13: Chapter 13 This kind of amazing homeroom teacher, I want a dozen of them, they're so wonderful!

The girl in the front row who was zipping up her schoolbag stopped.

The boys in the middle rows who were messing around fell silent for half a second.

Zhao Dazhuang in the back row didn't even lift his head, his face buried in his arms, his voice muffled as if it came from inside the desk: "If we're not going to the Cafeteria, what are we eating?"

"Just wait."

Fang Jiming finished saying this and walked out of the classroom with his lesson plans.

Zhao Dazhuang peeked one eye out from the gap in his arms and turned to Ma Xiaotiao beside him: "What does he mean?"

Ma Xiaotiao shook his head: "I don't know, but he said to wait, so let's just wait."

"What if he's trying to starve us?"

"Is your brain fried from pulling all-nighters at the internet cafe? Which homeroom teacher would starve their own students?"

Zhao Dazhuang thought about it, felt it made sense, and buried his face back into his arms.

The girl in the front row quietly turned her head: "Do you guys think Teacher Fang is planning some kind of activity?"

"Planning an activity and not letting us go to the Cafeteria?"

"Maybe it's a class party?"

"Forget it. He's only been here a few days and he's already doing a class party? Where would the money come from?"

No one could answer this question, and the buzzing discussion in the classroom was kept very low.

In the hallway, he took out his phone and called Old Zhang.

"Uncle Zhang, when the vehicles arrive, let them in and have them drive straight to the entrance of the teaching building to unload."

"What vehicles? It wouldn't be those eighty-thousand-yuan chairs again, would it?"

"Not chairs. It's food."

"Food? What kind of food needs to be delivered by vehicle?"

Fang Jiming didn't answer and hung up the phone.

11:28 AM.

Old Zhang was leaning back in his chair in the guardhouse listening to storytelling, when the corner of his eye caught a line of vehicles stopped outside the school gate.

Not one. Three.

Leading the way was a white cold-chain delivery truck, with the golden-stamped logo of Restaurant's high-end private chef customization printed on the side, followed by two smaller box trucks of the same model. The three vehicles were lined up neatly in front of the rusty iron gate of No. 19 Middle School.

Old Zhang sprang up from his chair.

He had lived for fifty-eight years and had been guarding the gate at No. 19 Middle School for eighteen years; the most decent car he had ever seen was the black Passat that came when the Education Bureau did inspections.

Now, there were three shiny delivery trucks parked at the gate, their chrome decorations reflecting the midday sun, juxtaposed with the school's iron gate which had half its paint peeled off. The scene was so absurd it made one want to laugh.

The passenger door of the first vehicle opened, and a young man wearing a black suit vest, a white shirt, and white gloves stepped out, holding a tablet as he walked toward the guardhouse.

"Hello, may I ask if this is Nanqiao No. 19 Middle School?"

Old Zhang nodded blankly.

"We are the delivery team from Restaurant. Our client, Mr. Fang, has booked 38 portions of the A set meal to be delivered to the Grade 12 teaching building. May we be allowed to enter?"

Old Zhang looked at the young man in front of him, who was dressed like a five-star hotel lobby manager, and then turned to look at the three vehicles behind him.

"You haven't come to the wrong place, have you?"

"Mr. Fang, Fang Jiming, is a teacher at this school, right?"

"Yes, it's him." Old Zhang swallowed hard and hurriedly pulled the iron gate open, the rusted hinges creaking loudly. "You can come in."

The three delivery trucks drove into the campus one after another. Their white bodies rolled over the potholed concrete road, the creaking of the suspension springs and the sound of gravel grinding together, sounding exceptionally clear in the quiet campus.

It was lunch time, and quite a few students were walking from the teaching building toward the Cafeteria.

The first one to notice the convoy was a boy from a class in Grade 11 who was munching on bread on the road. When he saw the three shiny white delivery trucks driving in from the school gate, the bread almost got stuck in his throat.

"Holy cow, what are these cars? Delivering packages?"

"Doesn't look like it. Look at the logo on the car, Restaurant. Isn't that the super expensive private chef brand in Nanqiao?"

"Private chef? Delivered to our school? There must be a mistake, right?"

The three vehicles parked in a line at the entrance of the teaching building. The rear doors opened simultaneously, and six waiters wearing matching black vests, white shirts, and white gloves jumped out one by one and began moving things out of the cargo hold.

Silver insulated boxes were lifted out, stacked one on top of the other.

The outer shell of the insulated boxes had the texture of brushed stainless steel, with the Restaurant brand logo engraved on the side. The corners of the boxes were wrapped in soft leather anti-collision strips, and each box had a handwritten number card attached to it.

One waiter opened the lid of one of the insulated boxes to check it, and steam billowed out. A rich aroma of beef, so strong it made one's legs go weak, spread out at the entrance of the teaching building.

The students passing by all stopped.

A dozen or so students walking from the direction of the Cafeteria also stopped.

On the corridors of every floor of the teaching building, several teachers stopped and leaned over to look down.

Old Liu was walking down from the fifth floor holding an enamel mug when he glanced out as he passed the stairwell window.

He saw three white delivery trucks, six waiters in formal wear, and silver insulated boxes scattered all over the ground.

Then he saw Fang Jiming walk out of the teaching building, hands in his pockets, his forty-yuan canvas shoes treading softly as he walked up to the waiters and said something.

The lead waiter bowed slightly to him, then turned and signaled the others to start moving the insulated boxes into the teaching building.

Old Liu: ( ゜ ρ ゜ ) ノ

The hand holding the enamel mug shook, and hot water splashed out, scalding the web of his thumb, but he didn't even have time to cry out in pain, his eyes fixed on the scene downstairs.

On the other end of the fifth-floor corridor, Teacher Wen Ruyan also walked out.

She had been drawn out by the aroma of grilled Wagyu beef.

The entire teaching building of No. 19 Middle School was permeated year-round with the mixed smell of chalk dust and old desks. Suddenly, a scent of meat comparable to the kitchen of a high-end Restaurant wafted in; anyone with a normal sense of smell would be hooked into coming out to take a look.

Teacher Wen Ruyan leaned on the railing of the fifth-floor corridor and looked down.

Then she saw six waiters wearing white gloves walking in a line into the first floor of the teaching building, carrying silver insulated boxes, heading in the direction of the Class 18, Grade 12 classroom.

Teacher Wen Ruyan froze for three seconds.

Teacher Wen Ruyan: ( ꒪ ⌓ ꒪ )

Teacher Fang's words from this morning, "You'll regret it if you go to the Cafeteria," spun around and around in her head.

She gripped the railing and leaned half her body out to look down, just in time to see Fang Jiming with his hands in his pockets, following behind the waiters toward the classroom, his expression as indifferent as if he were supervising a renovation, without a hint of extra emotion.

Teacher Wen Ruyan's fingernails dug an indentation into the rust on the railing.

His monthly salary is three thousand seven hundred.

He bought an eighty-thousand-yuan chair.

And now, he's called for a private chef delivery service that looks completely out of his price range.

What exactly is this guy's background?

She bit her lip and stood in front of the railing for ten seconds, then turned and walked quickly toward Class 18, the sound of her high heels tapping densely on the concrete steps.

She decided to go see for herself.