The political science teacher subtly gave me a strange feeling, and Liao Sihang sighed to me in a low voice, “Good students always get the teacher’s favor.” I reluctantly agreed.

The political science teacher was a new overseas graduate last semester. He seemed to have started as a deputy director in the first semester, and within less than half a year, he was promoted to the director. Ha, not bad.

He had been teaching our class for a few weeks now. Frequent changes of high school teachers were common, which led to complaints from parents.

I, however, hoped the political science teacher would be replaced soon. I didn’t like him, I just didn’t. Moreover, his lectures were shallow, and it seemed like he only taught the material to Qiao.

Every time it was close to dinner, the political science teacher would take Qiao with him.

He would say, “Qiao’s political knowledge isn’t solid. He needs individual tutoring.”

When a high-achieving student’s grades drop, it’s indeed a big deal for teachers.

It wasn’t just the political science teacher who said this. Other teachers had also mentioned it. Recently, Qiao’s grades in all subjects had been slipping, showing a straight decline. During class, he often zoned out, his gaze dull.

The school beauty’s grades neither dropped nor improved, staying in the top 100. Teachers began to attribute Qiao’s decline in performance to the school beauty and started having talks with the two of them.

It seemed Qiao had reached his rebellious phase; he became especially dependent on the school beauty. He began to lash out at teachers, his behavior drastically changing.

Now, he was more like a bad student, speaking in a disorganized, extreme manner—totally abnormal. After Qiao’s parents were called in, he became even more rebellious. He started becoming sharp-tongued and no longer indifferent; he even began to snap at people.

But there was one person whose words he would never defy—the political science teacher.

Usually, during the Wednesday afternoon meal time, the political science teacher would call Qiao for extra lessons. The teacher’s eyes held a polite smile, and his fingers rhythmically tapped on the podium, almost like they were tapping on people’s hearts, making them feel inexplicably heavy.

I saw it again—Qiao was trembling, but the movement was so small that it was hard to notice unless you looked closely.

The bell signaling the end of class rang out with a high-pitched, cheerful sound, but Qiao looked downcast. His feet were tightly pressed together, and his hands were gripping his knees, his school uniform pants crumpled under his grasp. I realized his uniform pants had been wrinkled for some time now, but I didn’t know when it had started.

The reason I liked to watch him was simply because people never hesitate to admire beautiful things.

As usual, the political science teacher asked Qiao to stay for extra lessons. He lightly tapped Qiao’s desk with his pointer. The boy in the school uniform froze, his dark eyes moving back and forth. His jaw muscles tightened. Before the third tap of the pointer on the desk, Qiao neatly arranged his chair and stood up, following the political science teacher out the door with military precision.