Chapter 28: Monthly Exam

On exam day, the school gate’s shop buzzed with sales of writing boards and gel pens.

Classroom desks were pitted, and books weren’t allowed as pads, so students bought boards—50 cents for a white one, good for one exam, doubling as scrap paper or a fan in heat.

Fancier options included green transparent EVA soft boards with ruler edges or classic hard boards, reusable for multiple exams.

Some had multiplication or English tables—banned during tests—or Sailor Moon and Digimon designs, a bit flashy.

Chen Qiao spent his last 50 cents on a white board, now penniless.

Seating stayed the same; students dragged their stools behind their desks, facing the back blackboard, its math problems wiped clean.

Everyone guarded their desks and stools fiercely.
Many swapped rickety ones with classmates’—Chen Qiao and Lin Na had been victims, more than once.

Morning exams: Chinese and math, 90 minutes each.
Afternoon: English, one hour, then dismissal.

With exams, the courtesy team paused, but classrooms and sanitation zones still needed cleaning, checked by teachers.

At 8:00 sharp, papers were handed out.
The monthly exam was just a touch more formal than quizzes, set by school teachers, proctored by subject teachers.
Early finishers got early grading—a perk, though even top students feared low-level mistakes earning a scolding.

Skimming the Chinese paper, Chen Qiao knew all the poetry memorization.
The essay?
Growth.

“Opening a book called growth, one memory after another…”

He glanced at Lin Na, his desk mate, who met his gaze.

“Good luck,” he whispered.

“Mm.”

With time to spare, he wrote neatly, barely correcting, checking two or three times.
He estimated his score: reading comprehension’s open-ended answers might lose a point or two, and essay full marks were rare, even for monthly exams.

Sneaking a peek, he saw Lin Na focused on her essay.
Chinese was her strongest subject, usually scoring in the low 80s.

At 9:30, the bell rang.
Teacher Yang called, “Time’s up, pens down.
Group leaders, collect papers.”

Many flipped open textbooks, checking poetry or polyphonic characters’ pronunciations, verifying answers.

Lin Na exhaled, then frowned, uncertain.

Math started at 10:00, with a 30-minute break.
Most rushed to the crowded toilets.

Ten minutes later, Chen Qiao asked, “Wanna hit the bathroom?”

It’d be quieter now.

Lin Na was cramming math, squeezing every second for review.

Last-minute Chinese prep—like poetry or essays—helped, but math?
Formulas and concepts were more placebo than practical, easing pre-exam nerves.

“Huh?” She looked stunned.
Boys with boys, girls with girls—common for bathroom trips, but boy-girl?
Unheard of.

She had no close friends, always with her sister to and from school, helping at home otherwise.
Invites to play got “no thanks,” so they stopped coming.

“Not really, wanna review more.”

“You’ll regret it mid-exam.
I’ll go over key points on the way—better than flipping pages, and you won’t miss study time.”

“Makes sense.
Now I kinda need to go.”

His recent tutoring during study periods convinced her: Chen Qiao was smarter, reliable for learning.

She closed her book, and they headed out.
The exam seating—behind desks—made exiting easier, robbing Chen Qiao of their usual brushing contact.

Wu Xin Yu, spotting them leave together on exam day, thought, You’ll regret this when results come.

Chen Qiao rattled off formulas and points vaguely—limited impact.
Lin Na’s retention and luck on guessing questions would decide.

He’d been drilling her on fourth- and fifth-grade math, building basics, patching gaps, slow but steady.
He taught new concepts only after mastery, sticking to his plan despite the exam, prioritizing his novel and avoiding rushed learning.

His sights were long-term—elementary finals were no hurdle.
As childhood sweethearts, they’d navigate middle school, high school, maybe college, though her academics struggled.
Her art talent was a wildcard.

He finished first, waiting outside the girls’ bathroom, unbothered by his “pervert” reputation, counting to 40 before Lin Na emerged, biting her handkerchief, wiping her hands.

Seeing him, her cheeks flushed as she jogged over.
“Thought you went back.”

“We came together, we go back together.”

Lower-grade classrooms were noisy, testing one subject then studying till regular dismissal.

On the third floor, they met the math teacher with papers and a teacup.
Lin Na, startled, distanced herself like a spooked rabbit.

Chen Qiao couldn’t pull her back in front of a teacher.

“Chen Qiao, carry these to class,” the teacher said.

“Yes, sir.”

Drafted, he returned and distributed papers.

Math scoring was more predictable.
A perfect paper could push his parents for a sister—tricky to nail in one go, but daily nudging might spark the idea.

With better finances, super-kid fines or raising a daughter wouldn’t faze them.
Prosperity breeds desire—things would fall into place.

He’d hide manuscript fees from his parents—not distrust, but Mom wouldn’t trust him, “saving” it for college or marriage, not investing.

Lin Na fell into old habits, blindly applying formulas to unknowns, hoping for partial credit.

He wouldn’t cheat for her—that’d hurt, not help.
As the math teacher patrolled upfront, he squeezed her palm.
“Relax, there’s time.
Nail what you know first.”