"Fine. You want to throw things away? Then you can forget about dinner money next week. Consider it your reimbursement to me."

The line went dead. Nothing left but the flat, mechanical hum of the dial tone.

I sat there. Didn't move.

Outside, the dorm building lights were still on. The girl next door was laughing into her phone. Her voice drifted through the wall, faint but clear enough to make out.

Mom, stop worrying. I'm fine. Everything's great.

I looked down at the post Lily had just made on social media.

"I'd sell everything I own to give my kids the best."

Then I checked my balance. Sixteen dollars and thirty cents. Scraped together from recycling cans and bottles last week.

To the rest of the world, I was the lucky daughter who got five thousand dollars a month in allowance, lovingly raised by a generous mother.

Only I knew the truth. That five thousand wasn't money. It was a chain around my neck. Every time I pulled against it, it tore skin.

Buy a pen? File a report. Use up a refill? Log it. Even a fifty-cent replacement cartridge had to be kept after it ran dry, flattened out, and photographed for her inspection.

One second too slow, and I'd get screamed at.

One cartridge short, and next week's dinner money was gone.

I stared at the ceiling and slowly started to laugh.

My mother liked to say my face was the biggest regret of her life. Because I looked too much like my father. The man who gambled away every cent she had and skipped town with another woman.

This life of "five thousand dollars a month in spending money." When was it ever going to end?

Third period that afternoon was study hall. I had my head down, working through calculus problems.

The homeroom teacher pushed open the classroom door and walked in. She scanned the room once, and her eyes landed directly on me.

"Queenie, you still owe fifty dollars for the practice exam packet. This is the third reminder. Can I get a straight answer today?"

Forty students. Forty pairs of eyes. Every single one swiveled toward me.

The blood rushed to my face all at once, but I forced myself to nod.

"I'll figure it out today, ma'am."

"Good. Have it on my desk before the end of class."

She turned and left. The stares didn't.

Someone in the front row muttered under their breath. "She can't come up with fifty bucks?"

Another voice followed, quick and sharp. "Doesn't her mom give her five grand a month? Who knows where it all goes."

I dropped my head and fixed my eyes on the half-finished integral on my scratch paper. My ears burned so hot they felt like they might catch fire.

The second the bell rang, I ran to the far end of the hallway and dialed.

No answer.

I sent a message. Mom, the teacher's asking for the materials fee. Fifty dollars. Can you transfer it first?

Sent. No reply.

I stood in the hallway, watching the sun beat down on the track field through the window, my palms slowly going damp with sweat.

Nearly half an hour passed before the phone finally rang.

"What is it?" Her voice was lazy, like she'd just woken up from a nap.

"The fifty-dollar materials fee. The teacher keeps asking. Can you just send it?"

"Fifty dollars?" Her pitch shot up instantly.

"Queenie, I give you five thousand a month and that's not enough? Now you're coming to me with your hand out for more?"

I swallowed the anger down. "It's a school fee. Collected from everyone. It's not part of the living allowance."

"Collected from everyone, so it has to be paid?" She cut me off. "How do I know your teacher isn't just skimming money on the side? I'm telling you right now, without an official receipt stamped by the school, you're not getting a cent. Go ask your teacher for one. When I see it, I'll transfer the money."

I froze for a moment. My voice dropped to almost nothing. "Mom. It's fifty dollars. Not five hundred."

"Doesn't matter how much it is. Rules are rules."

The line went dead. Clean. Final.

I stood in the hallway, phone in my hand, and for a long moment I had no idea where to go.

I forced myself back into the classroom, found the homeroom teacher, and stammered out the words.

"Ma'am, my mom asked if she could get… a receipt with the school's official stamp?"

The teacher looked up, her expression blank for a second before her brows knitted together.

"A receipt? For a materials fee?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

A few classmates who'd been crowded around the teacher's desk went quiet.

Then the whispers crept in.

"Wow, she needs a receipt for fifty bucks? Does she think the teacher's scamming her?"

"Her mom gives her five grand a month and she's making this big a deal over fifty dollars. Either her mom's insanely cheap, or the money never actually reaches her."

"She probably blew it all herself. Why else would this be happening?"

I stood there and let every word slice through me.

The teacher went to the administrative office, got the stamp, and came back. She pressed the receipt into my hand. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of pity she almost managed to hide.

I took a photo of the receipt and sent it to my mother.

Less than thirty seconds later, fifty dollars landed in my account.

I kept my head down, paid the fee, turned around, and walked out. That was when I opened Brody Abbott's social media.

His latest post was from noon today.

In the photo, he was hugging a pair of brand-new limited-edition sneakers, grinning at his reflection in the mirror like he'd won the lottery.

The price tag on the box was perfectly visible.

$500.

The caption was short: "Mom bought these for me. Love you ️"

I stared at that photo for a long time.

Five hundred dollars' worth of sneakers. No invoice. No receipt. No official stamp. Bought without a second thought.

Fifty dollars for a materials fee, and I had to stand in front of my entire class for half an hour. Had to beg for a receipt, beg for a stamp, had to grind my dignity into the floor before she'd transfer the money.

I gripped my phone, tilted my head back, and shoved that breath down hard.

Something was pushing up behind my eyes. I didn't let it out.

A draft blew through the hallway. Cold.

Back in my dorm, I pulled up Brody's profile and scrolled from the top.

Two weeks ago, Mom bought him the latest gaming console. $450.

Last Thursday, a screenshot of a $2,500 transfer appeared in one of his posts. The memo was spelled out in full: "For my baby boy's gaming fund. Enjoy every penny."

Twenty-five hundred dollars.

For video games.

I set my phone down and looked at the text notification showing my meal card balance.

$2.13.

That was all the money I had for the week.

Right then, my phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number. The header read: Weston University Admissions Office.

My heart stopped. I opened it.

"Ms. Pruitt, your tuition and fees remain unpaid. The payment portal for this enrollment cycle will close tomorrow at 10:00 PM. If payment is not completed by the deadline, your admission will be revoked. Please remit the full amount of $1,300 before the cutoff. No extensions will be granted."

I stared at those words. A low ringing filled my skull.

Thirteen hundred dollars.

I turned the phone over in my hands three times, making sure it wasn't a scam. Checked the sender against the number listed on the admissions office website. Confirmed the deadline was tomorrow night at ten.

Then I set the phone down on the desk, slowly.

My hands started to shake.

$2.13 on my meal card. Nothing in my wallet. Nothing in my bank account. Even the little bit I'd scraped together last month from selling recyclables, money I'd been saving for exactly this kind of emergency, Mom had taken all of it last week. Said she'd hold onto it for me.

I took a deep breath and sent my mother a message.

"Mom, Weston sent a reminder about tuition and fees. It's due by tomorrow night. Eight thousand dollars total. Can you just transfer me thirteen hundred first? I want to secure my dorm bed."

Just thirteen hundred.

I didn't dare ask for more. I was afraid she'd hang up on me.

I sent the message and stared at the chat window, counting the seconds.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Five minutes.

The typing indicator appeared on her end.

My heart rate spiked. My fingers tightened around the phone without thinking.

Then the indicator vanished.

Three more minutes passed before her reply came through. A single line.

"Once I transfer money, who knows what you'll actually do with it. Don't think I don't know your deadbeat father's broke again. Are you trying to scam money out of me so you can secretly funnel it to him?"

I closed my eyes.

"Mom, this is tuition. It has nothing to do with Dad."

"Then have the school send me an invoice. Show me an invoice and I'll transfer it."

I took a deep breath. "The school uses a centralized online payment system. There are no paper invoices."

"No invoice, no transfer. How am I supposed to know if it's even real."

After that message, she stopped responding entirely.

My finger hovered over the screen. I had no idea what else to say.

Then my phone rang. It was my academic advisor.

"Queenie, why haven't you paid your tuition and fees yet? The system shows you're the last student who hasn't paid. The deadline is ten o'clock tomorrow night. Do you understand what that means?"

"Your admission gets revoked. This isn't a joke. What's your situation right now? Can you get the payment in tonight?"

My throat clenched. My fingers dug into the phone case so hard the edges bit into my skin.

I forced the sob back down before it could surface. My voice came out shaking.

"I'll figure something out tonight. I'll have it in before tomorrow."

I hung up and sank into the chair, burying my face in my knees.

Outside the window, the streetlights flickered on one by one. Orange light spilled across the floor and stretched my shadow long across the room.

Eight thousand dollars.

My mother transferred twenty-five hundred to Brody every month just for gaming top-ups.

But I couldn't scrape together eight thousand for tuition.

I'd already asked every roommate I had. Everyone had just started the semester. Nobody had money to spare. Between all of them, I'd collected two hundred and thirty dollars. Nowhere close to eight thousand.

Then I remembered the tin box at the bottom of my dorm closet.

I'd been saving since middle school. Three years of collecting recyclables, running errands for neighbors, selling old textbooks at the end of each semester. Fives and tens, folded and tucked inside one by one.

Last time I counted, there was almost four hundred dollars in there.

I ran home and dug out the box. Opened it.

Empty.

The box was empty.

I stood frozen, turning it over and over in my hands, confirming there wasn't a single bill left inside.

Then it came back to me, slowly. Last month, my mother had come to tidy my room. She said she'd hold on to my pocket money for safekeeping. So I wouldn't waste it.

At the time, I'd actually felt relieved. I thought it would be safer with her.

Now the empty box sat in my hands, and all I felt was cold.

Four hundred dollars. Plus the two hundred and thirty from my roommates. Everything I had came to six hundred and thirty dollars.

Eight thousand minus six hundred and thirty left seven thousand three hundred and seventy to go.

I gritted my teeth and dialed her number.

"Mom, the school deadline is real. Eight thousand dollars. Just transfer it and I'll send you a photo of the receipt from here."

"Are you stupid."

Her voice was lazy, unhurried.

"Even if I had the money, why would I transfer it to you now? You'll take it and turn right around and hand it to your deadbeat father. Where does that leave me?"

"Mom," my voice was already shaking, "this is tuition for Weston, it's not—"