Chapter 4: Outcast

The next day in class, every stare felt like a slap. Whispers chased me from the doorway to my seat—if I could even find one. Bags and jackets claimed empty chairs before I got close. In the end, I sank into the last row. The AC in the back was blasting, and I hugged my backpack tight, wishing I could disappear into the plastic seat.

"Shameless." "Gross." "Piece of crap." The insults buzzed around me, tiny daggers I couldn’t dodge.

During the break, Natalie’s voice cracked through the quiet. "Just now, Marcus’s mom told me his illness has gotten worse. He urgently needs money for treatment. What should we do…"

She covered her face and sobbed—no drama, just the kind of crying that makes your chest ache. Her shoulders shook, face buried in her arms.

Everyone froze. People fiddled with their phones or stared at the floor. This was the first time any of us had faced something like this. One girl at the front looked at me, eyes sharp with blame and something like fear.

"Natalie… We can ask the whole college to donate. Don’t be sad…" The girl next to her patted her back, voice shaking. The room was so quiet you could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing.

"But… it’s really urgent…"

"How can we gather this much money…"

"He’s been our classmate for four years. If he can’t get treatment…"

Someone bit their nails. Another blinked hard, trying not to cry.

I could feel the heat of every hateful glance—like a spotlight in a dark theater, exposing me for everyone to judge.

Natalie sniffed, bit her lip, then walked over and knelt by my desk. Her voice was so small I almost missed it. Her hands shook, nails bitten raw.

"Aubrey, please don’t just stand by. Even if I have to borrow it from you, can you take out the money for Marcus first? I’ll work to pay you back. It’s really urgent now…"

Her head was bowed, pleading. Tears glittered in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. A silent wall of classmates stood behind her, backing her up. I felt like I was on trial, no hope of parole.

I forced myself to shrug, my face stone cold even as my chest tightened. "Told you. I’m broke. Don’t look at me."

Natalie slumped forward, face buried in her arms, shoulders shaking. Her sobs echoed in my ears long after they faded.

The class tried to scrape together money, but it was the end of the month—everyone’s accounts were running dry. Some checked their apps, others whispered in the hall.

Suddenly, Natalie sat up, eyes red but determined. "I remember now! My mom gave me a card with two grand on it. That was supposed to be my graduation start-up money. I’m going to donate it… Yes, I’ll donate it…"

Her hands shook as she fumbled with her phone. A classmate steadied her arm, and Natalie managed a wobbly smile.

"I’ve already sent my money and what we’ve raised together to Marcus’s mom. She said it’s enough for now, and we’ll ask the whole college to help next."

Her voice was choked, her smile shining through tears. Classmates handed her tissues; a boy tossed his hoodie over her shoulders.

"Natalie, you’re such a good person…"

"Yeah, Natalie usually works part-time, but at a moment like this she still steps up, unlike someone."

"I’m really convinced—people really are different."

Natalie looked at me, sniffed, voice shaking. "I never thought you’d just watch someone suffer. I was wrong to think of you as a friend."

That one hit harder than anything else. Some classmates spat insults at me, but I kept scrolling on my phone, pretending not to hear. Each swipe made my hands sweat more.

A week later, Marcus was discharged, thanks to donations from the whole campus—student council, Greek life, athletes, even a few professors. My name was still mud.

That day, the advisor called a grade meeting for public recognition and demerit. The group chat exploded; the meme channels were on fire.

"Settling the score, huh."

"Feels like someone’s about to get expelled."

"People who take advantage always get what’s coming."

In the auditorium, people jostled for seats. Around me, the air was empty—no one wanted to sit close. Even my old study partners avoided my gaze. I just picked at a loose thread on my jeans, waiting.