A weird feeling alights in my heart. A feeling that would give The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows a good run for their money. Imagine standing at the edge of an empty stage, the applause ringing in your ears, but only a handful of people are sitting in the audience. They're clapping for you, yes, but you know the auditorium could hold hundreds more. Imagine someone admiring your painting hung up in a tiny corner café, while you can't help but wonder how it might've looked hanging in a proper gallery, under real spotlights.

The clothes that I truly care for and spent hours refashioning have made it to the display section of a thrift store under an arbitrary label they've coined, Petalcraft. Yet, something of the aforementioned feeling is not letting me enjoy the feat. Is it too presumptuous to say I wanted something more for them? What that "more" is, I can't quite say. I'm left with nothing but silence.

As I finalize the sale, counting the 1,140 Rs in cash for the two jumpers and three jackets, I glance up just in time to see a ninth-grade class representative from our school stroll into the store. Kirti shops here? My mind races with possibilities. Could she be a scholarship student? Our school keeps those details tightly under wraps. Each year, a single student is chosen after a rigorous selection process that requires them to present an EWS (Economically Weaker Section) certificate and demonstrate their understanding of concepts taught just below the grade they would be entering. Their tuition and exam fees are fully covered by the school, a secret known only to the trustees.

But soon enough, the air of mystery dissipates. A woman in ostentatious sunglasses strides in behind Kirti, carrying a box of donations. I quickly pivot, retreating to the aisle filled with shoes and handbags, hoping to avoid being spotted in my unmistakable school uniform. When I sneak a glance back at Kirti, I find her examining one of the cropped tees I'd embroidered from an oversized t-shirt dress.

I check time.

I have time, I tell myself. But just enough.

I glance anxiously at Kirti, who's now capturing a photo of the Petalcraft signage, written in an elegant loopy cursive. She films the clothes on display, along with the rack beneath. 'Just leave if you're not planning to buy anything!' I mutter under my breath. It's as if she hears me; moments later, she returns the clothes to the rack and heads out with her mother.

I let out a sigh of relief—a close call. My gaze drifts back to the signage, and I can't help but wish I had a phone. If I did, I'd be making videos too, showcasing this place and sharing it online. But I have no time for that, and my funds are dwindling to the bare minimum, aside from that darned contribution money. With board exams approaching and half-yearlies just around the corner, every rupee counts. I'm trying to save up for either a government college plus a CA course or a private institution with a Psychology honors degree. Both options look increasingly overcast.

With a last wistful glance at the display, I leave the store.

On my way to school, I am reminded that my periods are coming up and I am short of sanitary pads. With 440 Rs spent, I'm left with just seven hundred to spare. I mentally calculate that I'll need to make two or three more trips to the store. When will I find the time to study?

As I enter the school premises, a grey Rolls Royce Phantom glides to a stop in front of the entrance, drawing students in like moths to a flame. It must be another one of Romil's attempts to show off, I think. As if to validate my theory, he steps out, donning surly expressions this time. Shouldering his bag straps, he moves through the crowd with an air of indifference, his face set like a stone.

Just before he crosses the threshold of the gates, he halts, turns to face the students, and draws an invisible line on the tile with the toe of his shoe. In a loud, vociferous voice, he declares, 'Before crossing this line, I want all those videos and photos deleted.' I wait for a threat that never comes.

Within seconds, I watch as students begin to shift uneasily, those who filmed him hastily tapping on their phones, probably deleting every trace of his grand entrance. Without waiting to confirm if his proclamation has the desired effect, he turns back and strolls past me. What a KJO-movie move!

After I finish my lunch during the interval, I head back to class and sit with my favorite companions—books. In front of me, Gargi has dragged her seat next to Sakshi and they are going on about Ariana Grande's One Love Manchester concert they attended in June. Apparently, this Ariana Grande's hoodie was their favourite.

'You must have listened to Ariana Grande, right Methi?' Sakshi chirps, her voice bright. I shake my head in negative. I've seen a photo of her in some small article, but that's about it.

Gargi's eyes widen in exaggerated disbelief. 'Oh my God, don't you have FOMO?' she asks, already unzipping her bag to grab her phone.

'Hey, I am not interested, really.' I say quickly, my gaze darting to the classroom door. Students are still loitering outside. 'Besides, put your phones away before someone catches you and complains,' I add, trying to sound as boring as I can, so that they don't drag me into their discussions about whatever's currently trending. I'm not very good at this. The truth is, I do sometimes catch up with everything "trends" in our school library that has in-built iPads accompanied with noise-cancelling headphones and Vogue India magazines, all designated for research purposes. But I barely have time for the million things I've taken on—being Head Girl included. What good is a recommendation letter if I don't have money for college tuition?

'Shut up, you!' Sakshi says, snapping me out of my pessimistic thoughts, and shows me a few clips from the said concert anyway.

Ariana Grande's "Into You" is spilling through the speakers, and just as I'm starting to feel the rhythm sink into my bones, students start filtering into the room.

'Hey, is this from Ariana's concert?' Vatsal leans in, draping an arm casually over the back of my chair. I shift uncomfortably, trying to melt away from his proximity. But before I can decide whether to say something or just mentally scream, he's yanked backward like a fish off a hook.

Arjun Mittal—the steel magnate, Karanveer Mittal's grandson and the only semi-decent human out of the school's Fantastic Four—has him by the collar.

'Oye, douchebag!' Vatsal Birla, one of the school's trustee's son, laughs and jabs Arjun lightly on the chest—or as lightly as a burly bully like him could.

Arjun gives him a death stare and they both settle at the back benches, behind Shlok and Romil, who is quietly looking at ...me? I blink, and he's already looking away.

As soon as the lunch is over, Romil gets up, walks to the lectern and speaks into the mic, 'May I have your attention, friends!'

Everyone has already turned quiet before he starts speaking, listening raptly. He taps the screen with the stylus, and the projector flickers to life. My stomach drops at the dreaded moment. It's the digital image of his presentation I saw in Kalpana ma'am's office yesterday.

'I am proud to announce that this year at commerce fest, we are organizing, our very own, Shark Tank! Can we make some noise?'

We hear a loud hoot in unison. My eyes dart to the doors, expecting teachers to barrel down the class any second. What a rambunctious way to break the news!

'I'll just quickly run through the details.' Romil turns, tapping the screen with a casual flick of his wrist. The slide changes. 'Students from the 11th and 12th grades will participate by contributing a nominal fee of two thousand rupees.'

I can't help but scoff at nominal. More like a rip-off.

'Participation isn't compulsory,' he continues, 'but the contribution is compulsory for the commerce students. For those of your friends from Arts and Science who want to participate can do so by paying two thousand rupees upfront. And in return?' He pauses for effect. 'A chance to win seed capital of one lakh rupees for your startup.'

The room buzzes, heads turning. One lakh.

'And for those of you wondering,' Romil adds with a sly smile, 'no, you don't have to return it to the sharks. Unlike, the reality show, it's a competition to amp-up your business game and show us what you've got up your sleeves.'

With another tap, the slide changes. 'Your ideas need to be a solid, well-planned elevator pitch. A model or presentation of your product—what it's going to be, what the current demand and competition are, and what value you're bringing to the market. We want to know why it's needed, why you are the right person to bring it to life, and how you plan to turn that idea into something real.

'You don't need a prototype—an idea will do. But if you want to impress the sharks, having a working model and some stats handy wouldn't hurt.'

He taps again, 'there is no restriction in regards to whom you bring with you for presentation, but the idea needs to be yours.' He taps again and the presentation ends with a QR code image. 'You can start scanning now. Please send in your full name with your class in brackets. And both Neha Jains in the room? You'll need to add your roll numbers.'

Before I decide to defer, I push to my feet and walk straight toward Romil.

'I'd like to have a word with you,' I manage, my voice coming out a little breathless.

He takes a moment—longer than I'd like—his gaze lingering on mine, as if trying to read something deeper than my words. Then, with that maddening smile of his, he tilts his head slightly and says, 'After you.'