By Year Three, the classroom had reorganized itself into predictable territories.

  Front row. Overachievers and the chronically short.

  Middle rows. The average mass.

  Back row. Noise manufacturers.

  Fishcake sat behind me.

  That was not her real name.

  Her actual name sounded dangerously close to a popular hawker food.

  Children are efficient creatures. The nickname stuck within a week.

  She was pale. Not sickly pale. Just light. Clear skin. Quiet eyes. The kind of face that looked composed even when confused.

  The kind of face I would fall for.

  The vomiting started in March.

  First incident happened mid Math class.

  Chairs scraping.

  Teacher writing fractions on the board.

  Then a sudden choking sound behind me.

  A sharp, wet cough.

  Then it came.

  The smell hit first.

  Sour.

  Acidic.

  Immediate.

  Someone screamed.

  Teacher turned.

  Chaos.

  She had leaned sideways just in time to avoid splashing the desk fully, but the floor was not spared.

  Students scattered their chairs backward.

  I did not turn immediately.

  I smelled it.

  Counted three seconds.

  Then slowly looked back.

  She was crying silently.

  Not dramatic.

  Not loud.

  Just embarrassed.

  The cleaner auntie arrived.

  Class resumed after ten minutes.

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  It happened again in May.

  Then again in July.

  Not weekly.

  But enough to become a pattern.

  She always tried to hold it.

  Always too late.

  She sat far enough that I was not directly affected.

  But close enough that the smell found me first.

  In my previous life, I had categorized it as unfortunate.

  Unlucky girl.

  This time, I paid attention.

  Was it food?

  Was it motion?

  Was it anxiety?

  During recess one day, I asked casually, “You feel nauseous often?”

  She looked startled.

  “… sometimes.”

  “After eating?”

  “Sometimes before.”

  “Doctor?”

  She shook her head.

  “Parents say I just have weak stomach.”

  Weak stomach was not a diagnosis.

  After school that week, I walked past a pharmacy instead of heading straight home.

  I stood in front of shelves.

  Motion sickness tablets.

  Digestive aids.

  Antacids.

  I did quick mental math.

  Even five dollars mattered.

  Five dollars could become five hundred.

  Five hundred could become five thousand.

  Bitcoin would launch at almost nothing.

  If I accumulated enough capital early, even small denominations would multiply violently.

  I stepped out of the pharmacy without buying anything.

  Next day, I visited a small herbal shop.

  Dried roots in glass jars.

  Old man behind counter.

  “Uncle, if someone keeps vomiting in school, what can help?”

  He looked at me.

  “For who?”

  “Classmate.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  He nodded knowingly, as if that explained everything.

  He recommended dried tangerine peel.

  Ginger slices boiled in water.

  Total cost.

  Three dollars eighty.

  I took out my wallet.

  Paused.

  Three dollars eighty.

  If multiplied at scale.

  If converted at the right time.

  If compounded.

  I put the wallet back.

  “Thank you, uncle. I ask my mother first.”

  I left empty-handed.

  The calculation would not leave my head.

  In a world where I knew future price charts, spending even small money felt irrational.

  I could not unknow it.

  And I refused to ask my parents.

  Which left one option.

  I had never done it before.

  I stayed back after class one afternoon.

  “Teacher, can I talk to you?”

  She adjusted her glasses.

  “Yes?”

  “In private.”

  Her eyebrow lifted slightly, but she gestured for me to stay as others left.

  When the classroom emptied, I stood in front of her desk.

  “What is it?”

  I lowered my voice.

  “It’s about Fishcake.”

  She blinked.

  “About who?”

  I corrected myself quickly with the real name.

  “She vomits quite often.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I think she might need medicine.”

  “We’ve informed her parents.”

  “I mean something small. Like ginger. Or stomach medicine.”

  She studied me.

  “Why are you concerned?”

  Because I like her.

  Because I cannot stand the smell.

  Because I remember a life where I did nothing.

  Instead, I said, “Because no one is helping her properly.”

  “And you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “With whose money?”

  There it was.

  “I don’t have enough,” I said quietly.

  She leaned back.

  “But your family is doing well, aren’t they? I’ve seen your father’s car.”

  Mercedes.

  Surface optics.

  “Yes,” I said carefully. “But that is on the surface.”

  Her expression shifted slightly.

  “What do you mean?”

  I took a breath.

  “We are actually in financial difficulty.”

  The lie formed smoothly.

  I hated how smoothly.

  “There are debts.”

  Her eyes sharpened.

  “I don’t tell people. My parents don’t want others to know.”

  She did not interrupt.

  “So I cannot ask them for extra money for things like this.”

  Silence.

  The fan rotated overhead.

  She looked at me for a long time.

  “You’re telling me your family is struggling, but you want money to buy medicine for a classmate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not just ignore it?”

  I held her gaze.

  “Because I sit in front of her.”

  That part was true.

  “And because it’s not nice.”

  Another truth.

  She folded her hands.

  “How much do you need?”

  “Maybe five dollars.”

  The number felt both small and heavy.

  She opened her drawer.

  Took out her wallet.

  Counted.

  Placed a five dollar note on the table.

  “This is not a loan,” she said.

  “It is not to be wasted.”

  “It won’t.”

  “And if I find out you lied to me…”

  She let the sentence hang.

  I nodded.

  Heart steady.

  She slid the note toward me.

  I picked it up.

  It felt warmer than my own money ever did.

  On the way home, the calculation returned.

  Five dollars.

  Five future thousands.

  Five potential fortunes.

  I tightened my grip around the note.

  Then turned toward the pharmacy.