Chapter 46: I Hate That Bastard!

The phrase "understanding the situation" struck him as intriguing.

Su Mu had never heard of any school conducting home visits with prospective students before enrollment. Castellar Middle School certainly wouldn't send anyone; the only possibility was Loyola Private High School. He wondered what the reason could be.

The school wanted to get to know Su Mu, and Su Mu equally wished to understand this institution. He had many choices; he wasn't limited to Loyola High. There were still two weeks left before the start of the semester, so he could try for other private high schools.

With a composed expression, he handed the slip of paper with the address back to Mr. Smith and asked, "Why do you want to find him?"

"You know him?" Mr. Smith responded in surprise. He had randomly asked a passerby and, unexpectedly, found someone who knew the student.

His task was to investigate Su Mu's character, which would determine whether Su Mu qualified for a tuition waiver at Loyola Private High School. He had only heard positive remarks from family and teachers and felt that asking others would provide a more objective perspective.

Of course, Su Mu knew himself—and knew himself very well—so he nodded, waiting for further questions, with no intention of revealing his identity just yet.

He felt a twinge of anxiety, thinking it was fortunate he happened to encounter Mr. Smith. Otherwise, he might never have known that Loyola High School was investigating him, and perhaps he wouldn't be admitted, left clueless about the reason.

Mr. Smith asked, "Sorry to take up a few minutes of your time. May I ask, what is your relationship with him?

And… what kind of person do you think he is? Any weaknesses or strengths? Rest assured, whatever you say will remain confidential. I’m not a bad person."

He pulled out his teacher’s ID from his pocket. Su Mu glanced at it—it was indeed from Loyola High School.

A tuition waiver for several years amounted to nearly sixty thousand dollars. No school would give away so much freely; he felt it was understandable that they'd send someone to investigate, and he found nothing objectionable in it.

He unexpectedly caught sight of Mr. Smith’s small notebook, filled with various questions. A quick glance revealed words like "personality" and "social skills," which gave him a vague idea of what was happening.

After pondering for a moment, Su Mu put on a look of aggrieved indignation and declared, "I hate that guy!"

As Mr. Smith stared blankly, he continued, "Su Mu… is simply too outstanding. His exam scores are always higher than mine, he studies more diligently, and the teachers all prefer him!

It’s not just academics. Su Mu likes to help others—he tutors classmates with poor grades, takes care of the elderly, enjoys participating in group activities, and has exceptional social skills! As for me, I dislike meeting strangers and can only watch from afar as they discuss and learn together. Out of jealousy, I once poured glue on his chair, but he generously forgave me.

Alas, in our Chinatown district, he's a renowned genius. With him around, we all seem insignificant. So I hate him. Perhaps it's because I'm inferior to him, so I envy him—may God forgive me."

Witnessing the young man’s sincere "confession," Mr. Smith, who also believed in the faith, followed with a reassuring, "You're great. The Lord will forgive you. Recognizing one’s faults and correcting them is a virtue..."

Though he said this, Mr. Smith was astonished by how exceptional this student, Su Mu, must be, to incite such envy among his peers. Truly, he seemed a remarkable prodigy.

Besides intelligence, his character was beyond reproach. Loyola High did not seek bookworms; they wanted students with teamwork and outstanding social skills. Mr. Smith jotted down several words in his notebook, feeling inclined to respect the facts and side with the principal.

At this moment, Su Mu turned toward Du Zhong, who was distributing flyers, and called out in Chinese, "Come here! There's something important! Whatever you do, don’t call me by my real name! Call me Li Ping’an. Loyola High sent someone to investigate me; remember, I'm not Su Mu. Just praise me!"

Some Chinese passersby overheard and guessed he was taking advantage of Mr. Smith’s lack of Chinese, smiled knowingly, but said nothing.

"Sir, this is my friend. He also knows Su Mu—we’re in the same class, and he’s close to Su Mu. He should know even more."

Su Mu continued in English to Mr. Smith, his smile sincere yet faintly tinged with sorrow. This made Mr. Smith feel guilty, thinking he had unwittingly exposed the boy’s "wounds." He patted Su Mu’s shoulder in consolation and added, "Thank you."

Du Zhong hurried over, forgetting his flyers, afraid of calling the wrong name. After hesitating, he said, "...Ping’an, is this about Su Mu? Su Mu!?"

Su Mu nodded emphatically, his gaze carrying a hint of threat, replying, "Yes, this gentleman is from the school and wants to know about Su Mu."

They spoke in English now. Mr. Smith understood and smiled, "It’s fine; just tell me what kind of personality he has."

"Incredibly outstanding. Among my friends, he’s the best and the most charitable."

Shaking the flyers in his hand, Du Zhong turned to Mr. Smith and replied, "He created these. They’re meant to help poor elderly residents of Chinatown who can’t receive welfare checks. What do you think of his character?"

Mr. Smith, thoroughly confused, accepted a flyer written in both English and Chinese. He had thought it was some kind of promotional leaflet, but now realized it was about welfare for the elderly, rallying people to protest the inaction of the Social Security Administration. Instantly, he felt a sense of respect. Whatever the motivation, helping others was always a noble thing.

He couldn’t help but ask, "Was this planned by Leon Su?"

"Absolutely. We’re going to protest this afternoon. Sir, would you like to join us?"

Seeing Du Zhong still trying to recruit people even now, Su Mu was so exasperated he wanted to hit him. He just wanted to get rid of this teacher quickly; if his cover was blown, who knew what trouble would arise.

When Mr. Smith nodded and agreed, saying he would personally observe Su Mu’s efforts, Su Mu, standing right beside him, felt his vision go dark—he realized he was truly on the spot now.

Suddenly, he wished he could slap himself. If only he had admitted to being Su Mu from the start, he wouldn’t be facing this mess...

The flyers, handed out by delivery workers and passersby, found their way into many Chinatown households. A young paralegal received one, read it carefully, and then consulted legal texts.

A middle-aged butcher took one, reminded of his elderly father who had also not received welfare checks. There were many such families; they had once registered as impoverished, but ultimately received nothing—it seemed the registration was only for show. Now, they learned there was money to be claimed.

Mr. Smith was a man of good character. He soon began helping distribute the flyers himself. He had never visited Chinatown before; today, he happened to have free time and considered it charity work. He felt the effort was not very effective, so he asked Su Mu, "Why don’t you reach out to school clubs?

Or labor unions, for that matter? Those groups are more united, and protests are usually organized by unions. It’ll be hard for you to succeed like this..."