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一根跳绳把我接进了这个班
我叫林小满，四年级上学期转到现在这个学校。来之前我以为，新学校最难的是记不住教室在哪。后来才发现，最难的是课间。上课大家都有事情做，老师会讲，同学会答，谁也不会注意到谁。可下课铃一响，教室里的人一下子就散开了，三三两两凑在一起，笑声从这里跑到那里。我站在座位边上，假装整理文具盒，把铅笔拿出来又放回去。不知道可以走向哪里。
第一个课间是这样过的，第二个也是。我妈问我学校怎么样，我说挺好的，老师讲课听得懂。她问我有没有朋友，我想了半天，说同桌借过我一块橡皮。其实那不是不好，只是还没有什么让我一想到学校就忍不住笑的事情。
变化是从跳绳开始的。体育课要测跳绳，我一分钟只能跳十几个，绳子甩起来总是绊脚。那天课间，我拿着绳下楼，想找个没人的地方自己练。刚走到操场边，几个女生抱着绳过来了，是坐我前排的周雨他们。周雨说，一个人跳没意思，我们带你。我说不太会。她说，没关系，我们摇慢一点，你看着绳进来就跳。
她们真的摇得很慢，慢到绳几乎是在空中飘。我一开始还是绊，绊了七八次，脸都热了。摇绳的男生把绳递给我，说你先甩一下再跳，别光等着。我照着做，绳子打到鞋带，又打到脚踝。周雨在旁边数，别停，再来一个。到第四十次左右，我忽然连续跳了三个。她们全围过来数，四、五、六，声音大得旁边打球的男生都回头看。
后来每个课间我们都跳。她们还发明了新玩法，叫钻山洞：长绳甩出一个大圈，我钻进去站在中间，绳从脚下过，她们喊，山洞里的人跳两下。我跳两下再出来，换她们钻。有一次我钻到一半绳停了，她们不怪我，反而笑成一团，说山洞塌了，重新搭。那天我回家跟我妈说，我今天跳了三十一个。我说的时候声音特别大，因为我自己在心里也吓了一跳。
再往后，我不等别人来叫我，会自己抱着绳下楼。路过小卖部的时候，同学会回头喊我一起。有一次我鞋带开了，蹲下来系，系完抬头，他们都在前面等我，没有人先走。那个瞬间我忽然明白了一件事：我以前总觉得这个学校是别人的，我是借住在这里的。可那根绳甩起来的时候，没有人把我当外人。
现在下课铃响，我是往操场跑的那一个。跳绳、钻山洞、或者只是站在跑道边看别人追人，我都觉得踏实。课间这十分钟，教会我的不是怎么跳得更多，而是怎么从站在边上的人，变成站在中间的人。我喜欢这所学校，就是从这些课间开始的。一根跳绳把我接进了这个班，而我喜欢上这里，是从喜欢这里的课间开始的。
A Jump Rope That Welcomed Me Into the Class
My name is Lin Xiaoman. I moved to this school in the first term of fourth grade. Before coming, I thought the hardest part would be finding my classroom. I later found out the hardest part is the break between classes. In class everyone has something to do: the teacher talks, students answer, and nobody notices anybody. But when the bell rings, the room scatters in seconds. People gather in twos and threes, and laughter runs from one corner to another. I stood by my desk, pretending to tidy my pencil case, taking pencils out and putting them back, not knowing where I could walk to.
The first break passed like that, and the second too. My mother asked how school was. I said fine, I understood the lessons. She asked if I had friends. I thought for a long time and said my deskmate once lent me an eraser. It was not that things were bad. There was simply nothing yet that made me smile just by thinking about school.
The change began with a jump rope. Our PE class had a rope test, and I could only manage a dozen jumps a minute; the rope always caught my feet. One break I took my rope downstairs, hoping to practice where nobody would see. Near the field, several girls came over with a long rope. Zhou Yu sits in front of me. She said, jumping alone is no fun, we will take you. I said I was not good at it. She said it does not matter; we will swing it slowly, and you jump when you see it come.
They really swung it slowly, so slowly that the rope almost floated through the air. I still tripped at first, seven or eight times, my face burning. The boy swinging handed me the rope and said, turn it once yourself first, do not just wait. I did as he said; the rope hit my shoelace, then my ankle. Zhou Yu counted beside me, saying do not stop, one more. Around the fortieth try, I suddenly landed three jumps in a row. They all gathered around counting, four, five, six, so loudly that boys playing ball nearby turned to look.
After that we jumped every break. They invented a new game called the cave: the long rope swings a big arc, I run in and stand in the middle while the rope passes under my feet, and they shout, the person in the cave jumps twice. I jump twice and come out, and they take their turn. Once the rope stopped while I was halfway in. Nobody blamed me; they laughed in a bundle and said the cave had collapsed, so we would build it again. That day I told my mother I had done thirty-one jumps. I said it very loudly, because I myself could hardly believe it.
Later I stopped waiting to be called. I took my rope downstairs by myself. Passing the small shop, classmates would turn and call me along. Once my shoelace came undone and I squatted to tie it. When I looked up, they were all waiting ahead of me, nobody having gone first. In that moment I understood something: I had always felt this school belonged to other people and I was only staying here on loan. But when that rope was swinging, nobody treated me as an outsider.
Now when the bell rings, I am one of the ones running to the field. Jumping rope, crawling through the cave, or just standing by the track watching others chase each other, I feel settled. These ten minutes taught me more than how to jump more. They taught me how to move from standing at the edge to standing in the middle. I love this school, and it began with these breaks. A single jump rope took me into the class, and falling in love with this place began with loving its breaks.
毽子落在我脚边的那个课间
五年级之前，我的课间都在教室里过。坐在座位上看书，或者把下节课的书本摆好，再摆一遍。不是不喜欢热闹，是我不知道怎么加入。操场上的声音传上来，一层一层的，像另一个世界的动静。我趴在窗台看过很多次，看他们踢毽子，几个人围一圈，毽子落不下去。我想，那需要本事，我没有。
那个星期三的课间，我在走廊尽头的窗台边看书。走廊上有人踢毽子，声音啪、啪，很脆。忽然一颗毽子滚过来，停在我鞋边。捡毽子的是个矮个子男生，扎着马尾，叫陈果。她看了看我，说，你帮我们接一下，掉了就捡，行不行。我合上书，说，好。
我本来只打算站着捡。可是毽子掉下来，我顺手往上一踢，它晃晃悠悠飞回去，落进了圈里。圈里的人哦了一声，陈果喊，会踢的会踢的，进来。我说不太会。她说，站着不动也行，它掉你脚边你就踢，掉地上就捡。就这样，我进了圈。
那节课间我踢到了四下。第五下没踢住，毽子从脚边滑过去，几个人同时扑上去救，像抢什么东西。没有人笑我，她们喊的是，再来再来。后来我才知道，这个圈是她们课间固定搭的，从四年级踢到五年级，谁路过都可以接一踢。规则只有一条：毽子落地，换人。
从那天起，我的课间变了。铃一响，我把书放回桌肚，下楼去走廊。有时候人齐，踢大圈；有时候只有两三个人，就对着踢，比谁接得多。我书包侧兜里从此插着一根羽毛毽子，是我妈在文具店买的，五块钱。有一次毽子踢上了香樟树，挂在枝上，全圈的人仰头看，体育老师路过问怎么了，陈果一本正经地说，毽子飞走了，正在谈判。老师也仰头看了一会儿。
六年级上学期分班，我去了别的班，原来的毽子圈还在走廊尽头。第一次下课我特意绕过去，圈里多了两个不认识的女生。我站在边上没动，陈果从圈里把毽子踢给我，说，老规矩，落地换人。我接住，踢回去。那一刻走廊的风是凉的，我心里是热的。
现在有人问我喜不喜欢这个学校，我不说老师，也不说成绩，我说的是课间。我说走廊上啪啪的踢毽子声，说毽子挂在树上的那个中午，说落地换人的规矩。一颗毽子落在我脚边之前，校园是校园，我是我。它落下来之后，校园里有了一块地方是我的。原来喜欢上一所学校，常常不是从什么大事开始的，是从一个课间、一颗毽子、一句进来玩吧开始的。
The Break When a Shuttlecock Landed at My Feet
Before fifth grade, I spent every break in the classroom. I sat at my desk reading, or lined up the books for the next lesson, then lined them up again. It was not that I disliked noise. I simply did not know how to join in. The sounds from the playground rose floor by floor, like a world on the other side. I leaned on the windowsill many times, watching them kick shuttlecocks in a circle, the feathered bird never touching the ground. I thought that took real skill, and I had none.
On a Wednesday break, I was reading by the window at the end of the corridor. Someone nearby was kicking a shuttlecock, pat, pat, a crisp sound. Suddenly a shuttlecock rolled over and stopped beside my shoe. The girl who picked it up was short, with a ponytail, named Chen Guo. She looked at me and said, help us out, just pick it up when it falls, okay. I closed my book and said, okay.
I had planned only to stand and fetch. But when the shuttlecock dropped, I kicked it back up on instinct. It wobbled home and landed inside the circle. The players cried out in surprise, and Chen Guo shouted, she can play, she can play, come in. I said I was not really good. She said you can just stand still; kick it when it reaches your feet, pick it up when it hits the floor. Just like that, I was in the circle.
That break I got four kicks. On the fifth the shuttlecock slid past my foot, and several people dived to save it at once, as if fighting over treasure. Nobody laughed at me. What they shouted was, again, again. Only later did I learn this circle had been a fixed break-time tradition since fourth grade, and anyone passing could take a kick. There was only one rule: when the shuttlecock lands, you take its place.
From that day my breaks changed. When the bell rang, I put my book into the desk and went down to the corridor. Sometimes the whole circle showed up and we kicked in a big ring; sometimes only two or three came, and we kicked face to face, seeing who could keep it up longer. A five-yuan feather shuttlecock from the stationery shop, bought by my mother, has lived in my bag pocket ever since. Once a kick sent it up into the camphor tree, where it hung from a branch. The whole circle tilted their heads back to stare. A PE teacher passing by asked what happened, and Chen Guo answered with a straight face that the shuttlecock had flown away and they were in negotiations with it. The teacher also looked up for a while.
In the first term of sixth grade the classes were reshuffled, and I moved to another class. The shuttlecock circle was still at the end of that corridor. My first break there I made a special detour. Two unfamiliar girls were in the circle. I stood at the edge without moving. Chen Guo kicked the shuttlecock out to me and said, same old rule, land and take over. I caught it and kicked it back. The wind in the corridor was cold; something inside me was not.
Now when people ask whether I like this school, I do not mention teachers or grades. I talk about breaks. I talk about the pat-pat sound in the corridor, the noon the shuttlecock got stuck in the tree, the rule of landing and taking over. Before that shuttlecock fell at my feet, the school was the school and I was I. After it fell, a piece of the school belonged to me. It turns out that falling in love with a school rarely begins with something grand. It begins with one break, one shuttlecock, and one sentence: come play.
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