The Bullied Prodigy

CHAPTER EIGHT

" Do you think he has the money?"

" Eli is always a loafer and will forever be. Do you even see his shoes?"

[ Some of the kids laughed. ]

" I bet he does not have the money to pay. He is only stalling. Trying to buy more time."

" And what if he is not?"

" Have you seen the guy? He can barely afford lunch. What does that tells you?"

" I had Jordan's father just bought the most biggest house in the city. Did you get an invite for the house warming party?" A girl in a short skimpy dresss asked looking at her friend.

" No."

" Huh? That means you are of lower class. I should watch the kind of friends move with." She said laughing

" Ten thousand grand on Eli that he is bluffing." Tracy Stewart said laughing.

Most of the students all began to drop their money all betting against me.

But then a girl came forwards. She was known to be on her own. She was like the queen in the school and many feared her for some unreasons I know nothing about.

" One thousand grand on him." She said and looked at me.

The courtyard buzzed with anticipation. Phones hovered in the air, some live-streaming, others recording—each student desperate not to miss what they assumed would be Eli Turner’s final humiliation.

Jordan leaned forward, his swollen lip curling into a sneer. “Well?” he taunted, voice loud enough to echo. “Show us the magic money, poor boy. Or are we finally done pretending?”

I stared at my phone screen, my thumb trembling slightly as I refreshed the app again.

Still $50,000.

Not enough.

My throat tightened. Sweat slid down my spine. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a marathon. I could feel their eyes on me—students, teachers, my grandmother. Even Dean Collings was watching me with narrowed eyes, arms crossed like he was waiting for me to break.

And I might have—if not for what happened next.

A sharp ping vibrated through my phone.

At first, I thought I imagined it. But then I saw it.

A notification.

Deposit received: $100,000

My jaw slackened. I blinked, stared again. But it was real.

A second ping followed.

Memo: “Welcome to the real game. - M.D.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. The man from the black car. The one who helped me up earlier today. I had assumed he was just a kind stranger—or a curious passerby. But no. He had known. Somehow, he knew I would need this.

Behind me, someone snorted. “Told you he was bluffing.”

Jordan laughed, louder now. “You see? This is what happens when you let rats dream. They get too bold.”

I didn’t speak.

Not yet.

I simply lifted my phone and turned the screen toward Dean Collings.

He squinted, leaned forward, and then his eyes widened. “Good heavens.”

“Is it fake?” one teacher whispered.

Dean shook his head slowly. “No. This is... real. That’s an active account.”

Jordan’s laughter faltered.

I stepped forward, my voice calm but loud enough for the crowd to hear. “That should cover tuition, right?”

Dean cleared his throat. “It’s more than enough.”

“Good,” I said. “Then I’m no longer on scholarship. From now on, I pay full.”

Gasps rang out.

Jordan’s face was frozen. Confused. Scared.

I didn’t stop.

“Also, I’d like to pay for the Crestwood Elite Hall—the premium seating section at school events. I hear it’s... exclusive.”

Now the teachers were really whispering. The Elite Hall was reserved for donors, alumni families, and rich kids whose parents had buildings named after them.

Dean hesitated. “That’s... a significant upgrade.”

I nodded. “Add an extra twenty grand as a donation to the library. Make sure they get new chairs. The current ones suck.”

Laughter broke out in the crowd.

My grandmother covered her mouth. Her eyes sparkled, but she stayed silent.

Jordan stepped forward, voice shaking. “This is a joke. Someone’s bankrolling him—probably charity or some old man who feels sorry for him.”

“Does it matter?” I asked. “The school accepted the payment. I’m in. You’re out of arguments.”

Jordan’s fists clenched. “You think money makes you special?”

“No,” I replied, stepping closer. “But it buys me a seat next to you—at your table. And that’s what scares you the most.”

The students lost it.

Phones spun to me.

To Jordan.

To Dean Collings, who adjusted his glasses like he couldn’t believe what was unfolding.

I wasn’t finished.

“Remember this moment, Jordan,” I said, staring into his eyes. “The moment you learned that poverty isn’t permanent—but insecurity? That sticks. You needed your father’s name to get here. I needed nothing but rage.”

Dean Collings raised a hand. “That’s enough, Turner.”

But he didn’t sound angry anymore.

If anything, there was something... impressed in his tone.

I turned to him. “I’ve paid my dues. I’ll be in class tomorrow.”

He nodded, almost reluctantly. “Very well. Welcome back to Crestwood... as a full-paying student.”

I turned toward my grandmother. The crowd parted, silent now.

She was already standing, back straight, pride etched into every line of her face.

I walked to her slowly, and she pulled me into a hug, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Your mother would’ve been proud of you today.”

“I’m not done yet,” I whispered back.

We turned to leave.

But Jordan couldn’t help himself.

“You think this changes anything?” he shouted behind us. “You’ll always be trash, Turner. You just got a fancier bag!”

I stopped, turned slowly.

“Then let’s see how that trash smells in the Elite Hall. I’ll save you a seat next to me—right in front, where everyone can see who really owns this school now.”

The final blow.

He flinched.

And I walked away with my grandmother, the student body parting like waves.

Phones still rolled.

But the story they told had changed.

I was no longer the kid on scholarship.

I was the storm.