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林老师借我的那把伞
十月二十一日 星期二 大雨
下午最后一节课是做题。我做着做着朝教室窗外一看，雨正哗哗地下，窗外的梧桐树被冲得发白，叶子一垂一垂的。教学楼屋檐下的水连成一条小瀑布，操场早就看不见了。同学们的家长陆陆续续送伞来，一个接一个地走。我想起今天早上出门急，伞忘在鞋柜上了。妈妈今天加班，爸爸出差不在家。我趴在座位上假装收拾书包，心里盘算着能不能一路雨跑回家。
林老师走进来了。她是我们的班主任，教语文。她看了看教室里剩下的几个同学，问：是不是有人忘带伞了？我的手举起来一半，又放下去，她又点到我。她把手里那把黑长柄伞递给我：拿去用。我家方向跟你家顺路，我送你到楼下。
走在路上，她把伞往我这边偏，我往她那边推，她再往我这边偏。雨点打在伞面上，砰砰的，像一把一把的豆子撒在伞上。路上的水漫到脚踝，林老师说，踩砖头那块，砖头高。我就照着踩砖头，果然水花小多了。她问我最近课文背得怎么样，我说背得磕磕巴巴，她说磕磕巴巴也是背下来了，再读两遍就顺了。
很快就到我家楼下。我说谢谢老师，她说快上去吧，鞋湿了记得换。我掏钥匙开门的时候回头看了一眼，林老师已经转身往雨里走了。雨太大，她的外套上洇开一块一块的深色，贴在背上。她怀里抱着一个文件夹，那是下午要改的试卷。她抱着文件夹护在胸前，伞斜斜地举着，我站在楼道口看她，一直看到她拐过街角。
我把伞收进来，发现伞尖上有一根伞骨是断过的，用透明胶带缠了一圈，缠得歪歪的，像是修过好几回。晚上我打开书包，从伞带里滑出一张小纸条：明早还有雨，早出门十分钟，靠路里侧走。——林老师。我把纸条夹进文具盒，第二天还是没舍得用，一直夹着。
第二天我把伞还给林老师，说老师你伞上断了一根骨，我爸爸修东西可厉害了，让他帮您修修。林老师摆摆手说不用，还能挡雨。我知道，能挡雨的伞，就是护过我的伞。
晚上我把这件事写进日记。窗外的雨停了，可我还记得雨打在伞面上砰砰的声音，记得林老师湿透的背影，记得她从雨里走回来的那几步路。
The Umbrella Miss Lin Lent Me
October 21st, Tuesday, heavy rain
The last class of the afternoon was practice problems. Working away, I glanced out the classroom window: the rain was pouring down, the plane trees outside washed pale, their leaves hanging down in droops. Water from the teaching building's eaves joined into a little waterfall, and the playground had long since disappeared. Parents arrived one after another with umbrellas, and students left one by one. I remembered that in my rush this morning I had left my umbrella on the shoe cabinet. Mom was working overtime today, and Dad was away on business. I slumped over my desk pretending to tidy my schoolbag, calculating whether I could sprint home through the rain.
Miss Lin walked in. She is our homeroom teacher and teaches Chinese. She looked at the few students still in the classroom and asked: did someone forget an umbrella? My hand rose halfway and dropped again, but she called on me anyway. She handed me the long-handled black umbrella in her hand: take it. My way home passes your place, so I will walk you to your building.
On the road she kept tilting the umbrella toward me; I pushed it toward her; she tilted it back to me. Raindrops hammered the canopy, thump thump, like handfuls of beans scattered on the umbrella. The water on the road reached our ankles. Miss Lin said: step on the brick part, the bricks are higher. I stepped on the bricks as she said, and sure enough the splashes were much smaller. She asked how my recitation of the recent texts was going. I said haltingly. She said halting is still memorized — read it twice more and it will flow.
Soon we reached my building. I said thank you, Teacher. She said: hurry upstairs, and change your shoes if they got wet. As I fished out my key, I looked back, and Miss Lin had already turned and walked back into the rain. The rain was so heavy that dark patches spread across her jacket, clinging to her back. She held a folder against her chest — the test papers she had to grade that afternoon. She cradled the folder, the umbrella slanted, and I stood at the entrance of our stairwell watching her until she turned the corner.
When I brought the umbrella in, I noticed one rib near the tip had broken before and was wrapped with clear tape, wrapped crookedly, as if repaired many times. That evening as I opened my schoolbag, a small note slid out of the umbrella strap: More rain tomorrow morning. Leave ten minutes earlier and walk on the inner side of the road. — Miss Lin. I tucked the note into my pencil case and never brought myself to use it.
The next day I returned the umbrella and said: Teacher, one rib is broken. My dad is great at fixing things — let him repair it for you. Miss Lin waved her hand: no need, it still keeps the rain off. I knew it: an umbrella that keeps the rain off is an umbrella that once sheltered me.
That evening I wrote it all in my diary. The rain outside had stopped, but I could still hear it thumping on the umbrella, still see Miss Lin's soaked back, still see those few steps of hers walking back into the rain.
周老师跑进了雨里
四月二十二日 星期三 大雨
放学铃响的时候，窗外的大雨像有人从天上往下倒水。窗玻璃一下子就蒙了一层白雾，操场、旗杆、校门，全都糊成了一片。我背着书包站在教室后门，看着雨帘一层压着一层，不敢迈出去。我家离学校走路要一刻钟，我没带伞。
数学周老师拎着公文包从办公室出来。他看见我站在那儿，问：忘带伞了？我点头。他把手里那把黄伞往我怀里一塞：拿去。我有雨衣。我说老师那您淋湿了怎么办，他说这点雨淋不坏大人，快回家。
他确实有雨衣，一件透明的薄塑料雨衣，薄得能看见里面的衬衫。他把我送到我家楼下，又看着我走进单元门才放心。一路上风把他的雨衣吹得鼓起来，他就用手按住，雨点打在塑料上噼噼啪啪，比打在伞上响多了。他边走边说，路上慢点，别踩井盖边上，那儿滑。我说知道了老师，他又说一遍，那儿滑。我说知道了，他才不说了。
到了家门口告别的时候，还有一件事。我走进单元门回头，看见周老师转身跑进了雨里。他弓着背，把公文包顶在头上，脚上趿拉着学校换的拖鞋，跑起来拖鞋啪嗒啪嗒地溅水。我这才想起来，他下午在办公室换的是拖鞋。我站在楼道口看了好一会儿，他跑进雨里的那个背影，我记了一整个晚上。
第二天早上，周老师走进教室的时候鼻子红红的，嗓子哑了，讲课像含着一颗小石子。他一边讲一边打了两个喷嚏，可一个字也没提昨天。他在黑板角落用粉笔写了一行小字：雨天路滑，慢慢走。那行小字在黑板上留了一整个星期，谁都没舍得擦。
下午放学，我拿着黄伞去办公室还。周老师趴在桌上睡着了，胸口压着一摞刚改完的作业，红笔还握在手里，笔尖在纸上洇出一小团红。我把伞轻轻放在他桌角，又把那行黑板小字的事在心里说给他听——虽然他在睡觉，听不见。我带上门的时候，把门捏得没有一点声音。
那把黄伞现在立在我家门后。每回下雨妈妈拿它出门，我都叮嘱一句：这伞是我们数学老师给的。晚上我在日记里写：周老师跑进了雨里，等我快点长大，长大以后换我给他打伞。
Mr. Zhou Ran Into the Rain
April 22nd, Wednesday, heavy rain
When the dismissal bell rang, the rain outside the classroom window poured down as if someone up in the sky were tipping over a basin of water. The window glass fogged white in a moment; the playground, the flagpole, the school gate — all of it smeared into one blur. I stood at the back door of the classroom with my schoolbag on, watching layer after layer of rain curtains, not daring to step out. My home is a fifteen-minute walk from school, and I had no umbrella.
Mr. Zhou, the math teacher, came out of the staff room carrying his briefcase. Seeing me standing there, he asked: forgot your umbrella? I nodded. He pushed the yellow umbrella in his hand into my arms: take it. I have a raincoat. I said, Teacher, but you will get soaked. He said this little rain can't hurt a grown-up — go home quickly.
He did have a raincoat — a thin transparent plastic one, thin enough to see his shirt through. He walked me to the foot of my building and only relaxed when he saw me enter the stairwell door. All the way, the wind puffed his raincoat out, and he pressed it down with his hand; the raindrops crackled on the plastic, far louder than on an umbrella. As we walked he said: take it easy on the road, don't step near the manhole covers, they are slippery there. I said I knew, Teacher. He said it again: they are slippery there. I said I knew, and only then did he stop.
At the farewell at my door, one more thing happened. As I entered the stairwell I looked back and saw Mr. Zhou turn and run into the rain. He was hunched over with his briefcase balanced on his head, wearing the slippers he changes into at school, and they flapped splash-splash as he ran. Only then did I remember he had changed into slippers in the office that afternoon. I stood at the stairwell entrance watching for a long while. That back of his running into the rain stayed with me the whole evening.
The next morning Mr. Zhou walked into the classroom with a red nose and a hoarse voice, as if he were holding a small pebble while he taught. He sneezed twice mid-lesson but never mentioned yesterday. In the corner of the blackboard he wrote a small line in chalk: slippery roads on rainy days — walk slowly. That little line stayed on the blackboard the whole week, and nobody was willing to erase it.
After school in the afternoon I took the yellow umbrella to the staff room to return it. Mr. Zhou was asleep face-down on his desk, a stack of freshly graded homework pressed against his chest, the red pen still in his hand, its tip bleeding a small red bloom into the paper. I set the umbrella gently at the corner of his desk, and in my heart I told him about the little line on the blackboard — even though he was asleep and couldn't hear. When I pulled the door shut, I held it so softly it made no sound at all.
That yellow umbrella now stands behind our front door. Every time it rains and Mom takes it out, I remind her: this umbrella was given to me by our math teacher. That night I wrote in my diary: Mr. Zhou ran into the rain. When I grow up fast enough, it will be my turn to hold the umbrella over him.
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