The Secret Millionaire In The Back Row

The school’s golden boy, Elias Hawthorne, cornered me in the hall and demanded to know why I’d skipped the final problem on the math test. “I was the only person in the entire school who could solve that proof,” he declared, his voice tight with superior certainty. “Just admit you couldn’t do it. Don’t lie.” His high-and-mighty tone was worth five thousand dollars in my bank account. Gavin Miller, my lab partner and personal tormentor, chimed in from behind him. “Yeah, right, Clarke. You’re an eyesore, and you’re delusional if you think you’re smart.” Another five thousand cleared. I had been building a comfortable life for myself, brick by brick, with their relentless contempt and casual cruelty. Relying on their daily scorn, I had accumulated a little over $1.48 million. I continued to play the part they had assigned me: the girl with the perpetually sallow skin, the ill-fitting glasses, the hunched posture, and the lying, bad-grades reputation. The charade was only scheduled to end when a famous pianist, Callum Rhodes, arrived at Northwood High for a competitive dance selection, demanding all female participants attend with zero makeup. Brielle Sutton, the reigning school beauty, snickered. “Rowan, don’t even bother showing up. You’ll scare Mr. Rhodes right back to the East Coast.” Only I knew how catastrophically wrong they were about to be.

1 I was sixteen when I discovered I could monetize malice. I had missed the first week of orientation due to an illness. When I finally returned, the rumors about me being the “ugly girl” had already spread like wildfire through the entire grade. Brielle Sutton and her acolytes were the primary source. “Rowan Clarke? I went to middle school with her,” Brielle had announced to anyone who would listen. “She wore a hat and a mask all the time. She was clearly afraid to show her face.” Her hangers-on had been quick to agree. “Right. Brielle is the school’s star. That troll only got into this high school because she got lucky, and now she’s still clinging to her coat-tails.” The stories evolved quickly. At first, they said I had a crush on the most popular guy in school. Then, for reasons unknown, the narrative shifted to me being obsessed with Brielle. By the end of my first day, without lifting a finger, I had received twenty thousand dollars. I calculated that the sum corresponded to four distinct acts of verbal abuse. Because of the entrenched bias established by Brielle and her friends, no one ever questioned that my appearance was a facade. I had used this strange, dark alchemy to work steadily for nine hundred and sixty-four days. The balance in my bank account was a number most people would never see in their lifetime. Every day I stared at it, and the hateful words became insignificant. To me, they weren’t insults; they were a program processing a transaction. I reorganized my life around this strange career. I woke up at four in the morning, two hours before everyone else. I spent ninety minutes on my studies, and the remaining half-hour on my makeup—the meticulously crafted ‘ugly girl’ look that would trigger the transfers. The money was essential. I had been counting every dollar for food and rent. The occasional insult couldn’t truly harm me. I had a high tolerance for psychological pressure, and I simply didn’t care what they thought. Besides, graduation was only three months away. My grades were locked, and their future lives would have zero intersection with mine. 2 Today, Gavin had brought in a new, hand-drawn “Ugly Girl Ranking,” and my grainy, bad-angle photo was at the top, marked with a heavy red X. “Congratulations, Rowan. You’re number one—again.” He spoke with an exaggerated, stage-whisper tone to the students in the front row. “She’s the resident clown, right? Makes sense she’d take the top spot.” Brielle heard this and laughed so hard her entire body shook. I looked at the photo, my mind elsewhere. The final mock exams before college applications had just wrapped up. The boys in the class, bored and restless, had created a “Female Student Rating Chart.” As it was passed around, I was consistently assigned the lowest score: a two. In their vernacular, a ‘two’ was shorthand for a “Hard Pass” or “Zero.” Gavin snatched the chart from someone and tossed it onto my desk. “Couldn’t be helped, Clarke. Your teeth stick out, your skin is like parchment, and you’re a genuinely bad person. I lost a bet, or I wouldn’t be stuck next to you.” The month before, I had been accused of cheating during the midterms. My test paper and Brielle’s were identical, down to the final punctuation. My seat was in front of hers, and my scores were generally higher. But Brielle had merely scrunched up her nose and squeezed out a few tears from eyes that bore a slight resemblance to the social media influencer ‘Rhodesia.’ The boys, all of whom struggled with math, immediately concluded that I had copied her. In the end, the math teacher had found proof—a complex question about the Greek letter Beta that only I had solved correctly. He used it to establish my innocence. Yet, after the incident, the negative rumors had only intensified. I went from being an unremarkable student to their confirmed “troll,” “zero,” and “freak.” The harassment became physical. Sometimes, I’d be locked in a bathroom stall, only for a bucket of foul water to be poured over my head. Other times, just walking past the advanced science hallway would incite a chorus of boos and fabricated gossip about me liking some oblivious, popular athlete. The boys at this age had a powerful, nasty talent for storytelling, and their words were getting crueler. Any other girl might have broken down. I remained perfectly calm. 3 My score on the first mock exam placed me second in the entire school. The student ahead of me was Elias Hawthorne. He was the school chairman’s son, an accomplished violinist who had already secured early acceptance to a prestigious music conservatory. However, he seemed determined not to follow that path, insisting on taking the general exams. Up until then, he had always been first. I no longer needed to work my part-time jobs, which gave me ample study time, allowing me to finally catch up and alternate with Elias for the top spot. I quickly checked the final results, confirmed my score was well above the requirement for my target university, and prepared to leave. My exact rank meant nothing. But after the bell rang, Elias came looking for me. “Rowan, the school’s golden boy wants to see you.” Brielle’s tone was thick with unconcealed jealousy. I met her gaze and walked out of the classroom, simultaneously receiving a “+$5,000” notification. In the hallway, Elias was leaning against the lockers. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and gold-rimmed glasses sat high on his nose. When he saw me, his brow immediately furrowed. “Clarke, why did you leave the final math problem blank?” I briefly recalled the problem. I’d solved it countless times before and saw no point in wasting the ink. I had a rule: if I’d solved the same complex problem twice, I wouldn’t do it again. I told him plainly: “I was too lazy to write it down.” His frown deepened, and he reached out, gripping my wrist firmly. “I think you’re a dishonest person, but you shouldn’t be a liar about academics,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. The gaze behind the lenses was sharp and intense. “I spent twenty minutes solving that problem. In the entire school, only I could do it.” He finalized his judgment: “You couldn’t solve it. Don’t make excuses.” Gavin had followed me out and immediately backed him up. “He’s right, Rowan. You’re just desperate to save face.” For a moment, I found myself speechless. It was then that Brielle rushed toward us, her face flushed with excitement. “The city’s official Ballet Company is here to scout!” 4 “The notice says it’s a direct, exceptional offer!” Brielle waved a flyer excitedly. “If you’re selected, you get a formal contract and a chance to perform with Callum Rhodes!” Callum Rhodes was Crestwood’s most famous young pianist. He had shot to fame early, performing in Vienna at seven and gaining international recognition by fourteen. After a celebrity television show appearance, he became a household name. By twenty, he was a recognized artist. His striking looks had garnered him a massive, fervent following, and his private life had been severely impacted. He eventually retreated to his hometown, Crestwood, rarely participating in public events. Brielle clutched the flyer, her face crimson. “That’s Callum Rhodes… If I can share a stage with him, even as a background dancer, I’ll do it!” Another girl tried to peek at the flyer, but Gavin slapped her hand away. “Look at yourself. This is an opportunity for Brielle, not you losers. You’ll never be on stage with Callum Rhodes. Keep dreaming.” Brielle lifted her chin, already certain of her success. “You guys can come to me for signed photos after I get in.” Gavin immediately licked his boots. “Brielle, don’t forget me when you’re famous.” It was then that Brielle seemed to finally notice me. “Oh, Rowan, you’re here, too.” She smiled, an air of false sweetness around her. “Do you want to go? The notice says all girls are required to attend. You can sign up with me.” Before I could answer, Gavin cut in. “Her? The dance company is looking for dancers, not… not whatever she is. Don’t embarrass our class, Clarke.” Brielle joined in the laughter. “Right, you need to know your limits. Rowan, maybe don’t go. What if Callum Rhodes is there? Don’t frighten him off.” I ignored them, pulled a new set of practice papers from my bag, and began working. It was Elias who spoke next. “Rowan, do you want to go?” “No.” I didn’t look up. “Why?” “I have to study.” 5 On the day of the dance audition, every girl in the school headed to the athletic field. Except for me. I was alone in an empty classroom, working on my exams. My seat was near the window, and I could see the field clearly. Brielle had applied heavy makeup, especially around her eyes, for which she’d paid a professional stylist three hundred dollars. All the other girls were equally dressed up, each hoping to seize the opportunity. I continued with my test paper. After the principal’s speech, Callum Rhodes made his entrance. He wore a crisp white tuxedo and had a strikingly cold demeanor, exactly as the rumors described. The first step of the selection process was announced: every girl was to be handed a makeup-removing wipe and instructed to remove all cosmetics immediately. Callum explained this was a requirement from the company director. Brielle’s face instantly paled. But she glanced at Callum, grabbed a wipe, and began scrubbing. “Wait a moment,” Callum suddenly said. “Are all the female students present?” The principal hesitated. “They should be.” Gavin, who was lurking nearby, piped up. “Yes, Principal, they’re all here! Brielle showed up bright and early!” Callum frowned. “No. One is missing.” The dean of students confirmed. “The prefect checked all the classrooms. No one was there.” Elias Hawthorne, who had been standing silently near the side, suddenly spoke up. “One person is definitely missing,” he said in an even, measured tone. “Someone who chose not to come.” 6 I finished the last problem and set my pen down. “Mr. Rhodes, she’s right here.” The dean of students entered, followed by the principal. He knocked on the door. “Rowan, still studying? Why would you skip the dance audition—it’s such an important chance?” As he spoke, he tried to casually place a hand on my shoulder. I subtly shifted away. “No need, Sir.” My voice was calm. “I know I won’t be selected, so I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.” The dean’s hand froze mid-air, his expression slightly awkward, much like the last time he’d found me alone and asked if I wanted to “talk.” “Nonsense, child. You never know unless you try.” A cool, detached voice came from behind him. I looked up and saw Callum Rhodes. He looked exactly as I remembered: pale lips, long eyelashes, and an impenetrable air. My heart quickened slightly, and I offered him a small, challenging smile. “No need to trouble yourself.” I paused, using the special, historical term we shared. “Big Brother.” “Hm.” He actually responded. “Since you still acknowledge me as your brother, then come with me.” His tone allowed for no refusal. The principal and teachers present were stunned by our exchange but quickly masked their surprise. The principal’s eyes warmed considerably. “Ms. Clarke, let’s hurry up and get to the field.” I couldn’t refuse. I followed them back to the athletic field. The girls on the field had been waiting a long time and were whispering to one another. I heard Gavin’s voice clearly. “This is pointless. Why drag Rowan Clarke out here? She’ll be even uglier without makeup.” Another boy laughed. “Right, the first round is based on looks. She’s definitely out.” “I thought the golden boy was interested in her, but he must have just wanted to see her humiliate herself.” These comments eased the tension on the field, and Brielle’s strained expression relaxed a bit. The principal led me to the stage. He took the microphone. “There was a small misunderstanding. We missed one student. The selection will now continue.” I was ushered into a corner with a basin of clear water. Next to it was a bottle of industrial-strength makeup remover. Gavin smugly told the people around him, “This is from my uncle’s lab. It’ll strip off anything! Get ready for a show…” Brielle had finished scrubbing her face and was covering it with her hands. Someone yelled at me. “Rowan, hurry up and wash your face!” I took a deep breath and plunged my hands into the water.