No. 93 Wearing a Mask, Shaking Your Hand
The scorching June sun had turned Upper Capital City into a furnace, making short sleeves a necessity for survival.
The fortunate souls who had completed the college entrance exams were either embarking on their journeys to the bustling metropolises of Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, seeking employment opportunities, or reveling in their newfound freedom, indulging in endless entertainment.
For us ninth-graders, however, the relaxed school regulations, allowing for casual attire, offered little respite from the oppressive heat. Most of my classmates had switched to shorts and T-shirts, while a few fashion-conscious girls dared to wear skirts.
But even those concessions couldn’t dispel the stifling heat that greeted us every time we entered the classroom.
It was the same at home. Only my father’s room had an air conditioner, forcing me to wear skirts even though I despised them.
There was another reason for my sartorial choices.
My “stepbrother” was coming.
After a week of subtle probing, lavish gifts, and even an expensive phone from “Aunt Mo,” my father had finally announced that they would be joining us for dinner the following evening.
I had feigned reluctant acceptance, my heart pounding with anticipation.
I had been preparing for this moment for weeks, my efforts unnoticed by my oblivious father.
Yi Yao hadn’t been fond of skirts, but I had spent the past week parading around the house in sundresses and various other feminine attire—thigh-highs, cute hair accessories, bracelets, even girly slippers—to acclimate my father to my new persona.
I had also transformed myself into the “dutiful daughter,” diligently performing household chores, eating slowly and gracefully, speaking softly, and smiling frequently, projecting an image of a shy, delicate girl.
For the sake of this elaborate charade, I had even watched the entire “Date A Live” anime, memorizing Yoshino’s mannerisms and speech patterns.
My father, blinded by his newfound romantic bliss, hadn’t questioned my sudden transformation, praising my maturity, my filial piety, even my improved appearance.
Humans were suckers for fabricated happiness.
Sincere devotion rarely triumphed over calculated manipulation. And this time, I was using both.
“6:10 PM. Still enough time.”
I returned home from school, placing my custom-made, Yoshino-themed sky-blue backpack on the bed. I removed my uniform, folded it neatly, and retrieved a white dress with pink trim from my closet.
A crucial element of the perfect anime girl was a clean and organized room, especially when it came to clothes—except for characters like Umaru, of course.
This dress was technically a cosplay, replicating an outfit Yoshino had worn several times in the anime, complete with a matching sun hat adorned with a pink bow. But the design and color were subtle enough to pass as ordinary clothing to the untrained eye.
Okay… This should be good enough. Just need to brush my hair.
I stared at my reflection, marveling at the transformative power of makeup and styling.
There was no trace of the “gangster boss,” the “taekwondo champion,” the “tough girl” I had once been. Just a cute, slightly androgynous girl.
I clipped a cherry-shaped hair clip to my hair, washed my face, and returned to my room, noticing a message from my “priority contact.”
“How’s it going? Are you following my instructions?”
Xiaodie’s profile picture was a loli version of Kurumi Tokisaki. We had agreed to use anime profile pictures, mine being Yoshino, to convince her stepbrother that I was a hardcore otaku.
“Just so you know, if you come over and my stepbrother is here, I’m going to stay in character. Don’t get jealous.”
I settled down on the bed, my phone resting on my lap, and typed my reply.
“Oh my, your emotional intelligence is still so low,” she responded, adding a winking emoji.
“Wouldn’t you do the same? Just imagine, cute little Yi Yao, reluctantly playing the role of the shy little sister, her voice soft and sweet, wearing an apron as she serves you homemade treats, blushing as she says, ‘Xiaodie onee-sama, please try my strawberry pudding.’ It’s so exciting…”
“What are you excited about?!”
I couldn’t resist sending a voice message, my exasperation evident.
“See? You lost your composure again. Be ladylike, Yi Yao. Remember, you’re a shy little loli. No swearing…”
Loli my ass! You’re the one who looks like a little girl!
I was about to retort when I heard the front door opening.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I typed quickly, deleting our conversation and tossing my phone into my backpack. I pulled out a textbook and pretended to be studying diligently.
“She should be home by now. She’s a good girl, never stays out late after school.”
“Yi Yao?”
My father’s voice echoed from the living room.
“Yes, Dad,” I replied, my voice soft and sweet.
I slipped on my bunny slippers and walked out of my room.
As expected, my father wasn’t alone. A woman in her forties and a tall, skinny boy, probably a university student, stood beside him.
The boy’s eyes lit up the moment he saw me, as if he had stumbled upon a hidden treasure.
“This is Aunt Mo, and this is your brother, Mo Ziyang,” my father said, beaming with pride, pulling me towards them.
“A-Aunt Mo…”
I glanced at them shyly, then quickly lowered my gaze, my cheeks flushing.
“Brother Mo…”
The word “cute” was often associated with small, delicate things. By lowering my head, I emphasized my petite frame, projecting an image of vulnerability and helplessness, triggering their protective instincts, boosting their affection points.
“She’s a good girl, just a little shy,” my father said, either to impress them or because he genuinely enjoyed this new, submissive version of me.
“She’s adorable,” Aunt Mo said, patting my head, her smile a carefully constructed mask.
“Come in, come in. We’re practically family now. Make yourselves at home.”
My father took their bags and turned to me. “Yi Yao, why don’t you get your brother a glass of water?”
“O-okay!”
I bowed politely, then spun around and hurried towards the water dispenser, deliberately “slipping” on the polished floor in the middle of the living room.
“Careful!”
“Thud!”
I landed on my back, my carefully planned “accident” a success. I had even sprinkled some water on the floor for added realism.
A classic anime girl trope—the clumsy fall.
“Ow…”
I scrambled to my feet, my cheeks burning, and filled a disposable cup with water. By the time I turned around, “brother” Mo Ziyang was already seated on the sofa.
“Why don’t you two chat for a bit? Aunt Mo and I will prepare dinner. Ziyang, be nice to your sister. She’s just shy around strangers. She’s actually quite outgoing once you get to know her.”
Shy around strangers? You’re delusional!
My father, without a hint of concern for my well-being, disappeared into the kitchen with Aunt Mo, leaving me alone with my “stepbrother.”
“Sure, no problem,” Ziyang replied, his voice eager.
He was practically giddy with excitement.
“Here you go…”
I handed him the cup of water, carefully observing his reactions as I settled down beside him, my legs crossed demurely, my gaze lowered, my hands fidgeting in my lap.
“Relax, I’m not going to bite,” he said, his voice slightly strained, his demeanor awkward.
He was clearly inexperienced with girls.
“Do you like anime?” he asked, his gaze lingering on my dress as he took a sip of water.
“Y-yes,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper.
Even I was surprised by how convincingly shy I sounded.
“Great! Me too!”
He set down his cup, his eyes widening with excitement. “What kind of anime do you like?”
“I… I don’t know… I just… watch whatever.”
Most girls couldn’t differentiate between anime genres, so I simply played dumb.
Be shy, Yi Yao. Remember, you’re shy.
Despite my mental pep talk, I couldn’t conjure up any genuine shyness towards this clueless geek.
Desperate, I forced myself to recall that night with Xiaodie, the intimacy of our embrace, the warmth of her skin against mine. My cheeks flushed, my body tingling with a phantom sensation.
“Your dress… it’s from ‘Date A Live.’ That’s a harem anime,” he said, his voice gaining confidence as he discussed his interests.
“And ‘Non Non Biyori’ is a slice-of-life anime.”
Was he always this talkative?
In my previous life, my relationship with my stepbrother had been strained, our interactions limited to a few perfunctory exchanges.
Our first meeting had been similar to this, but the conversation had been decidedly less enthusiastic.
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
“…”
“Are you in ninth grade?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great. I’m in university.”
“Oh.”
“…”
A far cry from this sudden burst of camaraderie.
And for the next few years, our daily conversations had rarely exceeded ten words. He had always seemed aloof, distant, retreating into his room after dinner to immerse himself in his games and anime, his true personality a mystery.
“I guess… I watch a lot of… harem anime…” I said, forcing a shy smile.
“Really?”
He set down his cup, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “What’s your favorite?”
“‘Date A Live.’”
“Who’s your favorite character? Is it Yoshino?”
“It’s pronounced ‘Shiori,’ not ‘Yoshino.’”(Similar Pron in Chinese)
“Same difference.”
“It’s not the same!” I pouted, my voice laced with mock indignation.
He was testing me, I was sure of it.
No true fan would tolerate a mispronounced name. He was gauging my sincerity, my dedication to the anime and the character.
Well…
Two can play this game.
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