It wasn’t long before Sis Yuanyue came back, phone in hand.

“Ah—so he turned me down, as expected. Oh well~”

She sounded breezy, not the least bit disappointed. If anything, she seemed to have anticipated this outcome and was in good spirits.

I remembered what Meow Meow had said earlier and replied, “Meow Meow mentioned Uncle Lei’s been busy reorganizing the Tianping Commercial District. He probably just can’t spare the time.”

Sis Yuanyue shook her head and smiled. “That’s part of it, sure — but he could carve out two hours to see his daughter perform if he wanted to. Mostly… he just doesn’t want to be turned into a little girl himself.”

She cupped her face and smiled dreamily, like she was enjoying the thought.
“Hey, Lingmeng—next time, let me meet him again in that form, okay?”

I blinked, then gave her a thumbs-up.
“Sure—no problem!”

Should be fine… right? Would using the Notebook for something like that invite divine punishment? I didn’t want to think about it.

One o’clock on the dot.

Lei Meow Meow’s campus concert began as scheduled. With the skylights closed, the huge gym sank into gloom; only the stage was lit.

Sis Xi had already changed and nervously tugged at her short skirt. She looked embarrassed by the length and couldn’t sit still. Don’t worry — she had safety shorts underneath. No one wanted a wardrobe malfunction mid-routine.

“Geez, Sis Xi, you’ve got a killer figure but you’re so shy about it,” Xiao Lei complained, hands on hips, then jabbed at her own flat chest and lamented in a tragic voice, “Look at this cliff! This is the body that should be ashamed to stand on stage!”

Rinka, who was doing makeup for the Light Music Club, heard her and fired back loudly, “You idiot—if your body’s not great in one place, make up for it elsewhere! Don’t you have a butt?”

“But my butt’s not perky either!” Xiao Lei smacked her own rear a couple times, then turned to me: “Commander, um… as a girl, what’s attractive about me?”

I opened my mouth to reassure her but got stuck. Her question actually stumped me. I frowned and thought it over. She’s got no chest, no curve in front, not much of a rear, and her legs aren’t longer than Haitang’s. She does have a cute baby face and is pretty tall, but that sometimes knocks down the “cute” factor. Her goofy energy also undermines any queenly aura—she comes off kind of airheaded.

In a crowd of pretty girls, nothing really jumped out as a unique selling point.

I smoothed my brow and offered a half-hearted: “Haha—charm isn’t everything. Xiao Lei, just be yourself.”

“That’s not an answer!” she cried.

“If I must say… uh, your tummy is kind of cute?”

I’d remembered—once, when she’d slept over with me and Qianxia, I’d caught a glimpse of Xiao Lei’s belly. She had faint, healthy abs—toned but not shredded—and a slim, pinchable waist. Honestly, that could be more attractive than a big chest.

“A tummy? Who walks around showing their midriff all day?” she protested, not exactly satisfied.

“Hey, stop arguing—the concert’s starting,” Sis Xi waved her phone. “Don’t you want to watch?”

Her phone streamed the concert live on some platform, but the screen was tiny and the stage sound drowned it out. Watching the live feed backstage was worse than just watching the side of the stage in person. The stream also lagged: through the stage curtain we could already see Meow Meow centerstage, but on the phone she was only just walking out.

“Why are we watching a phone stream when we’re right here?” Xiao Lei grumbled.

“You’re in costume; it’s awkward to go out. If you really want to go out, change back first.”

“Forget it—if the costume has any sneaky fastenings I don’t want to mess with it. I’ll just peek from behind the curtain.”

“Just don’t poke your head out, okay?”

Despite her usual violent streak, on stage Meow Meow was the consummate idol — she’d clearly inherited Sis Yuanyue’s commanding presence.

The trembly solo of an electric guitar began, drums and keys followed, and just as the music built toward the prelude’s swell, Meow Meow’s voice cut through. The room felt a tangible gust of wind — the live Meow-Meow was the full package.

This was a new song of hers that showcased her trademark versatility: two overlapping registers like a duet with herself.

The band Sis Xi found might’ve looked wild, but they played tight. I couldn’t pick out any flaws as a layperson; the fast tempo even got my pulse up.

After two days of practice, the band and Meow Meow had synced perfectly, they both carried a rebellious, untamed spirit that matched.

I was so lost in her singing I nearly forgot to breathe. Her voice was like a drug—addictive, an audible weapon that hooked you in. When the song ended there was a beat of stunned silence, then an eruption of applause that shook even the backstage.

“Wow—this is what a professional idol sounds like,” the Light Music Club’s drummer gushed, eyes sparkling. “We were reluctant to join as a support act at first, but now…”

“We don’t deserve this,” the guitarist admitted.

Being in a prestigious school such as Biyang, most of the students here definitely have pride from their wealthy upbringings. But then, even the proud girls from our school’s music club were utterly won over.

The bassist piped up, rallying them: “Okay, it’s our turn—let’s give it everything and not embarrass ourselves!”

Meow Meow and the band slipped back to the wing, sweat beading on her brow. Sis Xi already had water and a towel ready.

“Phew—thanks, Xiao Xi!” she panted. For all her punch-power (probably 300kg), she was a frail looking girl now compared to her Lei Laohu days. Meow Meow looked spent—breath coming in ragged like she’d just run an 800-meter dash. I felt a pang of concern.

I sat beside her. “That singing really wears you out—how can you ever do a solo concert?”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it. A little rest and I’m good. It’s also a kind of training,” she said, eyes closed, trying to recover. She seemed in a great mood despite the panting.

Without opening her eyes she crooned, “Xiao Lingmeng, massage my shoulders, will you?”

The line sounded like something a rich playboy would say at a brothel.

“Hmm? Now you’re not worried about me taking advantage of you?”

She instantly pummels me whenever I make skin contact. What's with the sudden change in attitude asking me to massage her?

She snapped, half-annoyed: “If I already told you to massage me, then just do it. Stop talking.”

I glanced at Sis Xi—she was handing water and tea to the band and gave a weary little nod.

“All right, then I won’t hold back.” I started massaging. “No, wait—okay, I’ll help massage your shoulders.”

Meow Meow opened one eye, gave me a look, then dropped back on the table. Her neck was damp; performing burned energy and she was still hot to the touch. I cautiously kneaded her shoulder blades to feel her reaction.

“Harder. Did you not eat enough?You have barely any strength!” she complained.

Turns out I actually hadn’t eaten enough. I pressed down harder, lifting and squeezing her deltoid, and only then did she nod in approval.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s how you do it… ha, the Light Music Club did well. We should go visit them later… ha,” she mumbled, half-comforted and half-concerned about the show.

I felt happy as I worked. Idol skin, warm with sweat—grabbing that soft, warm muscle under my hands felt amazing. This close touch was a lot nicer than, say, getting my face into high speed close contact with her palm. Do other fans ever get this? I doubt it.

“I’m not washing my hands anymore!”

“Go wash them!”