My days used to be spent counting other people’s money.
My days used to be spent counting other people’s money. There’s a $100 cellphone, there’s a $300 camera, there’s a $200 purse… I’d add up their spendings and compare my pockets to theirs and wish I had shiny new toys to interest my classmates. I sat in the corner with my borrowed library book, my used shoes and second-hand backpack and tried not to think that this was why they didn’t like me. I read my books, I glowered at them when they looked my way, thinking they were too loud with their new brand-name sneakers and their phones ringing in the hallways as they laughed empty bursts of sound at one another’s funniest jokes. When I left high school, things were different. My money had bought me nice, only gently used belongings, so at university I was doing better than many of the others. I made friends, and I thought back and wondered if those kids I’d counted before, if maybe it hadn’t been that they thought any less of me- maybe they just didn’t like being glowered at. And I thought, “Well, that’s fair, really, and not their fault at all, but rather mine.”