Sweet Romance13 min read
"The December Loop: How I Beat Panic, Memory, and a Cheater"
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I arrived at the study café with my bag half-open and my earbuds dangling like a promise.
"Are you ready to fail spectacularly?" Katelyn winked when she saw me.
"No," I said. "I'm ready to try a plan that actually works."
Fox sat at the corner table already with his laptop open. He smiled once—rare, small, and decisive.
"You brought the true papers?" he asked.
"I brought the audio files, the script, and the notebook where I wrote every unknown word," I said.
"Good," Fox said. "Then start the loop."
I learned that winter, when the December CET exams were coming like a tide. Everyone in my small circle had the same fear: the exam would come, and we would be unready. I had one month. The calendar on my phone showed the test day in a square of red. The plan I followed was not poetic; it was a loop, a schedule, a list. It was exactly what the article people called "short-term, practical, high-yield." I told myself it could be turned into a story later if I survived.
"Why the loops?" Katelyn asked, pulling her chair closer.
"Because listening is a shortcut," I said. "Listen more; recognize more words; get the ear used to the sentences. It's efficient. Fox showed me how to make the loop work in pockets of time."
"Like where?" Bruno asked, joining us. "In the bathroom?"
"Not—" I laughed. "On the way to class, in line for lunch, while you're waiting for a lecture."
"Listen until you can almost spell what you hear," Fox told us.
"Spell the sound?" Katelyn frowned. "That sounds weird."
"It's training your ear," Fox said. "You connect the sound to the meaning. This is how you make the vocabulary live in hearing, not just in writing."
"That's the trick," I said. "Most of us know words when we see them. We don't when we hear them. The loop solves that."
Fox copied his method from a set of notes he'd tested on himself and his private students. He'd been through the exams before, and he had a patience that tasted like old coffee. He taught me to break each listening passage into lines, then loop one line until my brain stopped rejecting the sounds.
"First the loop, then the script," Fox instructed while we shared headphones.
"I tried reading the script first," Katelyn said. "I felt faster."
"Reading first doesn't build hearing," Fox said. "But if your base is zero, you can skim the script before looping. The point is to loop until you can hear every word without reading."
We worked the loops every day. I kept the audio on my phone. I pressed play in all the small, misplaced minutes of a student's life: walking across campus, standing in the cafeteria line, waiting outside the lab. I looped until some words rose like bubbles to the surface and popped into meaning. That was the "aha" moment Fox promised.
"How do you know when to stop?" Bruno asked one night as we reviewed a listening script.
"When you stop finding new words each loop," I said. "When the leftover mystery words are fewer and smaller. Then move on to the script and check precisely what you missed."
We built a ritual: loop first, check the script, underline unknown words, then fold a corner of the paper where the word appeared. We used the true papers like a sieve, catching the words that were actually important for the test.
"Why true papers?" Katelyn asked one evening.
"Because the test's vocabulary repeats its habits," I said. "Use frequency-based lists and real exam texts and you'll find the core words. Those are your main gates to higher scores."
Fox was strict about the "middle-school vocabulary trap." He told us a story, leaning toward the table in that way teachers do when they want to make a small point last forever.
"Many students buy CET-4 books that claim to be all the words," he said. "But those books often ignore the first three levels—the middle-school list. If you missed 30% of those, the 'CET-4-only' book won't fix your base. Start by clearing the middle before the higher levels."
I wrote the words down. I printed the middle-school PDF Fox lent me, highlighted the ones I didn't know, and put the printout by my bed.
"The mechanism to remember," Fox said, "is not brute force. It's smart repetition: loop, check, repeat. Use the Ebbinghaus curve. Review just before you would forget."
"That sounds like a psychological trap," Bruno snorted.
"It's a memory schedule," Fox said. "One day, two days, then a bit later. But do the first review the day after you encounter a word."
We converted the true papers into maps. Each unknown word got a line in my notebook with its meaning and the passage where it appeared. Each time I reviewed, I tried to recall the meaning before I looked. If I could, I erased the folded corner. If not, I added another mark.
"After eight papers this becomes a habit," Katelyn said one early morning. She had dark circles but a grin.
"If you keep at it for two to three weeks the spacing will make the words stick," Fox said. "Do the loops and the checklists and your reading will become easier."
"Speaking of reading," I said. "The method also kills two birds: reading and vocabulary. When you read a passage and check unknown words, you connect usage to meaning. It's better than rote list memorization."
"Also," Bruno added, "the 're-translate' trick works for writing. You take an English model essay's Chinese translation and try to translate it back. Then compare with the model."
We laughed because it looked like a spy mission—reverse translation to capture patterns.
"You mean we cheat off the answers of good writers?" Katelyn asked.
"No," I said. "You learn the sentence patterns the way a child learns phrases. It's mimicry, not cheating."
As we practiced, a name floated into our quiet rotation: Landon Blankenship. He was the gifted golden student in our cohort—always first at the board, always wearing a watch that looked like it belonged to a businessman. He smiled carefully, and people admired him. But his reputation had a dark edge. Rumors said he shared "leaked" test tips and sometimes gossiped to look helpful.
One afternoon, as Katelyn and I worked through a listening loop, Landon sat across from us and said, "You two look exhausted. Want the quick route?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"There's a service," Landon said, voice smooth. "Some people can get you answer sheets for a price. Or I can share a friend-of-a-friend's notes." He tapped his pen like a metronome.
"No thanks," Katelyn said firmly.
"I don't trade in that," I said. "I have my loop and my verbs and my schedule."
His smile didn't break. "Suit yourself," he said. "Some of us prefer to get ahead any way that works."
I felt the rawness of competition. He offered instant success, and he offered it like a brand. The rest of us offered sweat and time.
Weeks passed. I followed the plan: listening loops, daily checks, spaced reviews. I did true papers every two to three days. I marked words, folded corners, and erased folds when the memory stuck. I practiced writing with reverse translation. I reviewed grammar only when it seemed useful and kept faith that vocabulary would carry me.
And all the while Landon was always in the background, gracious in a way that made people assume his balance of charm and results was natural.
One night we had a campus mock exam organized by the study club. Fox came early to proctor and to watch. He'd given our group a schedule: "Treat the mock like the real thing," he said. "No notes, no phones except for logging, no outside help. This is to set your timing."
At the mock, we checked ID and settled into rows. I felt the same pulse of locked-in focus that happens only in exams. The clock ticked loudly.
Halfway through the reading section I noticed a folded slip fall from the pocket of the desk in front of me. It slid, paper whispering, and landed near Bruno's shoes. Bruno popped it open with a curious expression. Landon, who sat a few rows ahead, didn't look around. He kept writing. I didn't touch the slip.
"Is that—?" Bruno whispered.
"It's probably nothing," I said. "Don't look."
Bruno, however, unfolded the slip and his eyes widened. "This is someone’s annotated answers," he said. "Look at these precise lines."
My stomach dropped. I looked at Landon. He kept his head down. A few students glanced backward. Rumors were easy to remember but hard to stop. For the rest of the exam I couldn't focus well. The paper on the floor was a door to a possible scandal.
After the mock, Fox called us into a small meeting room. He had the slip on his palm like evidence. He did not yell. Fox does not raise his voice unless he decides to wield it like a blade.
"Someone brought pre-annotated answers into the mock," Fox said. "We will find out who. This is not the first time such a thing appeared in student groups. Some of you are under stress; some of you are tempted by shortcuts. But this is a place of study and trust."
Katelyn leaned toward me. "Do you think Landon did it?" she whispered.
"I don't know," I said. "But if he did—"
"If he did, we'll need proof," Fox interrupted. "Accusations without proof do nothing."
We agreed: proof. Fox told us to write down what we had seen. Bruno wrote how he found the slip. I wrote that I had seen it fall from near Landon's desk. Katelyn wrote how Landon had offered contacts before. Fox said he'd handle a follow-up and that we must not make public accusations yet.
A week later, pressure built. The student union organized a public review of the mock to help people find weak points. Fox suggested we used the review as a way to test attention and honor. He asked the union to set a time when everyone would be present.
On the evening of the review, the student union filled the auditorium. Chairs creaked. Phones glowed. We were all there—students, tutors, and people who liked drama. I sat near the front.
Fox opened the meeting. "We'll go through the mock carefully," he said. "But first, there's a matter of integrity we must address. We had an unauthorized slip in the exam room. I have evidence. I would like to call up the person whose desk we suspect."
A hush fell. Landon was called to the front.
He stood, measured, and walked to the stage as if he were reading a prepared line. People watched him like an audience watching a magician.
"Why are you calling me up?" he asked with a laugh that did not hide a little tension.
"To discuss the slip," Fox said. "You were seated near where it was found."
Landon folded his arms. "That's circumstantial. Anyone can be near anything."
"Do you have notes you didn't declare?" Fox asked.
"No," Landon replied.
Fox asked for everyone who had seen the slip to come forward. Bruno stood and described the slip's content. He mentioned handwriting and the unique annotation marks.
"Those marks," Katelyn said, "match the notes Landon wrote in the study group last month."
Murmurs grew like an approaching storm. Landon's face was steady at first.
"That's not proof," Landon said. "Lots of people take notes. My notes are public in the group. Anyone could have copied them."
Fox unrolled a printed page. It was a photo of a sequence of the mock taken by one of the exam monitors—a candid shot that showed a hand placing a folded slip into a desk pocket. The hand was caught precisely at a moment, fingers curled. It was enough for people to squint.
"Who took the picture?" Landon asked.
"A monitor," Fox said. "We will show the full sequence."
The sequence was projected on the screen. Frame by frame we watched the hand slide the paper into the desk. It wore a ring on the index finger. The ring was small, with a flat top.
A student in the front row shouted, "That's Landon's ring!"
The auditorium shifted. Landon went from calm to a flicker of color on his face.
"Those are circumstantial," Landon said, voice thinner.
"Watch the next frame," Fox said.
The next frame showed Landon's hand close to the desk pocket, fingers positioned as if removing something rather than placing. The ring gleamed. The camera angle caught the cuff of a jacket with a unique cable-knit embroidery—something Bruno recognized from the jacket Landon always wore.
The room murmured as if a tide had turned. People started to take out their phones.
"That's enough," Landon said. "You can't humiliate me like this."
"No," Fox said quietly. "We will be precise."
"Then be precise," Landon snapped. "Where's the guarantee? Who guarantees you this is me?"
"Your handwriting is on a public note you posted last week," Bruno said, passing a printout. "Compare the annotation marks." He held the papers like a judge holds evidence.
We all compared the curls and slashes. They matched. The auditorium held its breath. Landon began to sweat.
"This is a public forum," Fox said. "We will allow Landon to respond. We will also allow members to ask questions."
Landon stepped forward, anger replacing the small smile he always kept for cameras. "I didn't put anything in the desk!" he said loudly. "I did not cheat. If you accuse me, you owe me an apology."
"Do you have an alibi?" Fox asked.
"Yes," Landon said. "I was writing my answers like everyone else."
Fox asked for the monitor who had the full, continuous video. The monitor came forward and played more frames. The frames showed Landon—time-stamped—exchanging a folded piece of paper with another student in the hallway before the mock began.
Gasps erupted. The auditorium sounded like a market. Phones came up. The other student, pale, stood and admitted he had taken the slip to Landon for backup.
"You used another student," Katelyn said, voice steadier than I felt. "You involved someone else in your shortcut."
Landon's eyes darted. He seemed to age in front of us.
"What do you want?" he said, the defiance flaring and then dimming.
"We want accountability," Fox said. "You had a choice. You took the shortcut. You involved someone else. Now we ask what consequences should follow."
This next part must be detailed because when someone like Landon is exposed in public, the punishment must be visible, a lesson not just to the person but to everyone who might be tempted by quick routes.
"Public punishment does not mean humiliation for humiliation's sake," Fox said. "But there are standards."
He turned to the student union president, who had been quiet. The president stood and spoke into the microphone.
"First," she said, "Landon will be suspended from any tutoring or proctoring duties for the rest of the semester. He will also deliver a public apology to the students at the next assembly, outlining what he did and why it was wrong. Second, the mock's results will be voided for any group associated with this incident. Third, the student that aided him will be required to undergo academic integrity counseling and to assist in organizing integrity workshops."
The room reacted: a low wave of approval and a few who thought it mild.
Landon laughed, something like a bark. "You can't ruin me," he said. "I will appeal."
"Appeal is your right," Fox said. "But the evidence is strong."
Landon's reaction changed before our eyes. Defiance became desperation.
"You have no right!" he shouted. "You are making this up to look righteous!"
Phones recorded the scene. Students whispered. Someone shouted, "Shame on you!"
"Sit down," Fox said calmly. "If you wish to speak at the assembly, you will. For now, please step outside and cool down."
Landon refused and kept arguing. The president stood firm and called campus security. The room watched him go, escorted out. As he passed, a group of students clapped—sharp, not celebratory but final.
"What do you feel?" Katelyn asked me after, when the auditorium had emptied and we were outside under a streetlamp.
"I feel like something ugly woke up and had to be shown to daylight," I said. "I also feel relief. If he had gotten away with it we'd all feel small."
The punishment had several layers and a public core. It began with evidence shown to everyone and ended with practical consequences: loss of status, public apology, counseling for the accomplice, and suspended privileges. Landon's initial arrogance had recomposed into denial, then anger, then a hollow attempt to control the narrative, and finally defeat as he was led away.
The day after, Landon tried to plead his case to others. He sent people messages, he tried to salvage his image with excuses, but people recorded the auditorium frames and shared them. His friends who once smiled with him kept distance.
"You think he deserves it?" Bruno asked as we revised vocabulary that evening.
"I think accountability matters," I said. "He had a choice and he took a shortcut that broke our trust."
"What if he recovers?" Katelyn asked.
"Then he will have to show it," I said. "Trust isn't given back like change. It's earned. He will have to work in public and rebuild."
The scandal left an awkward quiet around study groups for a while. People were more guarded but also more sincere. It made some of us look harder at our own temptations.
I stuck to the loop. I did not want shortcuts. I wanted to see how far practice would take me. I used the loop while walking to class and while making coffee. I used the true papers and did the two-day review. I marked words. I removed the corner folds like taking small trophies.
Fox kept pushing us with schedules. "At least half your study time must be listening," he said. "If you only read, you're missing the shortcut."
"I spend two to three days on a paper," I said one night into my recorder. "It feels long, but then I do the review and the words stop biting."
When the real exam arrived, I went in with a pack of habits. I recognized sounds. I read faster. The vocabulary felt like solid ground beneath my feet.
After the test, the campus hummed with relief. People compared notes, some still shocked by Landon's fall, others oddly relieved to not be tempted. Fox congratulated me on a small victory: my listening felt used, my writing time felt familiar, and I did not feel like I had to beg luck.
Weeks later, the scores came out. My listening had climbed more than I expected. My reading and writing had improved. I did not win any medals. I did not need to. The important change was quieter: I trusted my preparation.
The scandal faded slowly. Landon returned later in the semester, smaller in the ways people see. He apologized at the assembly, his voice thinner than before. "I was wrong," he said. "I asked for a shortcut and I hurt others. I am sorry." Some students clapped; some did not. The punishment had not been only the loss of privilege but the public lesson and the loneliness that followed.
In the months after, our study group changed. We were stricter about practice and kinder in how we treated each other. We shared loops and schedules freely now. Katelyn started a small blog where she noted the times she had loops behind classes. Bruno taught a workshop about identifying core words. Fox kept coming, patient as ever.
"How did you manage to keep after it," Katelyn asked me one evening when we were stacking our true papers like cards.
"I thought of the red square on my calendar," I said. "I thought of not relying on luck. And I thought about words as friends to be met, not enemies to be forced."
"Do you regret the time?" Bruno asked.
"No," I said. "It was scary but it was honest."
On a cold night before spring, we sat together under an old lamp and counted the folded corners we had erased. Each corner was a small victory; each erased fold was a step away from a trap.
"What's next?" Katelyn asked.
"Keep the loops," I said. "Then teach someone else the method."
Fox smiled something like approval. "That's the best way to make something last," he said. "Teach it."
I opened my notebook and flipped to the first page where I had written "Loop → Script → Fold → Repeat." I drew a tiny circle by the sentence, then another, like the loops that had lived in my pocket for weeks.
The December tide retreated, and the calendar squares returned to blue. We had been students who nearly panicked and students who learned to build systems. We were the sum of the small practices we chose.
At the final campus assembly, when Landon delivered his apology and the student union announced integrity workshops, Fox used a phrase I wouldn't forget.
"Practice," he said. "Isn't just repetition. It's a way of honoring what you want to keep."
I thought of the earphones in my pocket and the sound of a passage repeated until it stopped being foreign. I thought of the folded corners and the erasures. I thought of a public moment in which someone who had chosen the wrong way was called out, not for cruelty, but to protect the rest of us.
"Do you think he'll learn?" Katelyn asked as we left the hall.
"I hope so," I said. "But whatever he learns, the rest of us learned how to keep going without shortcuts."
The loops stayed with me. They became a habit and a confidence I could count on when next year's red square arrived.
The End
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