When I was in the first year of junior high school, I was 13 years old. The English teacher asked some of us to rehearse the play: Little Red Riding Hood. And I am that vicious stepmother, transformed into an old woman in torn clothes. At that time, my classmates used pin strips on my clothes. During the lunch break, I went to the idle warehouse of the female classmate’s father to line up for a month. The crowding out among the children of small clubs is not hidden. Rarely remember
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