The Top Student's Whimsical Playbook

The principal beamed. "Cammy, keep up the good work!"

I was moved. "When there's money to be earned, that's a piece of cake!"

Somehow, that phrase—a piece of cake—spread like wildfire.

The elite school had its own forum. Soon enough, someone mocked me: [A poor student talking about things being a piece of cake? Are you sure your life has been a piece of cake?]

I was defenseless.

My life was an absolute mess.

So, I chose the simplest solution—I reported them.

The principal wasted no time comforting me, while Wesley, who happened to be delivering something nearby, averted his gaze as if he couldn't bear to watch.

The principal was a man of both prestige and power. In his younger days, he had dominated the scene, and now, in his later years, he wanted to leave his mark on this school, to create something lasting.

Without hesitation, he pulled out the ringleader of the mockery, berated him on the spot, and demanded an apology.

The boy muttered a reluctant apology.

Of course, I knew he wasn't sincere.

As soon as we stepped out of the office, he turned to sneer at me, probably ready to mock me for tattling. But before he could speak, I smiled mysteriously.

"You're ranked at the bottom of the class, aren't you?"

His face turned red.

"How do you—wait, no! What does that have to do with you?!"

I maintained my enigmatic expression. "Don't you want to..."

His guard went up immediately. "Want what? I'm warning you, just because you have good grades and the principal on your side doesn't mean you're special. My family owns a big company—I could crush you with a single finger."

Hearing him reveal his background, I tilted my head back in my mind and wept silently.

Being rich must be nice.

I'm envious.

I adjusted my mindset, suppressing the urge to hit him, and whispered demagogically, "Don't you want to work hard in secret, then shock everyone in the tests?"

He froze.

I pressed on.

"Don't you want to see your name on the honor roll?

"Don't you want teachers to marvel at your progress, the principal to praise you, your parents to cry tears of joy?"

His steps faltered.

Then, I delivered the final blow.

"Don't you want to stand at the top and look down on everyone else?"

These rich kids were still students. Even in their world, competition existed in subtle and overt ways. Maybe grades didn't determine their futures, but if one of them consistently ranked at the bottom, they would undoubtedly become a laughingstock.

He gritted his teeth. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

I could see it—his resolve wavering.

I was satisfied. With a loud slap, I patted his shoulder.

"Well. You're in luck. Teacher Cammy's tutoring sessions are now open. Not 998 dollars, not even 888 dollars—just 98 dollars for an exclusive lesson from the city's top student!"

He stared at me, dumbfounded.

…

Bruce Felton never imagined that one day, he would be sneaking around with a special admissions student, hiding in an empty break room.

Clenching his jaw, he lowered his voice. "Cammy, I'm telling you, don't mess with me. I have the power and resources to make you pay if this doesn't work out."

Then, he pulled out a crisp 100-dollar bill.

I snatched it at lightning speed, scanning the room warily.

"Let's begin."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Why're you being so secretive, like you're committing a crime?"

...

Bruce's academic foundation was a disaster.

To sum it up: in all my years, I had never seen talent this nonexistent.

But at least he listened. He had a brain that, though sluggish, was willing to work. There was still hope.

By the end of the lesson, he sat there, staring blankly at the problems he had miraculously understood and solved correctly. He squeezed his pen.

This—this was his own work.

To him, I seemed to radiate light.

The light of knowledge.

He took a deep breath.

Truth be told, his family had already hired an expensive one-on-one tutor for him. Yet, for some reason, no matter how much effort they put in, the knowledge simply wouldn't stick.

I, however, immediately identified the problem. It was simple—Bruce and those tutors weren't even on the same wavelength.

Bruce was stunned. He didn't know how I'd managed to pull it off.

His previous tutors had only ever taught students on their own level. They had never encountered a case like Bruce.

But I was different. As long as I was paid, I could adjust my thinking to match his.

It was a piece of cake for me.

…

We agreed to weekly tutoring sessions.

Bruce, ever the generous heir, offered to pay me double the standard hourly rate.

I accepted.

And to make things official, we signed a one-month contract.