wasn’t that she was nitpicking.

It was because, as an editing editor, she’d seen too many manuscripts that started strong and fizzled out.

Seeing her walk out of the chief editor’s office with a radiant smile, Zhou Chunlan, who had been secretly watching, immediately put on a concerned expression and asked:

“Xiaomi, what did the chief editor say?”

Hearing this, Lao Jie, Dai Shu, and the other colleagues all paused their work and looked up.

Seeing Zhou Chunlan’s fake, plastic sister act, Chen Xiaomi found it amusing.

But she was a woman of high emotional intelligence and wouldn’t expose her; she replied: “Chief Editor Zhou and Dai Shu agree—it’s a yes.”

Yes. A simple, concise word.

But everyone who knew Zhou Mingwei understood this was the highest praise.

In that instant, the editorial staff felt as if they’d witnessed a rising star surging upward, bursting like a firework with a swift whoosh across the sky.

“Xiaomi, congratulations!”

“Xiaomi, don’t forget to treat us when it’s published.”

“…”

As colleagues showered Chen Xiaomi with congratulations, Zhou Chunlan forced a stiff smile, her inner world collapsing: This was supposed to be mine…

After exchanging pleasantries with everyone, Chen Xiaomi focused on her top priority: calling back using the contact number left by “December.”

0739-885708

Her fingers rapidly tapped the keypad ten times, then double-checked the number before she straightened up and pressed the “#” key.

Is the writer December male or female?

How old is she?

Thirty?

Or forty?

Is she easy to get along with? Easy to communicate with?

“Hello, who’s calling?”

As she was pondering with the receiver in hand, the line connected—a sultry female voice came through.

Female?

The voice was so husky; she must be older, Chen Xiaomi quickly judged internally, then replied with careful wording:

“Hello! Are you the writer December?”

Writer December?

Li Heng’s pen name is December? Wang Runwen paused, then immediately realized:

“I’m not December. I’m his friend. Who are you?”

Chen Xiaomi swallowed to soothe her parched throat: “I’m Chen Xiaomi, an editor at People’s Literature. Is December available?”

At that moment, a crackling static noise interrupted the call, making Wang Runwen miss what the other side said.

So she repeated: “People’s Literature?”

Static on phones was common these days; Chen Xiaomi wasn’t surprised: “Yes, could you please call December to the phone?”

Wang Runwen glanced out the window toward the teaching building across the playground and said: “He’s not here now. Call back at noon.”

Not here?

Chen Xiaomi asked patiently: “May I ask, roughly when will December be free at noon?”

Morning classes ran all day; the fourth class ended at 12:10, and it took several minutes to walk from the teaching building. Wang Runwen replied immediately: “After 12:20, preferably a bit later.”

“Alright, thank you!”

She hadn’t reached him on the first try; Chen Xiaomi felt a small pang of disappointment, but not much.

In her mind, with the golden brand of “People’s Literature,” as long as she spoke properly and followed up promptly, this was practically guaranteed.

Wang Runwen placed the red receiver back on its cradle, then suddenly slapped her own forehead, cursing herself for being an idiot—she’d completely forgotten about the “Harvest” magazine.

People’s Literature: 12:20

Harvest: around 12:30

Will the two conflict?

The English teacher instinctively wanted to call back, but in this era, there was no caller ID; she reluctantly gave up.

Then she fell into deep thought: What exactly had Li Heng written?

Both People’s Literature and Harvest magazine?

From the tone, it sounded like both were rushing to get him…

As an English teacher, Wang Runwen taught two classes daily and juggled countless household chores; she rarely paid attention to literature and had little understanding of either magazine.

To be blunt, she was more familiar with “Story Weekly,” “Youth Digest,” “Mengya,” “Reader,” and Qiong Yao’s novels.

After all, she was just an ordinary person; literature, that lofty thing, felt too distant from her life—nothing compared to romance and gossip.

At least those romantic tales satisfied her feminine romantic fantasies and helped her release sorrow in the shower late at night.

Wang Qi and the vice principal often published articles in newspapers and occasionally earned ten or twenty yuan in royalties; they probably knew more.

She’d originally assumed Li Heng’s writing was similar to Wang Qi’s, so she hadn’t paid much attention or asked further.

But now it seemed suspicious—she’d have to ask Li Heng later; otherwise, a lack of information might ruin his big opportunity.

Thinking this, Wang Runwen, just back from class, changed her shoes again and headed downstairs.

Tomorrow was Lantern Festival, but the cold north wind still howled, making hearts shiver.

The teachers’ dormitory was close to the school gate; Wang Runwen pulled her black scarf tighter and went outside to buy several cups of sweet tofu pudding, a dozen steaming meat buns, and wrapped a few fried dough sticks in oil paper.

On the third-floor platform of the teaching building, she ran into Wang Qi, who asked in surprise:

“Wenrun, weren’t you feeling unwell and went home? Why are you back?”

She felt unwell because today was the first day of her period, and her lower back ached.

She’d only made a quick round during morning self-study and asked Wang Qi to supervise in her place.

Wang Runwen shook her long hair: “I need to see Li Heng about something.”

Wang Qi was already used to her close relationship with Li Heng and had heard rumors from Liu Yejiang, but he dismissed them all.

Having known them for years, he understood their personalities and trusted their character—he didn’t believe Teacher Wang would be foolish enough to fall for a student.

Wang Runwen opened the breakfast bag: “Wang Qi, haven’t had breakfast yet? Have some while it’s hot.”

Wang Qi shivered from the cold and asked happily: “I get some too?”

Wang Runwen rolled her eyes: “Of course. When have I ever left you out?”

Wang Qi chuckled, grabbed a scalding-hot meat bun, bit into it—fat, tender, juicy—and slurped a cup of tofu pudding, praising:

“Thanks to this kid Li Heng these past two years, I’ve saved a fortune on breakfast.”

Wang Runwen shrugged, teasing: “Hmph… I despise you. That’s your whole world? How much is that worth?”

The two teachers ate breakfast and chatted about class performance, when Wang Runwen suddenly asked: “Wang Qi, I’ve got a question.”

Wang Qi’s mouth was full; he nodded at her.

Wang Runwen asked: “Have you heard of the magazine People’s Literature?”

Wang Qi swallowed the fried dough stick in a few bites: “Of course. What about it?”

Wang Runwen asked: “Could your writing ever be published in People’s Literature?”

Wang Qi nearly choked, then chuckled bitterly: “Ha! You’re overestimating me. My mediocre skills are lucky to make it into a provincial newspaper—People’s Literature? Even if my ancestors’ graves smoked with good fortune, it wouldn’t happen.”

Wang Runwen was stunned: “You didn’t used to be like this—you used to call yourself a cultured person.”

Wang Qi smiled: “I was just bragging. You semi-literate folks didn’t know any better, so I could say whatever I wanted. But why are you bringing up People’s Literature today?”

“Nothing, just curious.”

Wang Runwen asked again: “What about Harvest magazine? Have you heard of it?”

Wang Qi said: “Those are real literary writers—elite figures. Nothing like us scraping together ten or twenty yuan in royalties.”

After thinking a moment, Wang Runwen blurted out: “What if someone got calls from both magazines?”

Wang Qi widened his eyes: “That’s a real opportunity? Do you know this person? Marry him.”

PS: My neighbors’ dogs barked all night—I didn’t sleep well. Need a nap. Next chapter will be late. (This one might be a bit slow—don’t scold me, my head’s foggy.)

Starting today, I’m saving drafts for publication.

(End of chapter)