A black knee-length skirt, shapely and slender calves, delicate ankles, nude-colored long stockings, lace-up high-heeled sandals... right in front of Henry Thompson, step by step, unhurried and calm.

Elegant as a cat, sensual as a fox.

When they reached the office, Teacher Emily Harris sat down, tapped the desk, and said, “Alright, tell me—what exactly are you trying to do?”

Henry Thompson hung his head very low, his attitude exceptionally sincere, and said, “Teacher, I was wrong.”

“Wrong? You think just saying you were wrong is enough?”

Henry Thompson stayed silent.

Looking back now, he realized that he really had been a bit blinded by desire in class. Although these days people seemed more open about love and marriage, the respect for teachers was even more deeply ingrained than in his previous life. To openly flirt with a young female teacher in front of so many people in class—well...

But Teacher Harris didn’t even mention the flirting?

On second thought, it made sense. In the eyes of adults, a seventeen-year-old boy making a joke at most came off as a sign of admiration, not really anything like “flirting.”

To put it simply: You’re just a seventeen-year-old kid—what do you know about flirting, anyway!

At this point, Henry Thompson didn’t dare look up at her, afraid she’d see something in his eyes, so he could only repeat himself in an even more earnest tone, “Teacher, I was wrong.”

“So you know you were wrong? Good, as long as you know!”

Teacher Harris unscrewed her pink thermos, took a sip of water, and said, “The other teachers don’t have any special requirements, and I’m not planning to punish you for this. It’s just—can’t you make your grades look a little better?”

Henry Thompson looked up at her, then lowered his head again.

Teacher Harris said, “Look at you—such a smart kid, always quick with a joke. I still remember when you first started high school, you were in the top ten of the class. But look at you now—out of forty-five students, you’re ranked forty-third! I know you’re good at Chinese, you always have been, but being good at just Chinese isn’t enough. You need to put more effort into your other subjects too, okay?”

What else could he say? Henry Thompson could only nod and say, “Okay!”

Teacher Harris thought for a moment and said, “How about this: from now on, in my Chinese class, you can do whatever you want—study whichever subject you like, alright? As long as you don’t disrupt the class or fall asleep, you can study math, English, Russian, whatever you want. I won’t say anything else, but seeing how good your Chinese is, yet your English and Russian scores are only in the thirties or forties, I know you’re not putting in the effort. Language subjects are all connected—if you put in just a little work, your scores wouldn’t be that low…”

…

After school in the afternoon, Henry Thompson finally had time to find a music store and bought a set of strings.

In his previous life, he’d played guitar for over twenty years—classical guitar, flamenco guitar, electric guitar, Hawaiian guitar, pick guitar, and so on—he’d mastered them all. So what was a hundred-yuan folk guitar to him?

He quickly put on the new strings and started tuning.

For beginners, tuning a guitar requires a piano for reference, but Henry Thompson didn’t need that at all—the correct pitch was already in his head.

Fortunately, even though this guitar had been left under the bed for at least ten years, the apartment was on the third floor and not damp, so the guitar’s sound box and resonance were almost unaffected.

…

Hearing the random strumming and plucking from inside the room, Henry Thompson’s dad, Samuel Thompson, curiously knocked on the door, then poked his head in. “What’s going on? Why are you playing the guitar again?”

Henry Thompson held up the guitar, feeling more excited than he’d ever been in both his lives combined. “I went to buy a new set of strings after school and just put them on. Dad, I wrote a song—let me sing it for you?”

Mr. Thompson looked skeptical. “You only learned for three days ten years ago. I remember you shook your head like a rattle drum and refused to keep learning. Now, ten years later, you can change the strings yourself? And you wrote a song?”

Henry Thompson said seriously, “I’m just that talented!”

Mr. Thompson waved him over. “Come on, let your old man see your lyrics. Save that ‘talent’ for impressing girls later!”

Henry Thompson asked, “Lyrics? You mean your essay about that tree?”

Mr. Thompson looked a bit displeased. “What do you mean, ‘my tree’? Kid, you don’t know anything. My essay is called ‘Hometown Yellow Flowers,’ and I just finished it. Come on, give your old man some advice.”

Henry Thompson said, “Nope. If you want me to read your essay, you have to listen to me sing first. Ever heard of ‘first come, first served’?” Mr. Thompson was a reasonable man. After hesitating for a moment, he realized he really did want his son’s honest feedback, so he decided to humor him first. He said, “Alright, alright, sing—your old man’s listening!”