Lena’s POV
First period crawls by with the kind of slowness that makes every minute feel like an hour. I sit in the back corner of Mr. Calder's Economics class with my notebook open, pen in hand, going through the motions of taking notes while my mind loops the same dead-end equation on an endless track.
Acceptance letter. Tuition bill. Family budget that can't stretch any farther than it already does. The numbers refuse to reconcile no matter how many times I run them, no matter how I try to make them fit.
Mr. Calder drones on about market equilibria at the front of the room, his voice flat and monotonous as he draws supply and demand curves on the whiteboard.
Around me, other students actually take notes. I should be paying attention because Economics is usually one of my better subjects, one where the logic makes sense and the problems have clear solutions.
But today the only problem I can think about has no solution I can find.
I flip to a fresh page in my notebook and start listing options in the margins. Extra shifts—but I already tutor three times a week and babysit on weekends. More scholarships—deadlines have passed. Loans—need a cosigner with good credit.
The bell rings sharp and sudden. I snap back to the present to realize my page is nothing but scribbled numbers crossed out and circled, margin notes leading nowhere.
The rest of the morning blurs past. I move from class to class on autopilot, sitting in my usual seats, opening my usual notebooks, but I'm less attentive than I've ever been.
By third period, I stop pretending. Mrs. Patterson is talking about Fitzgerald and the American Dream, cruel irony given my situation, and I can't focus anymore.
I bring out my phone, angle it low under my desk, and open my browser. My thumbs move with purpose as I begin searching for solutions.
"Emergency scholarships." Most require applications submitted months ago.
"Last-minute tuition assistance." Just advice columns and desperate forum posts.
"Grants for first-generation students." Paywalls and closed applications.
I widen my search, desperation making me less careful. "Alternative ways to pay for college." Work-study programs I'm already enrolled in. Student employment at minimum wage.
So I try something that feels dangerous even as my fingers hit the keys: "Unconventional ways to pay for college."
The results tilt stranger. Essay contests with gimmicky requirements. Video competitions needing equipment I don't own. I scroll past posts about arrangements that make my skin crawl, forums where people share anonymous stories about choices they can't unmake.
I'm about to close the browser when a link stands out from the others. It's not flashy or spammy. Instead, it's sleek and professional—designed like a bank lobby or law firm's website. Clean lines, muted colors, understated elegance that makes it look legitimate in a way that scares me more than obvious scams.
The name sits at the top in simple serif font: Virgin Exchange.
My thumb hovers over the link. Something in my stomach twists, warning me, but curiosity and desperation are stronger. I click.
The page loads with the same professional aesthetic. No pop-ups. No flashing banners. Just clean text explaining a "discreet service connecting individuals seeking financial assistance with benefactors interested in mutually beneficial arrangements."
I read the euphemisms twice before I understand what they're actually saying.
My face goes hot. I should close this immediately. Delete my browser history. Pretend I never saw it.
But I don't close it.
Instead, I read the testimonials. Anonymous stories from "clients" who paid off student debt, funded degrees, started businesses. All carefully worded, nothing explicit, but the implication hangs between every line.
"Mrs. Patterson is looking this way," a voice hisses beside me.
I nearly drop my phone. My hand shoots out, the screen going black as I shove it into my bag. I look up to find Mrs. Patterson scanning the room, her eyes narrowed.
"As I was saying," she continues, "Gatsby's pursuit of Daisy represents the corruption of the American Dream itself—the idea that wealth and status can be bought, that reinvention comes without cost."
The irony burns.
After class, I find Priya waiting by my locker. She takes one look at my face and frowns.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious, Lena. Did you even sleep last night?"
"Some." I spin my combination lock with shaking fingers. "I was researching again."
"Find anything helpful?"
I think about the Virgin Exchange website still sitting in my browser history. "No. Just more dead ends."
"My mom said she'd ask around at her work," Priya offers. "Maybe someone knows about scholarships we haven't found yet."
"That's really nice of her."
"She likes you. Says you're a good influence on me." Priya grins. "Which is hilarious since you're the one having a crisis and I'm the stable one for once."
I manage a weak laugh. "Role reversal."
"Seriously though." Priya's expression sobers. "You'd tell me if you were thinking about doing something stupid, right?"
My fingers freeze on my locker door. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. You just seem... I'm worried about you."
"I'm fine. Just stressed." The lie tastes bitter.
Priya doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Okay. But I'm here if you need to talk. About anything."
"I know." I force a smile. "Thanks, Pri."
“It’s time for our next class,” she says. “See you later.”
She heads to her next class, and I lean my forehead against my locker door. The metal is cool against my skin.
Finally, I move away, and move back to class, with my phone in my bag, feeling like it's burning a hole through the fabric.