2. An Unfriendly Beginning
Golden morning light, as delicate as fine sand, draped the gray rooftops in a shimmering veil.
The crisp ringing of a bell echoed as an old bicycle sped swiftly down the street between two-story villas.
Dean wore a gray-and-white scarf around his neck to cover the marks, a single-shoulder bag slung over him, dressed in his usual T-shirt and jeans, pedaling hard.
He’d been too excited last night, suffering a rare bout of insomnia, so now two prominent dark circles adorned his face.
But he was brimming with ambition, ready to make his mark starting right where he’d studied.
Well, first, he had to dutifully ride his bike for an hour.
...
Dean lowered his head, riding down a winding path through dry woodland, entering the outskirts of Las Vegas. He followed the endless main road north, taking in the scenery along the way.
Las Vegas sits at the edge of the Nevada desert, a place of arid climate where May brings daytime temperatures over thirty degrees Celsius, while the nights are so cold they send shivers down the spine. Just considering the climate, it’s hardly a place fit for living.
Yet the immense tax revenue from the gambling industry had transformed every corner of Las Vegas into a dazzling spectacle. Lush lawns flourished behind chain-link fences along the roadside, and golf carts carrying guests moved leisurely across the grass.
Further out on the golf course, clear ponds sparkled in the sunlight, birds sang atop the branches—one of the city’s best spots for birdwatching.
Dean took a deep breath, stretching his arms wide on the bike.
Las Vegas!
“I’m here!”
...
“One way ticket, one way ticket!”
Dun... dun... dun-dun...
“One way ticket, one way ticket to the blue!”
Dun... dun... dun-dun...
A burst of infectious, energetic music blasted from behind, shattering his reverie.
A red convertible whipped out from a side street like lightning.
Dean couldn’t identify the make, but he was sure—any car with such stunning lines must cost a fortune.
In the driver’s seat sat a man with mirrored sunglasses obscuring half his face. In the back were two young men, one white, one black, both in blue baseball jerseys and caps. The black youth had a metallic boombox hoisted on his shoulder, blaring that addictive tune.
They howled along with the music, wild and unruly.
Dean’s gaze swept over the young faces beneath those caps, a strange sense of familiarity nagging at him.
Who were they?
He couldn’t recall.
But his facial muscles twitched involuntarily, a flicker of fear passing over his face.
A tide of dread surged up from deep within.
“Hey!”
The white kid in the baseball jersey, noticing Dean staring by the roadside, put down his boombox, stuck out his tongue disdainfully, flashed two middle fingers, and shook his head as if flicking imaginary braids.
“Screw you, chingchong!”
After tossing out the words, the three in the car burst out laughing, the vehicle roaring away.
Chingchong? What does that mean?
Dean was momentarily stunned, but a lingering memory from deep inside quickly revealed the ugly meaning behind those words.
Damn it, did they just discriminate against me?
“Screw you! White trash—did your filthy mouth get stuffed in a toilet?”
Dean flipped his middle finger at their exhaust trail, catching a glimpse of the license plate’s bold central number—BOL·620502.
Suddenly, his system pinged—his investigation progress jumped from five to six percent.
His anger turned to confusion.
“Just by cursing a few idiots, my investigation advanced?”
It was like receiving a pillow when you’re feeling drowsy.
Dean hopped on his bike and chased after them. He had to seize this clue!
...
Dean arrived at his destination around eight o’clock.
Outside a marble wall emblazoned with colorful “Nevada State High School” letters, three tall buildings, broad plazas, and lush greenery made Dean feel as if he’d returned to the vibrant age of eighteen.
No—he was eighteen now.
Up close, the parking lot was full of bikes and a few cars: Toyota Corollas, Plymouth Horizons, Dodge Omnis, Chevrolets, and even a flashy Ferrari, including the red convertible he’d seen before. But the three baseball jersey boys were nowhere to be seen.
Dean surveyed the bustling crowd. Over two-thirds of the students were white, with Blacks and Latinos making up most of the rest. Among the hundreds, there were only a handful of Asian faces like his.
They strolled along the marble path behind the iron gates or lounged on the grassy roadside, chatting. A few girls pointed and laughed shrilly at Dean.
He frowned and continued observing.
Their clothing was strikingly bold and individualistic.
Some styled their hair like adults, fluffy and soft from perms.
Some wore tight T-shirts with fitted jeans, others in colorful leather jackets, dashing trench coats, all manner of jackets, gothic black-and-red dresses, fashionable bell-bottoms with glittering Doc Martens, short skirts and camisoles—the dizzying array made it look less like a place of study and more like an open-air party about to begin.
Many wore earrings, some kept artistically long hair, a few even sported nose rings and tattooed arms, resembling street punks.
A couple kissed passionately by the roadside, unbothered by the stares of others.
Dean sighed.
“No wonder this is a public school in the Beautiful Country. Even forty years later, the wildest technical colleges back in China weren’t this open.”
On the steps at the building entrance stood an Asian girl in orange shorts and a sleeveless crop top, her long legs and athletic figure on display.
Her skin was a healthy, sun-kissed shade with a reddish glow, and her features were sweet.
Dean thought she might be of Chinese descent. With his own messy memories, he could use a guide.
Surely a fellow countryman wouldn’t deceive him?
...
“Excuse me—do you know who owns that red convertible?”
The girl looked startled, blew a bubble with her gum, then sized Dean up from head to toe—T-shirt and jeans, hair damp with sweat, and strangely, a scarf wrapped around his neck despite the heat.
A look of impatience and disdain crossed her pretty face.
“Where are you looking, country bumpkin? Don’t bother me!”
She rudely brushed past Dean, ran to the school gate, and linked arms with a strapping white boy, her demeanor flipping from annoyance to delight as she chatted cheerfully with him, never glancing back.
Country bumpkin?
Was his appearance so off-putting that women avoided him?
He thought again of his earlier experiences.
These people are really unfriendly.
Dean noticed the cold glances cast his way in the crowd, and suddenly a thought struck him. His predecessor’s self-destruction must have been tied to such a hostile environment.
With his skin color and heritage, he was never accepted by mainstream society. At eighteen, sensitive and fragile, enduring constant scorn, it was easy to imagine him breaking down in a moment of impulse.
The thought triggered a sudden leap in his investigation progress—from six to ten percent.
“So, the system acknowledges my insight? But only by four percent.”
This showed that ordinary coldness wasn’t enough to drive his predecessor to the end.
“There must have been some particularly fierce conflicts or incidents recently. Perhaps it’s connected to those three baseball team punks with the convertible!”
...
“Dean, why the scarf? Aren’t you hot?”
A lively voice interrupted Dean’s thoughts. He turned to see a short kid in a black hooded jacket at the bottom of the steps, not even 1.6 meters tall—half a head shorter than Dean. In precocious America, he looked like a grade-schooler, yet his features were finely chiseled, as if sculpted from marble.
“And you are?” Dean instinctively reached out for a fist bump.
“What, did I offend you? Suddenly you don’t recognize your own brother? I’m Rust Spencer, your future ally in the university league, your die-hard buddy! Every semester we take Professor Cardale’s math class together. I always ask you for help with math problems, remember?”
“Haha, just kidding. Don’t take it personally,” Dean grinned, then asked, “Where are the rest of the guys from the league?”
“They all failed the IQ test—can’t even remember trigonometric functions, not qualified to be our friends!” Rust shrugged nonchalantly, though a trace of sadness flickered in his eyes.
Dean instantly understood—they were friends because both were outcasts, total nobodies, bookworms!
“Hey, one more question.”
“Hm?”
“The red convertible in the parking lot—whose is it?”
“The red convertible… wasn’t it blue before? Maybe they repainted it.” Rust muttered, then continued, “That car’s always belonged to the baseball team’s secret sponsor—Bob Lowe, the rich kid. How do you not know that?”
Rust adjusted his glasses, eyeing his friend with suspicion. Suddenly, he felt Dean’s demeanor was different than usual—not nearly so timid?
“You’re acting strange today, Dean. Almost like you’re a different person.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m sure. Unless those baseball team bastards beat you until you lost your memory?”
The baseball team bastards—beat me? What does that mean?!
A thought flashed through Dean’s mind.
“This Bob Lowe—is he a student?”
“How could he be? He’s in his twenties, basically a good-for-nothing punk. His family’s just so rich he has money to burn, loves flaunting it around here.”
Rust offered this explanation and dashed toward the classroom.
“Stop daydreaming—it’s almost time for class!”