The Sports Meet

The leisurely days of the National Day holiday quietly came to an end, soon followed by the much-anticipated sports meet. Though I was no longer the student who had once been obsessed with the world of art, fate seemed to have other plans. I was naturally elected as the publicity committee member, entrusted with the responsibility of creating the blackboard newspaper and handling all publicity matters for the sports meet—from designing and producing banners to conceiving the posters’ creative ideas, every task fell squarely on my shoulders.

After applying for class funds from the life committee member, I returned to the classroom, carrying a dozen or so cans of brightly colored poster paints in my hands, a heavy palette and water bucket strapped to my back, along with various brushes. My heart brimmed with both anticipation and nervousness. These art supplies had been my steadfast companions during my days as an art student, but now, I had quietly resolved that once this task was done, I would tuck them away beneath the podium and bid farewell to my artistic journey.

Choosing a quiet evening self-study session, I unfolded large sheets of paper, gathered brushes of various sizes, and took my vivid paints to an empty classroom seldom visited by others. At that moment, a difficult question surfaced: what should the title of the poster be? After a moment’s thought, the phrase “Run, Youth!” sprang to mind. But then the issue of color coordination troubled me. The teacher demanded bright, eye-catching colors—the brighter the better. Yet, red and green together were too harsh on the eyes. Perhaps orange and blue? Like the unique hues of autumn—warm yet profound. Below the title would be the class slogan. Initially, I thought of “Class 1-2, Uniquely Extraordinary!” but upon reflection, it felt rather plain. Then, “Class 2, Tigers Descend the Mountain” seemed more playful and exaggerated, adding a dash of humor.

Lost in this endless contemplation, a faint sound of a door handle twisting suddenly broke the silence. My heart clenched sharply, and the image of the homeroom teacher flashed through my mind. Oh no, I wasn’t skipping evening self-study—I was on official duty! As I prepared my explanation, I slowly raised my head, only to see a familiar figure. It was Linguan! She cautiously ducked into the room, clearly not expecting anyone to be there. Our eyes met, and both of us startled in surprise.

“Wow, you’re painting the poster! Let me see your class slogan,” curiosity sparkled in her eyes.

“Class 2 goes forth, destined for glory,” I replied with a smile.

“That’s great,” she said sincerely.

“What about your class?” I asked.

“Don’t know yet,” she shook her head slightly.

“I’ve already thought of one for your class—‘Class 1-3, One Against Three,’” I joked.

“What the heck is that? Hahaha!” She burst into laughter, her clear, ringing laughter echoing through the quiet classroom.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, puzzled.

“Talking like the dean... just came to get something,” she said, heading toward the cabinet at the back and reaching to open the door. Perhaps it was her bad luck or the cabinet’s long disuse, but with a loud crash, a pile of books slid down, heading straight for her.

“Ahhhhh!” she screamed in terror.

Without hesitation, I lunged forward and pushed Linguan away from the cabinet with all my might. She quickly covered her mouth, afraid the noise would attract the teacher.

“Phew… phew. By the way, can a fall from that height be fatal? A kilogram of books falling for about half a second, the impulse is force times time…” She seemed to have calmed from the scare and was now fascinatedly calculating the impact force on the head. Her bright eyes gleamed with excitement, as if the danger had never happened.

“Whether it could kill or not—you’ll never know now. Feeling a bit sorry?” I remarked with a deadpan expression, secretly relieved.

“A little,” she answered earnestly, which was amusing.

“Are all these books yours?” I asked, surprised as I looked over the scattered volumes.

“Yeah,” she nodded slightly.

Together, we crouched and carefully placed the fallen books back into the cabinet. “What a pity... the spines are damaged,” she said softly, gently caressing a thick hardcover book. The more I tidied, the more amazed I became—what kind of unique person was she?

“General Biology,” “Advanced Math Competition Handbook,” “The Revolution of Genetics,” “Psychiatry,” “Forensic Medicine”—hmm? “Does God Play Dice?”, “Invisible Cities,” “Only If Snow Is White,” “The Emperor’s New Brain,” “The Bed Is the Grave of Youth”—this was a strange collection, blending contest problems, university textbooks, popular science, literary classics, detective novels from street vendors, and youth pain literature. Some were borrowed from the library, but most were purchased by her. Some were brand new, others slightly worn, all casually piled in the once-empty cabinet at the back of the self-study room (no longer empty now).

“Aren’t you afraid someone will take them?” I asked curiously.

“At least it’s safer than at home,” she replied cryptically, leaving me even more puzzled. I watched as she pulled a small blue math book from the pile, seemingly ready to leave.

Suddenly, she turned to me, a hint of expectation on her face. “Want some help? I want to paint too.”

“Ah… okay. I’ve outlined this part in blue... just dip your brush in the paint and smooth it out,” I said, surprised and quickly handing her the paint, curious and eager about this unexpected little helper.

She took the paint and brush, focused yet a little nervous, carefully making delicate strokes as if handling a priceless treasure, afraid of making a single mistake.

“Hey, if you paint like that, you’ll never finish by tomorrow,” I teased with a smile.

“I… I’m afraid I’ll paint outside the lines... Oh no, it’s smudged!” She panicked and quickly lifted the brush, pouting like a stubborn but clumsy child—utterly adorable.

I paused my own brushwork and quietly watched her. In this rare moment, the usually clever and knowledgeable Linguan seemed even more awkward than I was, and that awkwardness made her all the more endearing.

“Everyone! Sign up enthusiastically!” The sports committee member’s loud voice shattered the classroom’s quiet. He stomped on a chair boldly, waving the registration forms, shouting, “At least one person per event… and the class committee must participate!”

Class committee… wait, I’m supposed to join the sports meet too? My heart sank. I was born with no athletic talent. Even in kindergarten, I was last in ball games. High jump, long jump, ball sports—all were disasters for me. The only sport I was somewhat decent at was running, especially long-distance running. Because… when running, I could mechanically swing my arms and lift my legs without thinking, as if the world shrank to the sound of my footsteps and breathing.

By the end of registration, no one had signed up for the girls’ 1500-meter race. After hesitating, I filled the vacant spot, perhaps seeing this as a chance to challenge myself.

The day of the sports meet arrived, bright and sunny on an autumn afternoon. We arrived at the field early, at half past six, to attend the grand and solemn opening ceremony. The broadcast voice was deafening as it announced, “Approaching us now is Class 1-2, stepping in perfect formation…” Yet none of that drowned out the excitement and joy radiating from the students’ faces.

Finally seated in the stands, I held my pencil and sketchbook but felt restless. Bored, I used the restroom as an excuse to wander around the track. The stands were decorated with carefully made posters from each class. I admired them one by one, secretly comparing, and ultimately decided ours was the best—though it might sound boastful, Linguan had indeed contributed to it.

However, among the crowd of Class 3, I searched long and hard but never spotted Linguan with her pink hair braided into twin plaits. She should have stood out like the brightest star in the night sky, yet she was nowhere to be seen.

In the afternoon, it was finally my turn. I carefully pinned the race number to my back and stepped forward with determination, pacing to the rhythm of the stirring march music playing repeatedly in the background. Though I knew I might not run as fast as others, at least I would not lose in spirit.

“Hey!” A familiar voice called from behind, followed by a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around—it was Linguan!

“What are you doing here? Be careful not to bump into the runners if you’re wandering around,” I said with a smile, delighted.

“I’m a runner too!” She straightened her chest, her face glowing with pride, showing me the number pinned to her back. “We’re in the same group!”

I never imagined the petite Linguan would sign up for the 1500-meter race, nor that she possessed athletic skills on par with sports students.

Standing at the starting line, my heart pounded so fiercely it felt as if it would leap out of my throat. My teeth chattered uncontrollably. At that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Linguan quietly giving me a playful peace sign from another lane. Her mischievous gesture instantly made me laugh, easing my tension.

“Ready—” At the sound of the starting gun, I took a deep breath and ran forward with unwavering focus. The other runners shot ahead like arrows. I told myself, “It’s only the first lap; endurance is key in long-distance running. No need to sprint from the start; just keep a steady pace.” Breathing out, breathing in, step by step, I moved steadily forward.

By the third lap, my legs felt heavy, as if filled with lead. I looked up; only a few runners remained ahead. About two hundred meters in front was Linguan’s lithe figure. Her white shirt shimmered brilliantly in the autumn sunlight, like a beacon lighting my way.

The final lap. Gritting my teeth, I decided to sprint. I summoned all my strength and surged toward Linguan. Four runners ahead... now three. Less than two hundred meters to go. At this moment, I couldn’t care about breathing rhythm anymore. I pushed harder and harder.

Linguan and a sports student crossed the finish line almost simultaneously, while my muscles, flooded with lactic acid, silently protested. No, I couldn’t stop. Linguan was ahead. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

Looking back on this memory now, it feels like a microcosm of my entire high school life. The genius Linguan was always so distant, running faster than me. And I was like a relentless seeker of light, led by her, pushing myself to the limit, without regret, chasing her every step.

Almost at the finish line... “Fourth place!” the judge announced loudly. Despite the rusty, metallic taste in my throat and gasping for air, I rushed over to give Linguan a high five in celebration. She was leaning against the wall, drenched in sweat, pale, and weakly raised an arm.

“I’m feeling dizzy...” she whispered, then closed her eyes and collapsed into my arms.

“No—” I cried out in panic. At that moment, my heart felt as if an invisible hand was clutching it tightly, overwhelmed with worry and anxiety.