8. Portrait, Uncle

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The corridor outside the baseball field.

Rust gripped his fists and nodded nervously, his face flushed with excitement. For the first time, he felt as if he could stand tall and straight. He had thrown a righteous punch at those bastards who used to bully him. That feeling could be summed up in a single word—

Exhilarating!

But all of this was thanks to the friends around him.

“Thanks for what you just did! From now on, I’m with you, man. Wherever you go, I’ll follow—no questions asked!”

“By the way, Mona is your girlfriend, isn’t she? You kept it hidden from me so well!”

Dean sighed helplessly, “Girlfriend? I can’t even remember what she looks like!”

Bob probably knew something about Mona, but getting any information out of him was unrealistic for now, and there was no way to confront him openly.

“Wait, I have an idea!” Rust suddenly stopped and looked down the corridor. “I remember our art teacher required us to submit a portrait sketch for the end of term.”

“You handed yours in ages ago and wouldn’t let me have a peek, no matter what. If Mona is that important to you...”

“You think I drew her?” Dean looked at him.

“Most likely. We’ll just have to ask Ms. Bella!”

...

During the break, they visited the art classroom in the gallery.

A blonde woman with an elegant air listened to their request and cheerfully retrieved Dean’s assignment—

It was just a plain, cheap sketch, unadorned with any oil paint, yet it had been carefully mounted. Simple black lines outlined a girl of seventeen or eighteen.

A cowboy hat, long hair cascading over her shoulders, big eyes, lips a little full, eyebrows somewhat thick, her features were quite ordinary—not pretty, really.

Yet in the portrait, she was grinning broadly, a hearty smile like a shaft of spring sunlight falling softly into the heart, making one unconsciously smile in response.

Dean held his breath, his pupils contracting. Unconsciously, he turned to gaze out the window at the baseball field surrounded by wire mesh. A powerful sense of déjà vu left him dazed.

He hallucinated, and a slightly husky girl’s voice sounded in his ears—

“Aren’t you the movie buff who never misses a Saturday show at the theater? How’d you end up stuck up there?”

The girl in the cowboy hat looked up curiously at the boy who was hanging on the fence like a kite, her thick black hair floating in the wind like seaweed in the deep.

“Was it those rotten rich kids who did this to you?”

The boy’s face was tense, a look of indignity and humiliation written on it, but he stubbornly lifted his chin and said nothing.

“Looks like nobody else likes you much either,” she muttered, lowering her head, then reached out a hand and offered him a bright smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mona.”

“I...” The boy hesitated for a moment, then, seeing the sincerity in her smile, couldn’t help but touch her hand with his finger. “I’m Dean...”

...

“Dean? Dean?”

“Ah! Sorry, Miss, I just remembered something.” Dean hurriedly tore his gaze away and clutched the portrait tightly.

Bella nodded in understanding, a look of genuine appreciation in her eyes. “To be honest, the technical skill in this piece is pretty average, the lines aren’t very clean, but I can sense the genuine feeling within it. She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she? Her face is unfamiliar—not one of our students.”

Dean drew a deep breath and pleaded, “Ms. Bella, may I take this drawing with me?”

“Of course. It belongs to you. And I’ve decided to give you an A.”

...

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“So, man, did that jog your memory?” Rust was eager to ask as they left the art room.

“A little,” Dean admitted, astonished. He’d seen plenty of other classmates and teachers, yet nothing happened—only this Mona had given him back a piece of memory.

What did that mean?

She was absolutely essential—she was the key to every puzzle.

His investigation progress had jumped to sixty percent.

He was getting closer to the system’s reward.

But it wasn’t enough. He needed more information.

...

“Do you think anyone else around here knows Mona?” Dean asked.

“Besides Bob, not likely. Even your closest comrade—me—barely remembers her.” Rust shook his head.

“Closest...” Dean’s expression flickered, and he repeated the word as if entranced.

Close.

Intimate.

Dean asked nervously, “If you made a new friend and you two got close fast... what would you do?”

“You’re my only friend!” Rust blurted out. “I’d invite them over! Let them try Grace’s famous crepes and golden mashed potatoes!”

...

That’s it—bring her home!

“I need to go check at home. Maybe I should ask the neighbors. Maybe they know something.”

“There’s still one last math class before school’s out! We’ve already skipped several periods.”

“I can’t wait any longer. Cover for me with the teacher,” Dean said, his urgency suddenly softening as he patted Rust’s shoulder. “Go home by yourself tonight, develop those photos—they’re your lucky charm. And be careful!”

“Hey!”

In the empty corridor, Rust watched his friend dash off clutching the portrait, then shrugged dejectedly.

“Figures. Whether it’s a man or a boy, once he’s got a girl, he forgets his buddy.”

...

Around five in the afternoon,

The sun hung in the western sky, casting a warm golden light.

Dean pedaled his bike furiously all the way home.

When he saw a man in his yard—over six-foot-three, yellow-skinned, holding a hunting rifle, a fierce expression on his face like a guardian statue—he couldn’t help but catch his breath.

It was—

“Uncle Paqui?”

Dean called out nervously from the roadside.

“You rascal! Haven’t seen your uncle in months and you don’t even recognize me?!”

The man’s fierce expression melted into a beaming smile. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he strode over, scooped up both Dean and his bicycle in one huge arm, and set them down in the yard with effortless ease.

A pair of bear-like palms clapped Dean’s shoulder.

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“Jacob told me what happened this morning. As long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters! With me here now, if those bastards dare show up again, I’ll turn them all into corpses!”

Dean dared not reply.

His instincts told him Uncle Paqui wasn’t bluffing. After all, in America, if someone trespasses without permission and dies, well, it serves them right.

He decided not to mention Bob Law. With his uncle’s temper, he might just show up with a loaded gun.

“What’s that wound on your neck?”

Paqui’s tone darkened, his thick brows twitching.

“Oh, that’s...” Dean considered lying, but vaguely remembered his uncle was no ordinary man—no way he’d miss a clumsy lie. He hung his head, half-ashamed, half-honest.

“I... I got in a fight. Got a little hurt... but he’s worse off than me.”

“A fight? You’re not joking?!”

Paqui’s eyes went wide in surprise, his mountainous, muscled frame circling Dean.

Dean took a closer look at the man—a black ponytail tied at the nape, no beard, sharply defined features, a high nose bridge, a strong, chiseled face, and a strange tattoo at the back of his thick, muscular neck—a round insect-trapping net with three hanging feathers.

He had all the hallmarks of a Native American.

Because of this body and its lingering emotions, seeing him filled Dean with a blood-deep sense of kinship.

This man had selflessly raised him to adulthood—his second father.

No, his predecessor’s second father.

“The Dean I knew would never pick a fight.”

A strong arm wrapped around Dean’s shoulders. Paqui’s dark, intimidating eyes fixed on him, exuding pressure.

Dean shrank his neck, not daring to move.

There were stories of shamans, magic, and spirit beasts among the Native Americans...

Paqui, who’d looked after his predecessor for so many years, surely could sense something off?

“You’ve finally grown up! My good nephew!”

Paqui broke into a wide grin, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth, and patted Dean’s head.

Dean let out a sigh of relief inside.

“You’re not a real man until you’ve brawled a few times when you’re young! Your mom and I, at fifteen or sixteen, beat up every racist in school.”

Dean smiled bashfully, warmed to the core.

He’d heard somewhere that Native Americans and people from the Far East shared the same roots.

He was starting to believe it.

“Come give me a hand!”

Bearded Jacob came huffing and puffing into the yard, dragging a barbecue grill, while Grandma Tanya carried a tub of pork ribs.

“The house is mostly cleaned up. Since Paqui’s home for once, let’s have a real meal!”

...

...