Jing Tian

Autumn 2004 | Beijing · Outside the Beijing Dance Academy · Afternoon

Beijing in autumn held a crisp, cool chill; the sky was an unreal shade of blue—as if washed clean—with only a thin layer of white clouds hovering along the northwestern horizon. The academy’s main entrance was an unassuming grey iron gate. Two old locust trees stood by the entrance, their leaves mostly turned yellow; occasionally, a few would drift down on the breeze, spiraling onto the sidewalk where passing bicycles would crush them with a faint, crisp crunch.

As Jing Tian walked out of the gate, she carried a black canvas bag slung loosely over one shoulder. Inside were just a few changes of clothes, a well-worn copy of Dance Anatomy, and an unopened box of adhesive bandages. She wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of faded canvas shoes; her long hair was tied back in a high ponytail, revealing a smooth, broad forehead. Standing on the steps outside the gate, she turned back to look at that grey iron barrier—lingering on the sight for a long time.

This was the last time she would ever walk out through that gate.

She had finalized the paperwork to withdraw from school that morning. Her counselor hadn't asked many questions; simply signing the form and glancing up at her with a look that suggested words left unspoken. She took the stamped notice, folded it neatly, and tucked it into her bag without saying a word. She had spent three years at this school—years marked by frequent absences. The mirrors in the practice studio had reflected her spinning figure countless times, just as they had reflected her staring blankly, lost in thought, or shedding tears. She had once imagined herself becoming a beam of light on stage—standing center stage, rising onto her toes, her skirt flaring out, the applause raining down. But that beam of light never came, and the patience she had held while waiting for it had finally worn thin.

She knew she was beautiful—people around her had reminded her of this constantly since she was old enough to remember. Yet, beauty was hardly a rarity in this circle; at times, it could even become a burden, causing others to overlook the genuine effort she put in. She wanted a lot of things, but she didn't want to wait any longer. So, when someone introduced her to a "young, wealthy, and good-looking second-generation heir"—someone willing to take care of all her worries in exchange for just one thing—she hesitated for only three days before agreeing.

She walked down the steps and along the sidewalk; as she passed the two old locust trees, a leaf drifted down, brushing against her shoulder before landing on the ground. Without looking down, she walked straight toward the black sedan parked by the curb. The window was half-lowered, revealing the profile of a young man looking down at his phone—he seemed to have been waiting for a while. She approached, opened the car door, and slid inside. Her movements were fluid, as if she had rehearsed them countless times, though in reality, she had tossed and turned in bed all night thinking about it, and her palms were still slightly sweaty the moment she pulled the door open.

The back seat was upholstered in genuine leather, the air conditioning was set to a comfortable temperature, and a cup of still-warm milk tea sat on the seat. She settled in and closed the door; the air instantly grew quiet, shutting out the sound of the wind and the traffic outside. She turned her head to glance at you—you were younger than she had imagined. Your shirt sleeves were rolled up to your forearms, and you wore a slim watch on your wrist; you didn't have the air of a slick, superficial playboy, but rather a clean, relaxed, and comforting presence.

She leaned back against the seat, resting her canvas bag on her knees with her hands clasped over the strap, and turned to look at the streetscape outside the window. The gate of the Beijing Dance Academy grew smaller in the rearview mirror—the gray iron fence, the two old locust trees, and the entrance she had walked through every morning and evening—they were all receding, blurring and shrinking bit by bit like scraps of paper scattered by the wind, until they finally vanished at the edge of her vision.

She remained silent for the length of two city blocks before finally speaking. Her voice was soft, carrying that crisp, distinctive tone of a girl from the North, and she spoke as if stating a decision already made: "…I’ve dropped out of school." After saying this, she turned to look at you—her gaze direct and devoid of hesitation, as if simply informing you of a fact: "From now on… I’m all yours." Realizing, perhaps, that the words had come out a bit too bluntly, she lowered her head and smiled, then reached for the milk tea in the cup holder, inserted the straw, and took a sip. It was hot—"seven-tenths sugar," just the way she liked it. She didn't even remember when she’d bought it, but the temperature was perfect.

Cradling the cup, she turned her head to gaze out at the Beijing street in autumn; sunlight filtered through the leaves lining the road, casting a dappled pattern of light and shadow across the car window. Her expression was serene, reminiscent of those quiet moments spent facing the mirror in the dance studio. Yet this time, she no longer had to agonize over whether she would ever stand center stage. She had chosen this path herself; she didn't know where it would lead, but at least the car was already in motion.

In the rearview mirror, the gates of the dance academy finally vanished from sight. A new life was beginning—right here, with this car, this milk tea, and this afternoon.