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校门口的雨
放学铃响的时候，天已经黑得像倒扣了一口锅。林一峰站在校门口的雨棚下，看着雨帘把对面的梧桐树吞进去，只留下一团模糊的绿。雨点砸在棚顶上，像有人抓了一把石子往下撒。
他早上出门时妈妈递过伞，他嫌沉，塞回了门边。现在他盯着地上越积越深的水洼，后悔得脚趾抠紧。
雨越下越大。檐口的雨水连成了线，哗地一声接一声砸在水泥台阶上，溅起一圈白雾。校门口挤满了送伞的大人，伞面挨着伞面，红的蓝的黑的，像一朵朵开急了的花。每个大人都在踮脚往队伍里张望，每个孩子都在人群里找自己的爸妈。
同桌赵阳的爷爷最先挤进来，绿格子伞，伞骨断了一根。赵阳喊了声爷爷，钻到伞底下，两个人侧着身子从人缝里挪出去。接着是胖墩儿他妈，开着电动车停在斑马线外，胖墩儿蹚着水跑过去，裤脚甩出一串水花。前排几个女生被各自的家长领走，一个接一个，像被谁从队列里轻轻抽掉。
林一峰数着校门口剩下的伞。七把，五把，三把。他掏出电话手表，五点四十，没接。再打，还是没接。他想起爸爸上周加班到九点，手机静音是常事，可雨这么大，他心里像被泡进水洼，沉得慌。他忽然生出个念头：要是今天没人来，他就顶着书包跑回家，反正也就两公里。念头刚冒出来，鼻子先酸了。
最后一把伞也被牵走了。看门的老爷爷朝他喊：你家长一会儿肯定来。他点点头，盯着路口。
雨幕里冲出一辆电动车，没打伞，骑得歪歪扭扭，在台阶前急刹，差点滑倒。那人跳下来，裤腿湿到膝盖，头发贴在脑门上，手里攥着一把蓝伞——是爸爸。
“对不起对不起，开会手机静音。”爸爸喘着粗气，把伞撑到他头顶，又去拽他的书包带子，“等急了吧？”
林一峰摇头，喉咙里堵着东西。他钻进伞下，发现伞面低低地罩着自己这边，爸爸的左肩露在雨里，深灰夹克洇出一大片深色。他伸手把伞往那边推，爸爸又不动声色地推回来，像什么都没发生。
两个人踩着水往回走。雨声很大，谁也没说话，只有两双鞋一深一浅地踩水声。林一峰忽然发现，伞柄朝自己这边歪着的那只手，指节有点发白。
到家，妈妈问怎么这么晚。爸爸说路上堵。林一峰站在门口换鞋，看见爸爸鞋里的水在地板上印出两个脚印，慢慢洇开。他回屋写作业，写到一半，听见客厅里爸爸打电话，说明天那趟出差改坐高铁。窗外雨还在下，他忽然觉得，这场雨其实没那么讨厌。
Rain at the School Gate
When the dismissal bell rang, the sky was already black as an upturned pot. Lin Yifeng stood under the rain awning at the school gate, watching the curtain of rain swallow the plane tree across the street, leaving only a blurred patch of green. Raindrops hammered the awning like someone throwing down handfuls of stones.
In the morning his mother had handed him an umbrella, but he found it heavy and pushed it back by the door. Now he stared at the puddles growing deeper on the ground, regretting it so hard his toes clenched.
The rain fell harder and harder. Water from the eaves joined into lines, crashing onto the concrete steps one roar after another, splashing up rings of white mist. The school gate was packed with adults bringing umbrellas, canopy pressed against canopy, red, blue, black, like flowers blooming in a hurry. Every adult stood on tiptoe peering into the crowd of students, and every child searched the crowd for their own parent.
His deskmate Zhao Yang's grandfather pushed in first, with a green plaid umbrella missing one rib. Zhao Yang shouted Grandpa, ducked under the umbrella, and the two of them sidled out through the gaps between people. Then came Fatty's mother on an electric scooter parked outside the crosswalk; Fatty waded through the water to her, his trouser cuffs flinging a string of splashes. Several girls in the front row were led away by their parents, one after another, as if someone were gently pulling them out of the queue.
Lin Yifeng counted the umbrellas left at the gate. Seven, five, three. He took out his phone watch: 5:40, no answer. He called again, still no answer. He remembered his dad working overtime until nine last week; silent mode was normal, but with rain this heavy his heart sank like something soaked in a puddle. A thought suddenly rose in him: if nobody came today, he would run home with his schoolbag over his head, it was only two kilometers anyway. The thought had barely appeared when his nose stung first.
The last umbrella was led away too. The old gatekeeper called out to him: your parent will definitely come in a moment. He nodded and kept staring at the intersection.
An electric scooter burst out of the rain curtain without an umbrella, riding crooked and wobbling, braking hard in front of the steps and nearly skidding over. The man jumped off, trousers soaked to the knees, hair plastered to his forehead, a blue umbrella clutched in his hand - it was his dad.
Sorry, sorry, my phone was on silent during the meeting. Dad panted, pushed the umbrella over his head, and reached for his schoolbag strap. Did you wait long?
Lin Yifeng shook his head, something stuck in his throat. He slipped under the umbrella and found the canopy sitting low over his own side, while his father's left shoulder stayed out in the rain, the dark gray jacket spreading into a large wet patch. He reached out to push the umbrella toward his dad, who quietly pushed it back as if nothing had happened.
The two walked home through the water. The rain was loud, neither spoke, only two pairs of shoes splashing in and out of puddles. Lin Yifeng suddenly noticed that the hand holding the umbrella tilted toward him had whitened knuckles.
At home, his mother asked why they were so late. Dad said the traffic was bad. Standing at the door changing shoes, Lin Yifeng saw the water from his father's shoes leave two footprints on the floor, slowly spreading. He went to his room to do homework, and halfway through heard his father phoning from the living room, saying tomorrow's business trip would be by high-speed train instead. Outside the window the rain kept falling, and he suddenly felt this rain was not so hateful after all.
伞是斜的
老陈是在雨点砸到窗户上才发现变天的。会议室的窗帘被风掀起一角，他看见对面楼房的轮廓正在雨里融化。手机屏幕亮着，妻子十分钟前发过一句：儿子没带伞。他当时回了个“知道了”，现在才后悔这两个字回得太轻。
会还没散，他站起来跟领导说了句校门口没人接孩子。领导头也没抬：报告呢？他抓起椅背上的外套往外走，身后报告的事被雨声盖过去了。
楼下那辆旧电动车已经积了层水。他拧开钥匙，车灯在雨里只照出眼前一小团白。路口的积水漫过脚背，他不知道深浅，跟着前面公交车划出的白浪往里骑，水花溅起一人多高。修路那段没路灯，车轮碾过一块松动的钢板，车身一歪，他单膝跪进了泥水里。他扶正车，裤腿破了，膝盖火辣辣地疼，跨上去接着骑。雨大得睁不开眼，他半眯着，心里只有一件事：校门口人多，孩子个子小，别被人流挤着。
校门口果然只剩一个小的了。雨棚下就剩一个穿校服的男孩，抱着书包，踮脚往路口张望，脖子越伸越长。老陈一眼就认出来，那是他儿子。车还没停稳他就跳下来，伞在手里撑开，伞骨磕在台阶上弹了一下。
“对不起，手机静音。”他把伞罩过去。儿子仰着脸看他，雨水顺着他的头发往下淌。儿子伸手摸他袖子：“爸，你胳膊怎么了？”他这才发现左小臂蹭破了一块，混着泥水。他把袖子往身后一缩：“蹭了一下，没事。”
回家的路上，儿子坐在后座，把伞举在他头顶。他让儿子放下来，说伞该打你头上。儿子嘴上应着，伞还是悄悄往他这边偏。老陈从后视镜里看见了，没吭声，把车速放慢，怕颠着伞。
到家，妻子拿毛巾扔过来，又去翻药箱。儿子站在卫生间门口，看老陈冲膝盖上的泥水，忽然说：“爸，以后下大雨，我自己带伞。”老陈抹了把脸：“今天爸来晚了，以后不会。”
晚上儿子睡了，老陈贴完膏药经过他房间，门缝里留着一盏小灯。他想起儿子小时候发高烧，也是这么黑着灯守过一夜。雨还在下，打在空调外机上，滴滴答答。他轻轻带上门，心想，这点雨算什么，只要孩子在校门口一抬头就能看见他，这雨他就愿意淋。
The Umbrella Tilted Sideways
Lao Chen realized the weather had turned when raindrops began hitting the window. A corner of the conference room curtain was lifted by the wind, and he saw the outline of the building across the street melting in the rain. His phone screen was lit: his wife had sent a message ten minutes ago saying their son had no umbrella. He had replied just two words, got it, and now regretted how light those two words were.
The meeting was not over when he stood up and told his boss nobody was picking up his child at the school gate. The boss did not look up: what about the report? Lao Chen grabbed his jacket off the chair back and walked out, the report behind him drowned by the sound of rain.
Water had already pooled around the old electric scooter downstairs. He turned the key; the headlight lit only a small white patch in front of him in the rain. Floodwater at the intersection rose over the tops of his feet. Not knowing the depth, he followed the white wake carved by the bus ahead and rode in, spray flying higher than a person. The roadwork stretch had no streetlights; the wheel rolled over a loose steel plate, the bike lurched, and he went down on one knee into the muddy water. He righted the bike, his trouser leg torn, his knee burning, and swung back on to keep riding. The rain was too heavy to open his eyes fully; he squinted, with only one thought in his mind: the school gate is crowded, the boy is small, do not let the crowd push him.
Sure enough, only one small person was left at the gate. Under the awning stood a boy in school uniform, hugging his schoolbag, tiptoeing to peer toward the intersection, neck stretching longer and longer. Lao Chen recognized him at a glance, it was his son. Before the scooter even stopped he jumped off, opened the umbrella in his hand, its rib bouncing off a step.
Sorry, my phone was on silent. He spread the umbrella over the boy. The son looked up at him, rainwater running down his hair. The son reached out and touched his sleeve: Dad, what happened to your arm? Only then did Lao Chen notice a scrape on his left forearm mixed with muddy water. He pulled his sleeve behind him: Just a scrape, nothing.
On the way home the son sat on the back seat holding the umbrella over his father's head. He told the son to lower it, said the umbrella should cover you. The son answered yes but the umbrella still quietly tilted toward him. Lao Chen saw it in the rearview mirror, said nothing, and slowed the bike so it would not jolt the umbrella.
At home his wife threw a towel over and went to dig out the first aid box. The son stood at the bathroom door watching Lao Chen rinse the mud off his knee, then said: Dad, next time it rains hard, I will bring my own umbrella. Lao Chen wiped his face: Dad was late today. It will not happen again.
At night after the son fell asleep, Lao Chen passed his room after putting on a pain patch, a small lamp left on behind the door crack. He remembered the nights he had kept watch in the dark when his son had a fever as a baby. The rain was still falling, dripping on the air conditioner unit outside. He gently closed the door and thought: what is this little rain. As long as the child can look up at the school gate and see him, he is willing to get wet.
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