Authentic School Storytelling Voiceover

My name is Wang Qiang, this is my story My name is Wang Qiang, a student in Class 3, Grade 8 at Cha'er Middle School. I've never been a "good student" in the teachers' eyes. The first time I became famous in class was when I hid the blackboard eraser in Old Shi's chalk box—who told him to make me copy "Memorial on Sending Out the Troops" three times? That day, when Old Shi opened the box, chalk dust covered his face. The whole class laughed so hard they were pounding their desks, but I stared at his reddening ears, feeling a bit panicked. Later, he didn't scold me, just made me repaint the bulletin board at the back of the classroom. When I was crouching on the ground drawing, he squatted down and handed me a piece of chalk: "Better than last time, but the handwriting is still ugly." Jia Chun and I are best buddies. He's always egging me on to do "big things": sneaking off to internet cafes outside school to play games, only to get caught red-handed by his mom; faking a sprained ankle during PE class to hide in the shade eating popsicles, only to get dragged off by the PE teacher to run laps. The craziest time, we chased each other around the field for three laps fighting over the last pack of crispy noodles. We ended up lying exhausted on the grass, breaking the pack in half to share, with crumbs all over our necks. There were quiet times too. Like during study hall, I'd stare at Liu Ruolin's ponytail in front of me, watching her take notes seriously, then quickly straighten up my textbook that I'd been neglecting. Once her pen ran out of ink, and I clutched my newly bought pen, hesitating for three minutes before passing it to her, my voice quieter than a mosquito: "U-use mine." She smiled and said thank you, and I could be happy for the whole afternoon. Old Shi always said I was "clever, just not using it in the right places." That time during a math test, I copied my desk mate's answers and got caught red-handed. He didn't call me out in class, just called me to his office and pulled out a photo of the bulletin board I'd painted: "Look how spirited the Monkey King you drew is. You should be like him—upright and honest." That day, clutching that photo, I almost cried. Later I started listening in class seriously. Although I'd still occasionally pass notes with Jia Chun, I'd turn in my homework on time; when drawing, I'd do more bulletin boards to help the class. On graduation day, Old Shi patted my shoulder and said: "Wang Qiang, you'll definitely make something of yourself." Liu Ruolin handed me a friendship book with the words "Hope you'll always be like now, with light in your eyes." Looking back on the days at Cha'er Middle School now, it's like carrying a freshly opened bag of orange candies—sweet with a bit of sourness. I'm still that mischievous Wang Qiang, but I've learned to use my cleverness for proper things—because I know that those days of fooling around in the classroom, running on the field, being criticized and encouraged by teachers, have quietly carved the two words "growing up" into my bones.