Qiaojue led Miss Takagi straight toward us. The teacher looked like she’d just woken up—her eyes were half-open… or maybe they were just that narrow by nature.

Rinka blinked in surprise. “Wait, the cavalry is Miss Takagi? That’s a curveball.”

Miss Takagi scratched her naturally curly short hair, yawned, and explained, “I was on duty in the office when Qiaojue rang me up—said she needed someone to choreograph for Kelian’s concert. So—are you the ones planning to be the backup dancers?”

Kelian was referring to Lei Meow Meow. Everyone still calls her by her stage name; even now, her real name Lei Kelian still feels a bit new to me.

I nodded. “Yeah—Xiao Lei’s coming too.”

“Xiao Lei? Oh, that scatterbrain! You two are already fitting in well; I don’t need to worry about you.”

Turns out Miss Takagi didn’t know we weren’t actually exchange students. Qiaojue had both hands on Miss Takagi’s shoulders as she introduced her. “Although Miss Takagi currently teaches Chinese in the high school, she used to be our middle school PE teacher and the dance club advisor—choreography’s a walk in the park for her.”

Wait—our Chinese is really taught by a PE teacher?

Tangerine raised a hand. “Teacher, why did you stop being a PE teacher?”

“Ah? Because main-subject teachers get paid more, of course. PE work is exhausting—teachers get sent off to handle all sorts of miscellaneous tasks and end up doing social work! Just because you teach PE doesn’t mean you’re some kind of super-strong person!”

Hey—are you seriously going to state adult reasons like that out loud?

Rinka snapped back, “Could you at least leave a little bit of sacred mystique for us students to have about teachers?”

“Cough, cough.” Miss Takagi cleared her throat and put on a stern teacher face. “Anyway, you can leave the choreography to me. But the actual practice will be on you—okay?” She finished with a mock-serious pat on the back of my head.

“No time to waste—let’s pick the song now! There’s not much rehearsal time left.”

Qiaojue took Miss Takagi back to the stage to discuss the dance with Meow Meow. Rinka, curious despite never having choreographed, went along to watch.

That left the area pleasantly quiet—just Tangerine and her cat-friends trailing behind me. I used the lull to call Xiao Lei at work and tell her about the backup-dancer plan. She was breezy about it and agreed right away.

“No problem! If Commander you're willing to dance despite being so clumsy, what do I have to fear?” she said.

“Then it’s set, you should take a few days off your shifts and come rehearse.”

She’d be taking a real hit—she earns a hundred yuan an hour at that job—but like Zhao Zhao, she wasn’t the type to budget every penny, so I didn’t have to worry about compensation this time.

As I hung up, drums and guitars started pulsing from the stage. The non-mainstream girl band Meow Meow hired was doing a soundcheck—amps hooked up, ready for rehearsal. Tangerine’s cat crew couldn’t stand the volume and bolted out of the gym in a flash.

Haitang was waving at me by the backstage door, mouthing my name. The gym’s open space and the stage speakers made it hard to hear, but I headed over to check the situation.

“Finally you heard me, Commander, We’re deciding what to wear for the dance—custom stage outfits? Or just school uniforms or tracksuits?” Haitang’s question was actually important.

I thought about it and, trying to sound serious, answered, “I think school uniforms would be fine. Since the concert’s going to stream online, wearing the uniform will promote Biyang better, right?”

Haitang called me out immediately. “Don’t pretend you care about school PR—you just don’t want to buy costumes.” I scratched my cheek, a little embarrassed.

“Fair enough. But why spend money if you can save it?” I protested weakly.

She grinned. “Relax. Since the student council is organizing this, any costume order would come out of the council fund anyway.”

“The concert’s on Tuesday, right? Is there time to order custom outfits now?”

“Of course—what, you forgot about Scarlet-chan? She can whip something up in no time.” Rinka folded up her makeup kit and chimed in: “A few stage outfits are nothing to that little seamstress.”

“Oh, that girl? Fine—let’s have her make them. Wearing school uniforms on stage won’t look great, and it won’t match my outfit.” Meow Meow said, not without reason—her own stage costume was covered in gold sequins. She clearly loved shiny, golden things; I half suspected she’d been a dragon or a crow in a past life.

“Then let’s model the stage clothes on Meow Meow’s design.” Rinka already had her phone out, snapping photos of Meow Meow.

Sis Xi piped up shyly, “If possible, nothing too revealing—I'm not comfortable with that.”

“Same here—keep it modest,” others agreed. I said it too, but honestly I’m surprisingly bold about clothes—my school skirt is rolled up quite high, and wearing just a top at home is no big deal for me. Seems I’m a classic quiet exhibitionist.

Miss Takagi, who’d been thinking about the choreography, offered practical advice: “Don’t just aim for looks—make the costumes roomy. Dance moves can be big, and flexible, durable fabric won’t tear. Match the outfit to the song’s concept; the stage wear can even be everyday clothes if it fits.”

Speaking of choreography, I asked the key question: “Which song are we doing the backup for?”

Rinka replied, “‘Restart—Meow Meow insisted. It’s the finale, so Kai, don’t drag us down.”

“Finale, huh? No pressure.”

Meow Meow really treasured that song. It wasn’t just because it was her first single. The title Restart fit her perfectly—Lei Meow Meow, once a small-time delinquent “Thunder Tiger” Lei Laohu, was now restarting her life as a shining new idol.

The song’s shift from heavy and restrained to bright and upbeat matched her journey out of the muck and toward a glittering future.

Feeling inspired, I suddenly had an idea. “Everyone—about the outfits and choreography, I’ve got a good idea.”