Chapter 8 Chapter Eight

• "Do you think he has the money?"
• "Eli is always a loafer and will forever be. Do you even see his shoes?"
• [ Some of the kids laughed. ]
• "I bet he does not have the money to pay. He is only stalling. Trying to buy more time."
• "And what if he is not?"
• "Have you seen the guy? He can barely afford lunch. What does that tells you?"
• "I had Jordan's father just bought the most biggest house in the city. Did you get an invite for the house warming party?" A girl in a short skimpy dress asked looking at her friend.
• "No."
• "Huh? That means you are of lower class. I should watch the kind of friends move with." She said laughing.
• "Ten thousand grand on Eli that he is bluffing." Tracy Stewart said laughing.
• Most of the students all began to drop their money all betting against me.
• But then a girl came forwards. She was known to be on her own. She was like the queen in the school and many feared her for some reasons I know nothing about.
• "One thousand grand on him." She said and looked at me.
• The courtyard buzzed with anticipation. Phones hovered in the air, some live-streaming, others recording—each student desperate not to miss what they assumed would be Eli Turner’s final humiliation.
• Jordan leaned forward, his swollen lip curling into a sneer. “Well?” he taunted, voice loud enough to echo. “Show us the magic money, poor boy. Or are we finally done pretending?”
• I stared at my phone screen, my thumb trembling slightly as I refreshed the app again.
• Still $50,000.
• Not enough.
• My throat tightened. Sweat slid down my spine. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a marathon. I could feel their eyes on me—students, teachers, my grandmother. Even Dean Collings was watching me with narrowed eyes, arms crossed like he was waiting for me to break.
• And I might have—if not for what happened next.
• A sharp ping vibrated through my phone.
• At first, I thought I imagined it. But then I saw it.
• A notification.
• Deposit received: $100,000
• My jaw slackened. I blinked, stared again. But it was real.
• A second ping followed.
• Memo: “Welcome to the real game. - M.D.”
• I sucked in a sharp breath. The man from the black car. The one who helped me up earlier today. I had assumed he was just a kind stranger—or a curious passerby. But no. He had known. Somehow, he knew I would need this.
• Behind me, someone snorted. “Told you he was bluffing.”
• Jordan laughed, louder now. “You see? This is what happens when you let rats dream. They get too bold.”
• I didn’t speak.
• Not yet.
• I simply lifted my phone and turned the screen toward Dean Collings.
• He squinted, leaned forward, and then his eyes widened. “Good heavens.”
• “Is it fake?” one teacher whispered.
• Dean shook his head slowly. “No. This is... real. That’s an active account.”
• Jordan’s laughter faltered.
• I stepped forward, my voice calm but loud enough for the crowd to hear. “That should cover tuition, right?”
• Dean cleared his throat. “It’s more than enough.”
• “Good,” I said. “Then I’m no longer on scholarship. From now on, I pay full.”
• Gasps rang out.
• Jordan’s face was frozen. Confused. Scared.
• I didn’t stop.
• “Also, I’d like to pay for the Crestwood Elite Hall—the premium seating section at school events. I hear it’s... exclusive.”
• Now the teachers were really whispering. The Elite Hall was reserved for donors, alumni families, and rich kids whose parents had buildings named after them.
• Dean hesitated. “That’s... a significant upgrade.”
• I nodded. “Add an extra twenty grand as a donation to the library. Make sure they get new chairs. The current ones suck.”
• Laughter broke out in the crowd.
• My grandmother covered her mouth. Her eyes sparkled, but she stayed silent.
• Jordan stepped forward, voice shaking. “This is a joke. Someone’s bankrolling him—probably charity or some old man who feels sorry for him.”
• “Does it matter?” I asked. “The school accepted the payment. I’m in. You’re out of arguments.”
• Jordan’s fists clenched. “You think money makes you special?”
• “No,” I replied, stepping closer. “But it buys me a seat next to you—at your table. And that’s what scares you the most.”
• The students lost it.
• Phones spun to me.
• To Jordan.
• To Dean Collings, who adjusted his glasses like he couldn’t believe what was unfolding.
• I wasn’t finished.
• “Remember this moment, Jordan,” I said, staring into his eyes. “The moment you learned that poverty isn’t permanent—but insecurity? That sticks. You needed your father’s name to get here. I needed nothing but rage.”
• Dean Collings raised a hand. “That’s enough, Turner.”
• But he didn’t sound angry anymore.
• If anything, there was something... impressed in his tone.
• I turned to him. “I’ve paid my dues. I’ll be in class tomorrow.”
• He nodded, almost reluctantly. “Very well. Welcome back to Crestwood... as a full-paying student.”
• I turned toward my grandmother. The crowd parted, silent now.
• She was already standing, back straight, pride etched into every line of her face.
• I walked to her slowly, and she pulled me into a hug, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Your mother would’ve been proud of you today.”
• “I’m not done yet,” I whispered back.
• We turned to leave.
• But Jordan couldn’t help himself.
• “You think this changes anything?” he shouted behind us. “You’ll always be trash, Turner. You just got a fancier bag!”
• I stopped, turned slowly.
• “Then let’s see how that trash smells in the Elite Hall. I’ll save you a seat next to me—right in front, where everyone can see who really owns this school now.”
• The final blow.
• He flinched.
• And I walked away with my grandmother, the student body parting like waves.
• Phones still rolled.
• But the story they told had changed.
• I was no longer the kid on scholarship.
• I was the storm.