Chapter 2: The Showdown

Class meeting. Natalie stood at the front, her usual spark snuffed out, replaced by a heaviness that made the room feel smaller.

On the projector, a photo of Marcus in his hospital bed filled the screen. He looked tiny, swallowed by those scratchy white sheets, IV lines tangled at his side. The image hung in the air, demanding something no one wanted to give.

Marcus’s parents sat on the edge of their seats, dabbing at their eyes with crumpled Starbucks napkins. The room went so quiet you could hear the clock tick. A few classmates stared at the floor, pretending their shoelaces were fascinating.

Natalie taped the Venmo QR code to the podium with blue painter’s tape, right next to the battered student government sticker. Someone handed out leftover donuts from the dining hall as people lined up to scan the code. Phones buzzed, and voices whispered encouragements—everyone wanted to help.

"We’re all in this together. We should help each other," someone said, their voice shaky but stubborn.

"Hope he gets better soon… Man, life can really throw you for a loop." Even the class clown in the back was wiping his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

"I don’t have much left for groceries, but I’m willing to help a little more," a student in a faded campus hoodie muttered, counting out a crumpled five and some singles.

For a moment, the room felt like a real team. Even the ones scraping by themselves found something to give. It was one of those rare, proud moments you remember long after graduation.

Natalie cleared her throat, voice a little shaky but determined. "It’s amazing that everyone’s so generous, but don’t let it put you in a bind. I remember our class fund should still have plenty left. I propose we use that first."

She looked right at me. Every head turned. The kind of stare that makes your spine tingle.

"That’s right. We pay so much each semester. It’s meant for emergencies like this."

"Yeah, I forgot about the class fund. I don’t mind donating my whole share."

"Me too."

The class fund was supposed to cover things like homecoming floats and pizza parties—not life-or-death emergencies. But no one ever thought we’d face something like this. Relief flickered in a few faces. Someone let out a shaky sigh, tension easing just a bit.

But I shook my head slowly, wishing I could disappear into my plastic seat. "It’s all been spent. There’s nothing left."

The words landed like a bomb. People gasped. Some traded nervous glances. It was like telling your family Thanksgiving dinner was just PB&J sandwiches this year.

"What? No money left?"

"There haven’t been many expenses this semester, right?"

"We should check the accounts."

Every eye in the room burned into me. Someone in the back started whispering, but my name came through loud and clear.

Natalie’s voice was sharp as broken glass. "That’s the class fund. It belongs to everyone. We trusted you to manage it. Now it’s an emergency—Marcus’s health is on the line. This isn’t a joke."

I looked at her, trying to look bored. "I said, it’s all spent. Don’t expect me to cover the difference out of my own pocket." I tapped my pen, acting cool, but my heart was racing.

Natalie pressed on. "Where’s the expense report? Show us where the money went."

She was angry but kept her head, rallying the class like a coach at halftime. My hands felt clammy. Someone slammed their laptop shut. Another kid’s face was beet red, fists clenched around his water bottle.

I didn’t say much. I just posted the semester’s expenses in the group chat. I could feel my phone buzzing with group chat notifications, each one like a mosquito bite I couldn’t ignore. The room fell into a hush as people scrolled.

"Homecoming… three thousand…"

"Teacher Appreciation Week… two thousand eight hundred…"

"Renovating the student lounge… four thousand five hundred…"

"Battle of the Bands… eight thousand eight hundred…"

"That already adds up to more than fifteen grand."

Faces darkened as people read. The air felt heavy and cold.

"That’s not right. I remember for Homecoming we just got pizza—maybe a few hundred bucks. How’d it come to three thousand?"

"And for the band contest, we only bought a few costumes. How could it cost eighty-eight hundred?"

Natalie finally said what everyone was thinking. "No way. That’s gotta be fake. Did you just make up those numbers?"