The old boy who walked with me through my youth

When you come back from school, you are cooking in the kitchen, white grease and the clanging sound of knives and spatulas flying into the roaring hood. You hear the sound of the door closing, through the glass, hissing, "Wash your hands, don't forget to change your shoes, there are washed apples in the fridge, the meal will be ready in a few minutes."

　　I don't know, are you tired of saying it again every day? Except for changing the name of the fruit, there is nothing new. You never have anything new to say about this person. If you use the language Yang Sir's perspective to analyze, you fully embody the meaning of "old" in the word "dad", which not only represents your growing age but also represents your increasingly ancient mind. I often wonder if you have ever youth, perhaps, your 15-year-old, just like the head of the class behind the teacher every day as boring, the greatest fun, is to talk in class, study sleep, did not turn in homework, class play with the phone ...... all recorded in the book.

　　I said to the busy you, "The paper to sign, I put it on the table."

　　Soon, you came to smash my bedroom door, "bang bang bang" noise, with your super fast speed of speech, a graphic description of your bad temper. You said, "Get out here! This is so unbelievable! Didn't you promise to study hard? A girl who doesn't once keep her word!"

　　What made you sign was my first zero math paper, and the invigilator used a red pen and made a pithy, short comment - plagiarism. So, trying to get me to open the door, that was never going to happen. I lay in bed, put on my iPod, and texted you, "Dear Dad, I'm thinking of you too. If I succeed, you won't have to be mad."

　　You finally stopped banging on the door and replaced it with an angry statement, "Wait for me, don't eat today!"

　　At 17:45, you had to go to the hospital. Mom was sick, and you had to go to bed with her. I heard you leave before I quietly opened the bedroom door. There was a meal on the dining room table and the signed papers were set aside.

　　You sent a text message saying, "Don't talk to **** about this, let's talk about it when I come back. Eat quickly and write your check carefully."

　　Look, you don't count your words and you teach me and Mom to lie. We are the relationship between the top beam and the bottom beam, you are not qualified to scold me, right?

　　Just as I expected, the plagiarism incident passed quickly. Because you were busy, busy with your complicated work, busy taking care of your sick mom and my disobedient me. Your time is broken down to the minute and there is no possibility of wasting it. Your phone's memo will always sing an unknown song from time to time, reminding you that it's time to write a report, time to bring mom dinner. Or, at six o'clock in the morning, it's time to wake me up.

　　The school art festival was a big moment for me. The English skit "Ha7" Ten Years of Youth Festival", prepared by me and my class, was the second most popular show after the teachers' chorus. I fought hard for the chance to play Hermione, wishing I could wear a custom-made magic gown on stage and receive the worship of the "muggles". But you look at the huge list of quotes, the expression is very broken, and the high price breaks your carefully set family balance sheet.

　　You say, "I can't even learn, I still have time for this. It's not like you don't know what's going on at home right now!"

　　Mom is in the hospital and the CPI is skyrocketing. Of course, I know how many reasons you have to disagree. I had to play the emotion card with you.

　　I said, "Dad, have you ever been 15 years old? Was there not one thing you did when you were 15 that didn't make sense, but you especially wanted to do?"

　　At that moment, you looked at me and froze, your lips opened and closed, closed and opened again, as if making up your mind a hundred times before you said to me, "You can sell things online, right?"

　　I suddenly had the feeling of being shot by an arrow of luck and decided that you would come up with a mysterious heirloom. Instead, you crawled under the bed for a long time and dragged out an old guitar wrapped in a gray cloth bag. To be honest, I was a little disappointed, even if I thought about it with my toes, I knew it was a "priceless treasure". However, what else can I do? I had to "sell the dead guitar as a living guitar". I took photos, uploaded them to the "catch-up network", and then a particularly eye-catching advertising message - quickly come around, the guitar in the mummy.

　　The next day, someone posted back an offer: "1200, the owner sells?"

　　I was surprised, afraid that he was wrong, kindly reminded: "You zoom in on the picture to see clearly, that is a mummy!"

　　"I'll give you 1500 at most, you sell it."

　　No way! Surprisingly, it's getting more expensive. It seems that my magic robe has manifested itself.

　　I don't know who came up with a bad idea of a home visit day. Just as I was concentrating on preparing the program, the whole school classroom teachers were excited to walk to the student's homes. Nominally it was communication, but in reality, it was a tell-all. It is entirely conceivable how many gruesome tactics you will sprout against me after hearing my glorious deeds at school.