Part 1Bidding 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!"

* * *

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?"