I Met My Childhood Self at the School Gate

At 4:17 in the afternoon, outside the elementary school. Plane leaves on the concrete, pressed black by bicycle tires. I held a blister pack of stomach medicine, edges worn white. I was forty-two, detoured by road construction. Then I saw the child.

Blue backpack, straps too long, slapping their backside when they ran. Red scarf crooked at the collarbone. Shoelaces dragging. Right hand clutching the side pocket, a corner of paper sticking out. I knew that paper. I knew that walk too: toes first, testing each step. That was me.

Words jammed in my throat. I'm sorry. Thank you. Don't be afraid. You're great. It wasn't your fault. You did well. But I could only say one.

I walked over. They stopped. Their eyes went to my shoes, then my face. "Your shoelace is untied," I said. They looked down. I crouched. My fingers touched their ankle. Cold. They shrank back. I tied a bow and pulled it tight. "Thank you, auntie," they said. I was forty-two. Being called auntie was normal. "You're welcome." The stomach medicine rattled once. They looked at my pocket. "Stomach medicine," I said. "Does your stomach hurt?" they asked. "Old problem," I said. "My mom's stomach hurts too," they said. I didn't answer.

The little shop was still there. The cotton candy machine hummed. I took out five yuan. "For the kid?" the owner asked. "One," I said. White sugar threads wrapped the bamboo stick. I handed it to them. "I don't eat it. Mom says sugar rots your teeth," they said. "You can rot one today," I said. They didn't take it. I pushed the stick into their hand. Their fingers were thin, with hangnails by the nails. They licked it once. Sugar smeared the corner of their mouth. They smiled, then stopped, as if they had taken something.

We walked side by side. They walked slowly. "Is your backpack heavy?" I asked. "No," they said, but their shoulder slanted to one side. I lifted the backpack. At least three textbooks, a tin pencil case, a water bottle. "Liar," I said. "It's not heavy," they said. "Fine," I said.

The paper in their side pocket showed. I glanced at it. 78. They pressed a hand over it. "Don't look," they said. "I won't," I said. "Will you tell my mom?" they asked. "No," I said. "You know my mom?" they asked. "I do," I said. "Then will you tell?" they asked. "No," I said. They stared at me. "78 is 78," I said. "I got 92 last time," they said. "Mm," I said. "My mom says if you slip, you're not trying hard enough," they said. I stopped. "Eat the cotton candy first," I said. They licked it again. It shrank. "Why aren't you scolding me?" they asked. "If I scold you, will you get 100?" I said. They thought. "No," they said. "Then why scold you?" I said. They smiled. This time they didn't pull it back.

"I'm good so Mom won't get angry," they said. "Who told you that?" I asked. "I know it myself. Last time I cried, Mom's head hurt more. If I don't cry, she gets better," they said.

My hand stopped in midair. I wanted to hug them. They stepped back. "Don't hug me. I'm not used to it," they said. My hand stayed there. The wind blew. A bit of sugar thread drifted and stuck to my sleeve. "I should go back," they said. A classmate at the gate called their name. They turned. I opened my mouth, wanting to say that sentence. They had already run two steps. "Hey," I said again. They turned back. "You don't have to." The classmate called again. "What?" they said. I shook my head. "Nothing. Don't step on your laces." They ran. The red scarf swung behind them. I stood there. Only the bamboo stick was left in my hand. A little sugar clung to it, stuck with dust.

Evening. Kitchen. The faucet running. I washed dishes. My daughter watched cartoons in the living room. A plate of ribs sat on the table. I picked up the last piece and put it in her bowl. "Mom, you're not eating?" she asked. "I don't like it," I said. "You said that last time too," she said. "Eat," I said. I ate plain rice. The stomach medicine sat on the counter next to the pothos. Two leaves had turned yellow. I hadn't cut them. The phone lit up. Mom sent a voice message: "Are you coming back this weekend? Your dad bought ribs." I pressed it off. Washed dishes. The water was very hot. I remembered when I was little, Mom got angry and slammed the door. I hid under the blanket and counted. At 37, the door still hadn't opened. I stopped. The water kept running. I put the bowl down. Wiped my hands on the apron.

I walked to the living room. The cartoons were loud. I sat down. She leaned against me. My body stiffened. "Mom, you picked me up late today," she said. "Road construction," I said. "It's okay," she said. She kept watching. I looked at the back of her head. A rubber band was tangled with a thread in her hair. I wanted to take it out. My hand reached out, then pulled back. I opened my phone and replied to Mom. Typed: Coming back this weekend. Deleted. Typed: What do you want to eat? Deleted. Finally sent: Coming back. Ribs. Mom replied instantly: Good. I stared at the word "Good." The screen went dark.

I walked to the entryway and saw a supermarket receipt on the shoe cabinet. I picked it up. It had stomach medicine, ribs, pothos nutrient solution. I folded it and put it in my pocket. I crouched to tie my shoelaces. My daughter called, "Mom, where are you going?" "To buy something," I said. "Now?" she said. "Now," I said. I went out.

The little shop was still open at night. The cotton candy machine had stopped. "Do you still have cotton candy?" I asked. "Yes, made fresh," the owner said. "One," I said. "For the kid?" he asked. "For me," I said. He glanced at me and said nothing. The machine hummed. White sugar poured in and turned to threads. He handed it to me. I stood by the roadside and tore it open. Took a bite. Very sweet. Stuck to my teeth. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. My hand was sticky. I stood across from the school gate. The streetlights were on. The plane leaves were the same. I finished it. Threw the bamboo stick into the trash. My phone rang. Mom: What time will you arrive? I replied: Saturday morning. She replied: Good. I walked toward the subway station. The wind blew the candy wrapper out from beside the trash can and down the steps. I didn't pick it up. The subway arrived. I swiped my card and went in. Someone in the car was eating oranges. The smell was strong. I held the handrail. The stomach medicine rattled once in my pocket.