Clock in.

I am in the eighth grade.

Last Friday evening, our class group chat was flooded with messages once again. The parent committee posted a message stating, “Who hasn’t completed the ‘Youth Learning’ assignment yet? Please reply in a thread by 3:00 PM,” prompting students to promptly submit screenshots as proof of completion.

The submitted screenshots varied widely in quality. Some were poorly framed; others displayed a battery level of merely 8%; a few even retained remnants of the Douyin interface—indicating that the students had taken screenshots immediately after browsing videos, with time stamps less than a minute apart. One student took it a step further by resending a screenshot from the previous week without even cropping out the date. A keen-eyed classmate captured this screenshot and shared it in a private group, sparking laughter throughout the evening.

In my case, my mother completed the assignment on my behalf. After dinner, she sat on the sofa with my phone, played the video until the end, took a screenshot upon seeing the “Completion Confirmed” screen, posted it in the group chat, and then added my name to the completion thread. The entire process took four and a half minutes. While doing so, she remarked to my father, “This child has more school-related tasks than I do at work.”

On one occasion, she was overly hasty and immediately posted the screenshot to the class group with the caption, “XXX has completed this week’s Youth Learning assignment.” The teacher responded with a thumbs-up emoji and commented, “XXX’s mother is truly responsible; everyone should take note.” My mother was pleased and showed me the message. I stared at it for a long time, hesitant to admit that I had been playing games beside her throughout those four and a half minutes. As for the content of the video, I cannot recall a single detail.

Such incidents are commonplace in our school—to such an extent that I occasionally feel that a significant portion of attending school revolves around merely “proving that one has attended.”

Consider eye exercises, for instance. Every afternoon after the second class, the intercom system reliably announces, “Exercise 1: Massage the Jingming acupoint.” The entire class then covers their faces with their hands and closes their eyes, waiting for the five-minute period to pass. To be candid, not a single student positions their hands correctly—myself included.

Once, I noticed a boy in the front row closing his eyes while gently tapping the edge of his desk in rhythm, as if counting beats. I nearly laughed aloud and quickly buried my face in my arms. Another class was penalized that week for having a student who kept his eyes open during the exercise; it later transpired that the student’s contact lens had shifted, causing significant discomfort and tears, prompting him to rub his eye—actions that led to his name being recorded.

Our class once again achieved a perfect score this week. The homeroom teacher praised us during class meeting, stating that our awareness of eye protection had improved. Someone whispered under his breath, “My myopia has worsened by another fifty degrees,” only to be elbowed sharply by his deskmate.

The most elaborate event is the open class. The teacher prepares a list of students who will be called upon to answer questions—specifying which question they will answer, what their response will be, and where they should stand—well in advance. Those selected must even write their answers on scratch paper beforehand; the teacher’s exact words were, “Do not falter during the presentation, as that would reflect poorly.”

On the day of the open class, a row of teachers from other schools sat at the back of the classroom, cameras in hand. We all sat upright, the atmosphere more tense than during an exam. In reality, the lesson had already been taught the previous week; even the teacher’s line, “This is a valuable question—who would like to add to the discussion?” was a reiteration of previously used wording.

During the group discussion segment, we engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate, leaning close to one another and speaking in hushed tones. In truth, the group leader had already written down the conclusion; we were merely performing the act of “discussing” — exaggerating our voices and leaning closer to ensure the cameras captured the illusion of active participation.

As soon as the bell rang, the teachers at the back applauded, and we followed suit, all sighing in relief simultaneously. The second class took place in the same classroom; the teacher flipped to the page from the previous week and remarked, “We will review this lesson again; consider last time’s session as a preview.”

Another instance involved completing a psychological assessment form, purportedly required by higher authorities for archival purposes. The teacher instructed from the front of the class, “Fill it out carefully and honestly.” I half-believed her until she added, “This form will be placed in your academic file; think carefully before answering.”

The initial dozen or so questions were straightforward—regarding sleep, exercise, and relationships with peers—and I proceeded smoothly. However, I paused at a particular question: “Do you feel happy recently?” with response options ranging from “Very happy” to “Not very happy” to “Uncertain.” I stared at it for a long time.

Not because I had an answer, but because I suddenly realized I did not know how to respond. If I chose “Not very happy,” the form would enter my academic file and accompany me until graduation; I feared the implications—whether someone would summon me for a discussion, notify my mother, or spread the information throughout the class. If I chose “Very happy,” I admitted that I had experienced a few days of genuine happiness—though my recent exam performance had been poor, and my mother had discovered my成绩单 and lectured me for forty minutes. I felt utterly disengaged and saw no point in continuing. Yet those few days did constitute “recently.” I glanced around; the girl in front of me had already moved on to the next page, her pen never pausing. Several boys in the back laughed while filling out the form, remarking, “Choosing B for all options is definitely safe.” I also selected B.

When submitting the forms, the teacher stacked them neatly, clipped them together, and remarked casually, “Our class demonstrates a generally positive mindset; no one requires special attention—very good.” She said this as if commenting on a trivial matter, yet I clearly recall seeing someone pause at that very question for a long time—that someone was me.

Volunteer service also constitutes a notable example. The school mandates twenty hours of community service per semester; otherwise, the “comprehensive quality assessment” column remains blank, adversely affecting future evaluations for academic honors.

Last weekend, we went to a community center for our “service” activity. Over twenty students gathered at the school gate under the class flag, each holding a garbage bag. After a ten-minute walk to the residential area, we began collecting trash.

After approximately five minutes, the homeroom teacher intervened: “Stop collecting trash for now and come here to take photos.” We stood in a row, the class flag held aloft, garbage bags in hand, all smiling broadly. Photos were taken in both portrait and landscape orientations; an additional shot depicted us “actively collecting trash”—crouching on the ground, reaching for a non-existent bottle, with expressions of delighted discovery. The entire process took fifteen minutes, of which only five minutes were spent actually collecting trash.

An elderly woman observing us asked, “Which school are you from? Doing good deeds, aren’t you?” The class representative promptly replied, “Auntie, could you step aside? You’re blocking the light.” The photos were posted in the parents’ group chat with the caption, “Our class engaged in volunteer service,” accompanied by a flurry of likes from parents. My mother sent me five yuan, saying, “Well done.” In total, we spent forty minutes there; upon returning, our garbage bags remained empty, with several not even opened.

The cafeteria presented similarly contrived scenarios. This semester, the school enforces a “clean plate” policy; designated monitors record the names of students who waste food, and those recorded three times in a week must have their parents notified. Consequently, students devised various tricks. Some wrapped disliked pieces of fatty meat in napkins and concealed them in their palms to discard later in a trash can near the teaching building. Others stuffed vegetables into empty yogurt cartons. My deskmate went even further: he ate every grain of rice on his plate, then returned to the classroom and pretended to have a stomachache for the entire afternoon. When I asked why he ate so quickly, he replied, “If I waste food, my name gets recorded; if recorded, the teacher will reprimand me. Eating everything is simpler than enduring a scolding.”

Indeed, the trash bins have become emptier. Yet yesterday, I found three intact portions of stir-fried pancakes in a trash can in the hallway—the oil had not yet soaked through the paper.

The “burden reduction” questionnaire was even more direct. The teacher stood at the front of the class, handed out the forms, and instructed, “All answer A; this affects the school’s evaluation.” I glanced at the question: “How do you perceive your current homework load? A. Moderate B. Excessive C. Very excessive.” One night, I worked on my homework until 1:00 AM; I copied the answers to the last two challenging math problems from the Internet, as I genuinely could not solve them. The assignment was due the next day, and failure to submit it would result in standing punishment.

I looked up at the teacher; she was not looking at me but gazing out the window. I filled in A.

As I handed in my paper, I heard someone in the back whisper, “I chose C.” His deskmate replied, “Are you crazy?” Moments later, I saw him being called to the office. He returned silent, holding a new form, and quickly filled it out—this time choosing A.

None of these, however, compare to the day of the “Double Reduction policy inspection.” That day was Thursday. The day before, immediately after the last class, the intercom system announced that class representatives should collect new materials from the academic affairs office. Upon returning, the representative held a stack of papers, looking uneasy. The homeroom teacher examined them, removed the old timetable from the wall, and meticulously affixed the new one, pressing down each corner with transparent tape.

She then stood at the front of the class and delivered a lengthy explanation. In essence, she said: “An inspection will take place tomorrow to evaluate the implementation of the ‘Double Reduction’ policy. Starting today and continuing through tomorrow, everyone must follow the new timetable. Memorize it thoroughly—especially,” she tapped the blackboard twice, “the third period on Thursday morning, which is now designated for physical education.”

A murmur of surprise arose; the third period on Thursday had always been English, a fact known to every student in the class. The teacher glanced at the murmuring student and emphasized, “It is physical education. Remember: physical education.” She further stressed that the inspection team would “inspect backpacks” and that no purchased exercise books were allowed in class the next day.

That evening, she posted a photo of the new timetable in the group chat, asking parents to take note and urging them to “cooperate with the school.” My mother held up her phone and asked, “Why do you have an extra art class on Wednesday afternoon?” I replied that I did not know. She questioned, “Wasn’t the purpose of the policy to reduce burdens? Why are there more classes?” I again replied that I did not know. She took a photo and said, “Fine, I’ll make a note of it.”

Upon arriving the next morning, the homeroom teacher opened a hidden compartment beneath the lectern and neatly arranged the exercise books that some students had inadvertently brought. The arrangement was truly exquisite.

During the third period in the morning, the English teacher entered the classroom. All of us watched her. She placed her lesson plan on the lectern and said, “We will not have English class today; this period is designated for physical education.” No one dared to respond. After a brief pause, she added, “Put away your English textbooks and line up outside.” We formed a queue in the corridor, descended the stairs, and proceeded to the playground. The physical education teacher was already waiting there, holding a whistle in his hand, his expression calm as if the scenario had been rehearsed. He first had us run two laps, followed by several warm-up exercises, after which we were allowed free activity.

The weather that day was pleasant, and the sunlight induced drowsiness. Most students sat under the basketball hoops basking in the sun, while a few boys played soccer. My deskmate took out a crumpled English test paper from his pocket and secretly wrote on it behind the equipment room, glancing toward the entrance of the playground every few lines. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “I didn’t understand this grammar point; besides, sitting idle is still sitting idle.”

Most surprisingly, the inspection team indeed arrived. Comprising three or four individuals, they walked to the edge of the playground, stood there for a while, and exchanged a few words with the physical education teacher. Being nearby, I heard one of them ask, “How many physical education classes do you have per week?” The teacher replied, “Five.” I did a quick calculation: in reality, we only had two such classes per week, and one of them was frequently “borrowed” by other teachers. Since the beginning of the semester, the number of times we had actually gone outdoors for exercise could be counted on one hand.

They then turned to ask several students. Those questioned had been specifically retained by the homeroom teacher after school the previous day for about twenty minutes. Their answers came swiftly and in unison: “Five classes.” “The homework load is light.” “Sleep duration is sufficient.” “There is no extracurricular tutoring.” The inspection team members nodded, made a few notes on their papers, and left.

Approximately five minutes after they departed the school premises, the physical education teacher blew the whistle and announced, “Gather up and return to the classroom.” We returned to our seats, some catching their breath, others drinking water. The English teacher entered the room, reopened her lesson plan, and said, “Very well, let us make up for yesterday’s lesson.” She taught for a full one-and-a-half periods, extending the class until the bell for the next period rang. At the end of the class, she remarked, “This unit will be tested next week; please hurry up and review.”

During the morning self-study session the following day, I glanced at the timetable on the wall—it had been reverted to the old version. The previous timetable was once again displayed, indicating English class during the third period on Thursday. The residue of transparent tape remained on the wall; when removed, it had peeled off a small patch of plaster, revealing the grayish-white concrete beneath. I do not know whether that patch was repaired later.

Even the labor class now requires homework submission, with the standard being a photo for attendance check. My mother stir-fried a dish of shredded potatoes; I posed for a photograph standing beside the stove, smiling radiantly as if I had prepared the dish myself. The photo was submitted and received a grade of “excellent.” In the end, my mother ate the shredded potatoes herself; I did not touch them, as I simply do not know how to use a stove.

Class meetings follow the same pattern: photos must be taken and subsequently sent to the parents’ group. The class president is responsible for reminding everyone to “sit up straight, look at the camera, and smile.” In the photos, we appear neatly seated, our gazes uniformly directed toward the blackboard, which bears the words “Be exemplary youths of the new era.” Three seconds after the shutter clicked, everyone instantly slumped back into their chairs—those with homework hurried to complete it, while others took the opportunity to sleep. The words on the blackboard were erased the next day, as they were needed for an upcoming open-class demonstration.

During the mid-morning exercise period, we were required to shout slogans—“One, two, three, four…”—the louder the better, as teachers on the rostrum would score us accordingly. Our class sports representative’s voice became hoarse; he went home to drink Banlangen decoction but continued shouting the next day. Yet, as soon as the formation dispersed, some students immediately began discussing the TV drama they had watched the night before, their voices even louder than when shouting the slogans.

Yesterday afternoon after school, I passed by the playground and saw first-year junior high students also taking photos for a volunteer service activity. The class flag was held in the center, and each student held an empty trash bag, smiling brightly—just as I had done the previous month. Three seconds after the shutter clicked, someone remarked, “Finally, it’s done,” and everyone collectively sighed in relief.

I stood there for a while without approaching, then turned and walked toward the teachers’ office—the English teacher had asked me to retrieve the exercise books. A few teachers remained in the office, all buried in their work. Our English teacher sat at the desk near the door, a thick booklet spread before her, with double-sided tape and scissors beside it. She was pasting photos into the booklet, one by one, writing a few lines of text beside each photo after pasting.

I knocked and announced my presence. She looked up at me, paused briefly, and said the exercise books were on the desk for me to take. I took a few steps forward and happened to see the page spread open in the booklet: a photo of our class holding the class flag in the community. In the photo, everyone was smiling, the trash bags in their hands empty. The accompanying text, written in her hand, read, “Through this activity, students profoundly understood the significance of labor.” She also noticed that I was looking at the photo.

Without saying a word, she turned the page, picked up the next photo, and continued pasting. In that moment, I suddenly realized: she knew everything. She knew the trash bags were empty that day, that the open-class demonstration was a rerun, how the “A” responses on the questionnaire had been fabricated, that the “physical education” class on Thursday morning was actually English, and that a patch of plaster had been removed when the old timetable was torn down. She knew far more than we did—because she was the one who pasted each photo into the booklet, wrote each line of text, and stacked each notebook.

Yet she still had to continue pasting. I recalled the day she extended the class until the bell rang, saying, “This unit will be tested next week; please hurry up and review.” She was the one who changed physical education to English and later reverted it back to physical education. While performing this role, she still had to make up for the actual lesson, because the exam was real, the grades were real, and the high school entrance examination two years later was real.

When I left the teachers’ office, it was nearly dark. The timetables in the corridor had all been replaced with the old versions; the new set of papers had presumably been put away. I walked toward the school gate, carrying my backpack. I had always thought that teachers merely asked us to perform on stage while they watched from below. That day I realized that teachers, too, were on stage, with someone else watching over them.

I do not know who those people are. But I know that, counting upward from our floor, on every level someone is pasting photos, on every level someone is tearing down timetables, and on every level someone is performing while sighing—only to continue pasting the next photo afterward.