Wu Chunqin was stunned for only a moment before laughing over the phone, “Wen Ying won first prize? That’s great news! Your daughter’s quite something!”
Wu Chunqin knew Chen Ru had no other acquaintances in Shanghai, and neither she nor her husband had any connections in the literary world. Since Wu Chunqin hadn’t helped, Wen Ying must have won purely on her own merit.
Her initial three-point liking for Wen Ying jumped to six.
Without talent, pride is naive and laughable.
With talent, pride equals confidence!
Chen Ru was embarrassed by the praise but, thinking of reduced-score admissions, grew anxious again. Wu Chunqin reassured her, “Without an award, things would be tough with so many eyes watching. But with a first prize, what’s meant for Wen Ying won’t slip away. Given her recent grades, reaching the first-tier cutoff shouldn’t be an issue, right?”
Chen Ru considered Wen Ying’s recent monthly exam rankings and felt confident she could hit the first-tier cutoff, giving Wu Chunqin an affirmative reply.
Wu Chunqin told her to relax.
Wen Ying was only in her first year, with over two years until the college entrance exam—more advantageous than Group A students. If she could already reach the first-tier cutoff now, with effort in the remaining time, boosting her total score by a few dozen points would secure her a spot at a Shanghai university.
As for Wen Ying not wanting to study Chinese literature, Wu Chunqin didn’t see it as a big deal.
Her husband, Professor Shen, was at a university with strong programs beyond just Chinese literature—journalism, economics, mathematics, all top-tier disciplines were options.
As long as Wen Ying’s exam score exceeded the first-tier cutoff, the higher the score, the better the terms. She didn’t have to study Chinese literature!
Wu Chunqin patiently explained, clearing the fog from Chen Ru’s mind.
Chen Ru’s fixation was getting Wen Ying into a prestigious university, unaware that choosing the right major was just as crucial. A lower-tier school could be a setback, but the wrong major could be equally disastrous.
Wu Chunqin’s insights were things Chen Ru hadn’t considered, and she nodded repeatedly over the phone.
“So, I just let it be?”
“Of course you need to stay involved!” Wu Chunqin replied.
From last night’s dinner, Wu Chunqin had glimpsed Wen Ying’s personality. Confidence was good, and Wen Ying’s talent matched it. But having talent was one thing—parents always wanted a more secure future for their kids. Wu Chunqin understood both Wen Ying and Chen Ru.
Teenagers can be rebellious.
Their understanding of society is limited, and they resent adult “unwritten rules.”
The more you control them, the more they push back. Wu Chunqin suggested Chen Ru guide her gently, “Don’t talk too practically with her. I heard Chengdu high schools are doing exchanges with Shanghai universities. It’s too late this year, but next year, let Wen Ying join. Once she experiences it herself, she might not resist.”
With this first prize, negotiating reduced-score admissions next year as a second-year student would be perfect timing.
Chen Ru, reassured by Wu Chunqin’s advice, felt her earlier anxiety turn to joy, “Chunqin, I really owe you a big thank you!”
“Thank what? It’s all Wen Ying’s effort.”
If the kid wasn’t capable, Wu Chunqin couldn’t have helped even if she wanted to.
Dropping her mental burden, Chen Ru hung up, her mood soaring. She found Wen Ying especially pleasing now, not dragging her to awkwardly network with judges and even asking where she wanted to go tomorrow.
This was their agreement on the flight to Shanghai: stay an extra day after the competition for sightseeing.
“Oriental Pearl Tower?” Wen Ying suggested.
She remembered extorting 3,000 yuan from Old Wen. The Oriental Pearl Tower was a must-see for out-of-town visitors in 2005.
Old Wen had told them to eat well in Shanghai, and Wen Ying thought the tower’s revolving restaurant was worth a visit. The food’s taste was secondary—the ambiance and setting were great, especially for small-town tourists. Dining there would be great bragging material back home.
Chen Ru, buoyed by the joyful news, agreed without much hesitation.
The mother and daughter discussed tomorrow’s plans, no longer focused on networking. As they chatted, Wen Ying mentioned wanting to try snacks at the City God Temple. Chen Ru checked the time—it wasn’t too late—and readily agreed, taking Wen Ying out of the venue.
Meanwhile, Song Chan and her father met with representatives from two universities, both unsatisfactory.
The conditions offered were decent, but not for the schools Song Chan wanted.
She was holding out for better options.
If the mountain wouldn’t come to her, she’d go to the mountain. Song Chan had no interest in sightseeing, actively seeking out representatives from her preferred universities with her father.
They weren’t rejected outright.
But a hard truth remained: the more prestigious and competitive the university, the less they reduced scores for first-prize winners.
Song Chan’s dream school was a top choice in Sichuan. Last year, its science cutoff was 119 points above Sichuan’s first-tier science line, and its arts cutoff was 69 points above the arts line, admitting only 15 arts students province-wide!
Song Chan was an arts student.
Her grades could reach the first-tier cutoff, but even after negotiations, the university would only lower the requirement by 30 points—still risky for her.
And the 30-point reduction came with a condition: she’d have to study Chinese literature.
Song’s father was a poet in his youth, and Song Chan carried the “young talent” label. You’d think she’d be drawn to Chinese literature, but not at all.
How could today’s Chinese literature compare to the past?
Back then, students chose majors based on personal interest, sometimes haphazardly, happy just to be admitted.
In the past, Chinese literature departments were filled with gifted scholars, brimming with knowledge and skill, thriving wherever they went after graduation. Now, with societal changes, practical-minded people avoided Chinese literature.
Song Chan didn’t want to study it, feeling it had little to teach her. She wanted journalism!
In this sense, Song Chan’s love for writing seemed driven by the benefits it brought, not a genuine passion.
After a round of talks with no firm commitments, Song’s father was无奈, “Good thing you still have time.”
As a second-year student, Song Chan could improve her grades. If she were in her third year, it’d be trickier.
Despite the first prize, not being valued by her dream school left Song Chan uneasy.
What about Wen Ying, with her middling grades? Which school did she choose?
Song Chan kept an eye out for her but couldn’t find her in the venue. Asking another winner, they weren’t sure, “I think I saw her leave with her mum.”
—Seriously?
Song Chan laughed in disbelief: either Wen Ying had rock-solid connections and had already secured a deal, or she was clueless, missing this golden opportunity!
Did Wen Ying even care about the New Concept Essay Competition first prize?!
