The After-School Teacher's Phone Call

The phone rang while Yifen was filing patient records.

The clock behind the front desk read 3:47 in the afternoon. The clinic was slow—just an old man sitting in the waiting area flipping through a newspaper, coughing every now and then. Yifen shoved the last chart into the metal cabinet, turned, and picked up the phone.

“Zhongzheng Family Medicine, how can I help you?”

“Uh, hello, this is Ai Xin After-School Care. Is this Atuo’s mom?”

Yifen recognized the voice—the after-school teacher, mid-twenties, always overly polite, like she was afraid of offending anyone. She’d just graduated from teachers’ college, Yifen guessed, and she called every kid “sweetie.”

“Yes, this is she. What’s wrong with Atuo?”

“Oh, no, no, Atuo’s fine, it’s just—” The teacher paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I wanted to talk to you about Atuo’s situation today. Is now a good time?”

“Did he not finish his homework?”

“No, he finished it all. He’s very smart, gets his work done fast. It’s just—”

Another pause.

“This afternoon he was talking to the empty air next to him again.”

Yifen wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder, reached for a pen on the desk. She spun it between her fingers once, then put it down.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, well… he does it a lot. He’ll sit there talking to someone who isn’t there, like he’s having a real conversation. Sometimes the other kids ask, ‘Atuo, who are you talking to?’ and he says ‘No one,’ but we teachers can see him doing it.”

Yifen leaned against the edge of the front desk, watching the old man in the waiting area turn a page. The paper rustled.

“Sorry about that, Teacher. It’s just a… habit of his. He does it at home too.”

“I see. Do you know who he’s talking to?”

“He likes to role-play.”

The moment the words left her mouth, Yifen herself thought how ridiculous that sounded. But she had no other answer to give.

A few seconds of silence on the line.

”…Role-play?”

“Yeah. He likes to imagine a friend and talk to him. Kids, you know.”

“But, Atuo’s mom, I’ve been observing for a while now, and it doesn’t seem like ordinary role-play. He’ll listen very seriously, nod, and then speak again—like there’s really someone there having a conversation with him. And the things he says…”

The teacher paused again.

“He’ll say things he couldn’t possibly know.”

Yifen tapped her fingers on the counter twice.

“What do you mean?”

“For example, yesterday he told me, ‘Teacher, you and your boyfriend had a fight yesterday, didn’t you?’ And I had indeed had a small argument with my boyfriend the night before. But I never mentioned it to any of the kids. When I asked how he knew, he said, ‘He told me.’”

Yifen said nothing.

“I asked him, ‘Who is He?’ and he said, ‘No one, I was just kidding,’ and then he wouldn’t say any more.” The teacher’s voice grew a little nervous. “Atuo’s mom, I don’t want to scare you, but I think this might need… professional help. The school has a counseling office. Maybe we could arrange for Atuo to talk to someone?”

Yifen’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, making her voice sound steady.

“No need. He just has a vivid imagination. I’ll talk to him, tell him not to do that at the after-school center.”

“But—”

“I’ll handle it. Thank you, Teacher.”

She hung up.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the receiver back on the base. She looked at her hands, pressed them flat on the counter, held them still.

The old man in the waiting area looked up at her.

“Miss, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Yifen forced a smile. “Just a little tired.”

The old man nodded and went back to his newspaper.

Yifen stood behind the counter, watching the minute hand on the clock jump, one tick at a time. 3:51. Two more hours until she could leave.

She slumped onto the counter, burying her face in her arms. She thought about the silence on the teacher’s end when she’d said “role-play,” about Atuo talking to the closet at home, about that mysterious “He” who appeared out of nowhere—and then she started laughing.

Not a happy laugh. The kind of laugh that, if you didn’t laugh, you’d probably cry. Her shoulders shook, the laughter muffled in her arms, sounding almost like sobbing.

(Role-play. Right. My son is role-playing with a friend in the closet. A friend who knows what I had for lunch, that I used to have a cat, what songs I’ve listened to, and that the after-school teacher had a fight with her boyfriend. Totally normal. Every fifth-grader has a friend in the closet. No problem. Everything is perfectly normal.)

She laughed for a long time—so long the old man looked up at her again.

She lifted her head, wiped the corner of her eyes, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone again. She dialed the after-school center.

“Hello, Teacher? Sorry, I hung up too quickly just now. I’ll pick up Atuo after work, and we can talk in person then.”

“Okay, we’ll talk when you get here.”

“Thank you, Teacher.”

She hung up, glanced at the clock. 4:03.

Two more hours.

---

After work, when Yifen walked into the after-school center, the teacher was helping the last kid pack up.

Only three or four children remained in the classroom—some doing homework, some waiting for their parents. Atuo sat in the back row by the window, his backpack already packed and sitting on the desk. He wasn’t doing homework, and he wasn’t staring off into space—he was talking. His lips moved, his voice very low, like he was whispering to someone next to him.

No one was next to him.

Yifen stood in the doorway, watching him. Atuo didn’t notice her. He nodded at the empty air to his right, then said a few more words, his expression serious, as if listening to important information.

(At least he’s not high-fiving the closet in the classroom, Yifen added silently to herself.)

The teacher came out of the office, saw Yifen, and walked over quickly.

“Atuo’s mom, you’re here.” The teacher lowered her voice. “He was like that again this afternoon, for about half an hour.”

Yifen nodded and walked into the classroom.

“Atuo.”

Atuo turned his head. When he saw her, his expression didn’t change.

“Mom.”

“Time to go home.”

“Oh.”

Atuo slung his backpack on and walked over. As he passed the teacher, she bent down and said quietly, “Atuo, please don’t talk to the air anymore, okay? It scares the other kids.”

Atuo looked at her.

“He’s not air.”

Then he walked straight out of the classroom.

Yifen and the teacher exchanged a look. The teacher’s expression was awkward. She opened her mouth, then finally just said, “Well… Atuo’s mom, please consider the counseling office.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Yifen followed Atuo out of the after-school center.

The sky had already darkened. Streetlights had come on, casting circles of yellow light on the asphalt. Atuo walked ahead with his backpack, neither fast nor slow, not waiting for her.

Yifen caught up and walked beside him.

“Atuo.”

“Hm?”

“The teacher said you were talking to Him again.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that when you’re out?”

Atuo stopped and turned to face her.

“Why?”

The question caught Yifen off guard. She stood under the streetlight, looking at Atuo’s face. His expression was calm—no defiance, no rebellion, just a question.

Why?

(Right. Why? Because the other kids will be scared? Because the teacher will call me? Because I don’t know how to explain why my son talks to something I can’t see?)

”…Because other people think it’s weird.”

“Oh.” Atuo turned back and kept walking. “But I don’t think it’s weird.”

Yifen matched his pace.

“Did He say anything to you today?”

Atuo didn’t answer. He walked a little further, then said, “He said you had noodles for lunch.”

Yifen’s steps faltered.

She had had noodles for lunch.

The noodle stand near the clinic—she’d ordered a bowl of thick noodle soup with pork intestines, added two spoonfuls of chili, and scarfed it down behind the counter during a lull, taking only a few minutes. She was sure she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone today—not even her colleagues at the clinic. No check-in post, no text, no phone call saying “I had noodles for lunch.”

No one knew.

But Atuo knew.

Or rather, the “person” in the closet knew.

”…How does He know?”

“He said He saw.”

“Where did He see from?”

Atuo shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

They kept walking, past the convenience store, past the little park, across the crosswalk, and into the alley that led to the old apartment building. The alley was dark, with only one streetlight glowing at the far end. A cat crouched in the corner by the wall, its eyes glowing like phosphorescence in the dark, watching them pass.

“Atuo.”

“Hm?”

“Tell Him not to keep watching me.”

“He said He doesn’t watch all the time. He just sees sometimes.”

”…What’s the difference?”

Atuo didn’t answer.

They reached the apartment building. Yifen fished out her keys and opened the iron gate. The fluorescent light in the stairwell was dim, one bulb flickering, buzzing. They climbed to the third floor. Yifen unlocked the door and let Atuo go in first.

Atuo kicked off his shoes, went into his room, and dropped his backpack. Yifen closed the door and stood in the middle of the living room without turning on the lights. The streetlight outside cast long shadows across the furniture.

She stared at Atuo’s closed bedroom door.

She didn’t really know why she did it—maybe the after-school teacher’s call had finally pushed her past her limit. She walked to Atuo’s door, didn’t knock, pushed it open.

Atuo sat on the edge of his bed, looked up at her, said nothing.

She didn’t look at him. She walked to the foot of the bed and pulled open the closet door.

The same stuff was inside. Blankets, out-of-season clothes, old jackets, odds and ends. So stuffed that not even a cat could hide in there. She stood in front of the closet, staring at the things, not knowing what she was even looking for.

She took a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

No answer.

The closet stood there silently, the smell of wood and mothballs mixing together. She could hear her own heartbeat, thumping in the quiet room.

She was about to close the closet door when she heard Atuo’s voice from behind her.

“He said don’t ask with your mouth. Use your ears.”

Yifen turned around.

Atuo sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cup of water, taking a sip. He lowered the cup and looked at her.

“He said so.”

Yifen’s hand was still on the closet door. She looked at Atuo, Atuo looked at her. The room was dead silent.

Slowly, she closed the closet door.

”…Listen to what?”

Atuo shrugged. “How should I know? He didn’t say.”

He lifted the cup again, took another sip, then looked down and continued flipping through his comic book.

Yifen stood in front of the closet, staring at the closed wooden door. She tapped her fingers lightly against the panel twice—no rhythm, just an unconscious gesture.

She lowered her head and pressed her forehead against the closet.

The wood was cool against her skin.

She closed her eyes.

Listen.

Listen to what?

She listened to the sounds of the apartment. The refrigerator humming. Car noises from outside. Footsteps from upstairs, thumping across the floor. Atuo in his room setting down his cup—a soft clink against the tabletop.

No other sounds.

No tapping. No voices. No footsteps.

Just the ordinary sounds of daily life.

She stood there, forehead against the closet, listening to those sounds, for a long, long time.

Finally, she lifted her head, quietly left the room, and pulled the door closed behind her. She went back to the living room, turned off the light, and walked into the kitchen.

Tomorrow, she still had work.

There were bills to pay.

A communication book to sign.

She opened the fridge, took out eggs and greens, and started making dinner.