Bidding on My Homework

During my senior year of high school, my parents cut off all my financial support to force me to drop out. With nowhere else to go, I managed to enroll in an elite, tuition-free private prep school full of insanely wealthy kids. The catch? I still needed money for food. After starving for half a month, wearing my most threadbare clothes, I finally mustered the courage. I looked at the class of trust-fund babies who never studied: "Does anyone... does anyone need their homework done? One assignment... just five dollars." The kids, who had been busy flexing their wealth, stopped messing around and stared at me in shock. A moment later, a cacophony of voices erupted: "Five dollars? Who do you think you're insulting? Five hundred! Do mine first!" "I bid five thousand! Put me first in line!" "Fifty thousand! In cash!" "Name your price! I want to see who dares outbid me today!" 01 I was kicked out of my house right at the beginning of my senior year. My dad, his face twisted in anger, pointed a finger right at my nose and yelled: "Other girls your age are already working and bringing money home. But you? You just drain my wallet all day long. You're nothing but a money pit." My mom chimed in with her usual "practical" advice: "If you don't start working now, where are we going to get the money for your brother's college tuition later?" After screaming myself hoarse while clutching my stack of academic awards, I realized arguing was pointless. I ran away from that house. My dad's voice chased after me, mocking: "Let's see how you make it to college without us supporting you!" I took my transcripts and bounced around several public high schools. The response was always the same: "Your grades are good, but who knows if they'll drop during senior year?" "We can only offer a tuition waiver." That wasn't enough. I needed to eat. Clutching my last shred of hope, I stood in front of St. Jude's Preparatory Academy. This place was exclusively for the children of the ultra-rich. Trust-fund babies everywhere. Every day, if they weren't fighting, they were showing off their wealth. Nobody studied. In their world, the SATs were just a formality. They were all going to expensive private colleges or studying abroad anyway. When I stood timidly in the principal's office, wearing clothes washed so many times the hems were frayed, the Dean of Students looked down her nose at me: "Are you sure you want to be here? Aren't you afraid of being bullied?" I shook my head vigorously: "As long as you can waive my tuition and give me a tiny bit of a stipend... " "Really, just a tiny bit... Three hundred, no, just a hundred dollars a month is fine. I promise to study hard and bring honor to the school with my test scores." The Dean agreed. I took the $10,000 scholarship advance, thanked her profusely, and backed out of the room. The moment I stepped out the door, I heard her scoff in disgust: "A hundred bucks a month? Who is she trying to insult?" 02 I successfully took my place in the classroom. The noisy chatter of the rich kids paused, and they all examined me with curious eyes. "What is she wearing? Why are there holes in it? Did Louis Vuitton release a new 'war-torn' collection?" "Why not Chanel?" "The fabric is actually holding together despite being so worn. It can't be a designer brand. Only cheap flea market clothes have that kind of durability." "Oh, you know so much about it. Have you worn them?" "How dare you accuse me of wearing flea market trash! You're dead! I'll have my dad pull his investments from your family's company tomorrow..." Two rich kids started brawling on the floor. I kept my composure, walked past them, and headed to my seat. It was located in the back corner of the classroom, right next to the trash can. I blocked out all the gossip and whispers. No matter how nasty their words were, I had heard worse from my own parents. What did the mockery of a bunch of spoiled rich kids matter? Now, I had a place to study and the right to take my college entrance exams. No one in the class bullied me. During passing periods, a pretty girl even ran over to my desk, looking at me like I was a novelty. Then she asked curiously: "Chloe, why are you wearing such torn clothes? Do you not like this season's haute couture?" "Is it possible that I just can't afford haute couture?" "Why can't you afford it? Did your parents cut off your allowance? You can still draw from your trust fund, right?" I sighed softly. What's a trust fund? Serena rested her chin on her hands and looked at me: "How did you get to school today?" "I walked. I woke up really early." "Why didn't you have your driver take you?" "I don't have a car or a driver." "Why didn't you ride your motorcycle?" "I don't have a motorcycle either." "Oh, I get it. You only like taking helicopters, and your helicopter broke down this morning, so you couldn't fly it, right?" I hid my face behind my book. Never mind, there was no way to explain it to her. 03 Two weeks into the semester, I was practically invisible. Every day, I shrank into the corner of the classroom, working hard on practice tests and studying. Gradually, the teachers began to appreciate me more and more. Because I was the only person in class actually paying attention. Not only did I listen carefully, but I also occasionally raised my hand to answer their questions so they wouldn't feel awkward talking to a silent room. But my concentration was slipping more and more. I was starving. So hungry I wanted to gnaw on the desk. Although my tuition was fully covered, I still needed a place to live. The Dean had strictly refused to let me live in the dorms, saying my background was too poor and the rich kids wouldn't accept it. I had no choice but to rent a place off-campus. Rent was unbelievably expensive. After begging and pleading, the landlord reluctantly agreed to take six months' rent upfront. My $10,000 scholarship instantly shrank to $500. In a city where every inch of land was worth its weight in gold, I could only afford a tiny attic in a remote suburb. After paying $500 for utilities, I was broke. With my current grades, I couldn't guarantee getting into an Ivy League school, so I didn't dare ask the Dean for another advance on my scholarship. Because of my terrible living situation, my study time was compressed to almost nothing. Despite my desperate efforts to catch up, my scores on the last junior year finals were only good enough for a decent state university. I didn't miraculously transform into a protagonist from a teen movie, easily getting a perfect score while juggling a romance and barely studying. My stomach hadn't seen food in over eight hours. My breakfast today had been a piece of seared steak and half a tuna sandwich I dug out of the school trash can. It was delicious, but the portion was tiny. I pursed my lips and looked up at my classmates, who were getting ready to leave for the day. They were discussing where to play golf or whether to take a yacht out for a party. I pinched myself hard, gathered every ounce of courage I had, and asked timidly: "Does anyone... does anyone need their homework done? One assignment... just five dollars." 04 I had never seen these rich kids write an essay or do a worksheet. Every time the teacher assigned homework, I was the only one who carefully wrote it down, then went back to my sweltering rental and diligently finished it under a salvaged desk lamp. After I asked my question. The rich kids, who had been busy flexing their wealth, stopped messing around and stared at me in shock. Serena's voice rang out in disbelief: "Class President, you actually do the homework?" Ever since I received high praise from all the teachers, I had been promoted to Class President. Consequently, all the classroom cleaning duties fell on my shoulders. My voice was as small as a mosquito's hum: "Yes. I write fast and well, and my accuracy is high. If you guys are looking for someone to do your homework, you can consider me first." "I don't charge much. Just five dollars an assignment. Buy five, get one free." Considering they all came from business families, and I had overheard a lot, I quickly added: "Prices are negotiable." Shock cracked across everyone's faces. A moment later, they reacted, and a cacophony of voices erupted: "Five dollars? Who do you think you're insulting? Five hundred! Do mine first! Let my dad open his eyes and see that his son is a student who loves learning." "You have the nerve to say five hundred? I bid five thousand! Put me first in line!" "Fifty thousand! In cash! The one thing I'm not short on is money!" "Name your price! I want to see who dares outbid me today!" 05 The classroom descended into chaos. Their bids got more and more ridiculous. As if what I was writing wasn't homework, but an original Shakespeare manuscript. I quickly waved my hands to stop them: "Just five dollars. I can't take more. If you want me to write it, I'll go one by one in the order you agreed to." "It's all STEM subjects anyway, it goes fast." In business, a steady stream is better than a quick flood. I was afraid that if I took too much, their parents would find out, and that would be bad. After all, when I did homework for money in my freshman year, I took a rush order for six dollars, and the classmate's parents checked their bank statements and found out. The next day, they blocked my door and cursed me out for a long time. The shouting continued, but Serena snatched the first spot. She smugly Venmo'd me twenty dollars. My secondhand phone lagged for a long time before the transfer finally went through. Staring at the twenty-dollar balance, I excitedly promised her: "Don't worry, Ms. Serena. I promise to write your homework beautifully tonight." That day, I made one hundred dollars. I took five orders. I stayed up until 1 AM doing homework. To guarantee quality, I never took on too much. The next day after school, looking at the fresh hundred dollars in my account, I was just about to shoulder the Chanel backpack I had fished out of the trash and rush home. The richest, most hot-tempered girl in the class blocked my path. She touched her diamond-encrusted manicure, pouted her lips at her two lackeys, and ordered: "Drag her to the bathroom for me!" 06 Even the bathrooms at St. Jude's Preparatory Academy were brighter and more spacious than my suburban attic. But my forehead was dripping with cold sweat. Everyone had gone home; rarely anyone came to the bathroom now. Was she going to bully me? But I didn't know how I had offended her. Since transferring to this school, I had been the most invisible existence. Every day, I tried my best to minimize my presence to avoid drawing their attention. Even when they flaunted their wealth in front of me, I would stare at the dizzying array of logos and quickly blurt out how beautiful they were, and how expensive they must have been. Then they would say with satisfaction: "It's not expensive. Only a country bumpkin like you would think it's expensive. This bag isn't even a million dollars." The money I made writing one assignment couldn't even buy a single thread on those bags. Blair Waldorf—no, Blair Stanton—smiled sinisterly, reaching out to lift my chin: "You're the Class President..." She dragged out her words. My heart pounded like a drum. I frantically recalled the past month and a half since I transferred. I hadn't had any conflicts with Blair. Every time she showed off her wealth, I made sure to look envious and offer a few compliments. Last night, I took her five dollars and handed in the homework on time. No delays. The fiancé her family arranged for her was also in our class. The only thing I had ever said to him was: "Excuse me, Blair asked me to tell you that she's waiting for you downstairs to take the yacht out." I truly couldn't think of how I had offended her. Her two friends gripping my arms held me tight; I couldn't move. I thought to myself: If worst comes to worst, I'll just drink some toilet water and beg for mercy until she cools down. As long as I can stay here and keep studying. Blair unhurriedly took out her phone, her manicure tapping the screen, making a chilling click-clack sound. Her crisp voice sounded above my head: "In a minute, remember what you should and shouldn't say!" 07 To my absolute terror, she made a phone call. An authoritative middle-aged man's voice came through: "Blair, sweetie, what's wrong?" "Daddy, I really did my homework yesterday! My fingers still hurt! If you don't believe me, ask our Class President. She's aiming for a perfect SAT score, you know." After saying that, she shoved the phone in my face. At the same time, she gave me a vicious glare. I swallowed hard. "Hello, sir. I'm Chloe, the... the Class President. Um... Blair really did her own homework." "Is that so? When did she do it?" My brain went into overdrive. Yesterday, Blair went out on a yacht. There were definitely no witnesses out on the ocean. "Sir, yesterday after school, Blair said she wanted to study hard, so she stayed at school to do her homework." Blair finally nodded in satisfaction: "Hear that, Daddy? I really did my homework." "Haha, that's my girl. Finally focusing on her studies! From now on, I'll give you an extra million dollars a month in allowance as a reward!" Blair hung up the phone triumphantly. "You're smart. I'm the only daughter of the Stanton Group. My dad only has me. He doesn't have any illegitimate children, so the Stanton family is mine for the taking." "From now on, you will do my homework every day. Don't worry, I won't treat you badly." "But if you dare cross me, watch your back!" I nodded like a chicken pecking at grain. The two pairs of hands holding me let go, and Blair strutted away in her stilettos. Once she was out of sight, I finally dared to pick up my backpack from the floor and hurried home, still shaken. Because of the delay, by the time I navigated my way home, the sky was already turning dark. I was thinking about the homework I had to do tonight, walking very fast. Just as I stepped into my rundown apartment building, two figures seemed to have been waiting downstairs for a long time. My dad's chilling voice rang out: "You ran away for a month, and I finally found where you were hiding!" 08 My legs felt like lead, so heavy I could barely take a step. The memories of those days when he beat me flashed before my eyes one by one. He stepped forward, snatched my backpack, and slapped me hard across the face. I was thrown several feet away. My dad cursed aggressively: "You think you're so smart, running a hundred miles away to secretly go to school." "I raised you, you ate my food, spent my money. You haven't brought a single penny home, and you dare run away?" "I've already accepted the bride price, thirty-eight thousand eight hundred. Just waiting for you to go back and get engaged." "Today, you're coming home with me whether you want to or not." In the stifling early autumn heat, I could even feel his spit hitting my face. Only then did I notice a beat-up van parked next to the apartment complex. Dilapidated, the windows completely covered. My dad waved his hand impatiently: "Hurry up, drag her into the van, we still have to hit the road!" A few people rushed out of the van. I looked closely. They were relatives of mine. Even though my family wasn't exactly starving, my dad strongly opposed me studying. Especially after my younger brother failed to get into a good high school last year, and my dad went broke sending him to a private school, it only fueled his determination to make me drop out. I didn't have any friends here. The only people I knew were my classmates. Watching them get closer and closer, I quickly pulled out my phone. It was the one Blair had tossed to me that afternoon. It was her old, latest-model phone. She said it was a reward for me knowing my place. The phone was smooth and fast. I quickly opened the class group chat, where everyone was chatting excitedly. "Yachts are boring. It's always the same thing, so dull." "Look at my new complete set of action figures. I spent over three million on this. [Image.jpg]" "I heard the Stanton heiress got an allowance bump. Are we renting out the golf course tomorrow?" "Let's go horseback riding instead. My little pony hasn't seen me in days, he must miss me." Amidst the chatter. I inappropriately sent a voice message, my voice filled with tears and panic: "It's Chloe. My dad is forcing me to drop out and go home to get married. My phone has GPS. Please, please come save me."