Chapter 1: The Midnight Drone Scheme

At one o’clock in the morning, a new message popped up in our class group chat about a $600 student fund expense.

[We’ve decided to use the class budget to buy a drone for aerial photography. With 40 of us, it’s $15 each. Just letting everyone know. No need to reply—just read and we’re good.]

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. Using the student fund to buy a drone? Whose genius idea was that? I pictured someone in pajamas, hunched over their desk, half-asleep and clicking ‘buy now’ like it was Monopoly money. This had late-night college sitcom energy written all over it.

The class president, Derek Mason, followed up with a screenshot of a successful $600 payment, cementing his role as our fearless leader in questionable spending.

Right after that, my phone pinged: the drone I’d listed for $75 on Facebook Marketplace was sold.

And the buyer’s number? It matched Derek’s exactly. My pulse skipped. Was this some kind of prank, or was Derek really hustling us all? I almost wanted to call him and ask if he needed a sidekick.

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At one in the morning, the class president posted another announcement in the group.

[We’ve decided to use the student fund to buy a drone for aerial photography. With 40 of us, it’s $15 each. Just letting everyone know. No need to reply—just read and we’re good.]

Even though it was late, the group chat exploded instantly.

[Class president is awesome, now our class has a drone!]

[So trendy, but isn’t this a bit expensive?]

I watched the heart emojis roll in, half-expecting someone to start a GoFundMe for the next ridiculous gadget. Derek Mason quickly posted a screenshot of a $600 payment.

[We bought the flagship model from the official site. It’ll last until graduation, so it works out to just a few cents a day.]

After that, the doubts faded. That’s how things always went in our class—show a receipt and suddenly everyone’s a believer. People started spamming heart emojis and memes of flying eagles, like we’d just invested in a campus spaceship.

The glow from everyone’s screens flickered across the walls, and someone’s bag of Cheetos crinkled in the dark. I had just turned off my phone and was about to drift off when a loud discussion erupted in the dorm.

"Didn’t the student council say she wanted a drone for shooting videos? Our class bought one so fast."

"So jealous of you, having such a thoughtful class president for a boyfriend."

Aubrey, the student council member, coughed and tried to sound serious. "This drone is for everyone, not just me. It’s for the benefit of the whole class."

Yeah, sure. And I’m the tooth fairy.

Everyone knew the class president always did whatever the student council wanted. Aubrey had been dropping hints for weeks about wanting to be the next big travel vlogger—guess Derek finally took the bait.

Derek Mason posted the group notice and payment screenshot back-to-back. Clearly, the decision was already made—the announcement was just for show.

It was hilarious. The whole class was just an audience in their play. It was almost impressive, the way he pulled it off—like we’d all been extras in their rom-com.

I figured that when the drone arrived, I’d make sure to get my fair share of use out of this so-called $600 flagship model. At least get my money’s worth.

But unexpectedly, when I woke up the next day, I got a transaction notification from Facebook Marketplace:

[Your like-new DJI drone, fixed price $75, has been purchased. Please ship as soon as possible.]

I checked the shipping info, and all my sleepiness vanished.

The recipient’s username: "Lone Wolf."

The recipient’s phone number was exactly the same as the class president’s. I literally sat up in bed, mouth open. You couldn’t make this stuff up.