na

ps that cost four dollars apiece, and I don't want them to know that I can't afford one either. particularly Jess. She portrays poverty as a sin. She acts as if we

. My school loan is still not paid off. But I still haven't secured employment. I always have to compete with overachievers since I live in a college town. Although I've always gotten

Ridic

ossessions to sell. I've used all the coins my mother gave me. I alrea

et down at our customary table at the nearby coffee shop, I grumble. With e

"Probably," he replies. The cost of everything at

d and a polished fingernail tracing the rim of her

dad's rich," he says. His jaw tightens as he runs a hand over the ge

nto her mind as she gazes wistfully into the empty space

an's father, but I now see that she has been doing a horrible job of concealing it. She must need money to support her lavish lifestyle, and Mr. Stryk

his Tesla, and I can see he flaunts the physical attributes necessary

uence. Or, at the very least, try to learn. I can't have folks come here and not be able to acquire even the most basic of financial

stic of his-the way he so beautifully describes it-"intellectually lesser folks." He believes that I am one of the lower people since I'm not the sharpest, hasn't received the greate

at he doesn't have to worry about internet bills or transportation ex

can see how he could have continual pressure to achieve better than his successful father as a resu

ever share any of this

inks he's better than most people. I assume that'

ld. I retort, "I'm sure they work as hard as the rest," tilting my cup t

taking up his MacBook, he swipes over the screen of his phone. It's blatant rejection, but I'm acc

her lack of interest in conversations about capitalism. She has been practicing the maneuver for so l

with my irritable demeanor. That i

ntemplate how to escape the financial hole I find myself trapped in. We remain sil