The Girl Who I Sponsored for Three Years Replaced My Identity

The drama at the bar spread like wildfire, becoming the talk of the campus overnight. As I walked to class the next day, I could feel the eyes on me, the whispers following my every step. Thanks to my ever-resourceful roommate, Rosie, I got all the dirt dug up on that girl.

Quinn Monroe, a freshman in Animation Design, Class of 2023, and a local from H City.

“I heard Quinn Monroe threw 2,740 dollars in the school’s main group chat last night. Now everyone’s flocking to her side, and the crowd has turned against you,” Rosie Ward whispered as she walked beside me.

It was just 2,740 dollars. That was all it took to turn the tide?

Our school had a tradition of mixing students from different majors and years for elective courses. For instance, the Music Appreciation class I was heading to had many freshmen from various departments.

Fate seemed to enjoy its little jokes. As soon as I entered the classroom, there was Quinn Monroe, surrounded and fawned over by a throng of admirers. They were clearly trying hard to win her favor, and as soon as they saw me, their looks turned hostile.

“Some people really have no shame, showing up for class after making a scene with someone else’s boyfriend,” someone in the crowd sneered.

Thanks to last night’s drama, my reputation had been flipped from being the wronged party to someone accused of stealing someone else’s boyfriend. Quinn had certainly gone to great lengths to tarnish my image.

“Forget it. Simon Charles wouldn’t even look twice at someone like her. She’s not worth talking about.”

“She’s just jealous because Simon dumped her for someone better.”

“Quinny is so much classier than her.”

What a smug, the words ran through my mind.

Just then, our Music Appreciation teacher entered the room. Once the bell rang, the roll call began.

“Luna Halle.” “Here.”

“Rosie Ward.” “Here.”

“Nicole Monroe.”

No one else stood up, so I casually responded as if she’s not calling me, “Here.”

I was focused on my makeup powder, and for a moment, the classroom fell into an awkward silence. When I looked up, I met the teacher’s terrifying gaze.

I glanced around; Rosie shot me a puzzled look, unsure of what was happening.

“Nicole Monroe, what do you think this classroom is for? It’s meant for learning, not for you to play with makeup. University is for studying, not for a beauty contest!” The teacher’s scolding echoed through the room, leaving everyone stunned.

This wasn’t my first time in her class, but it was the first time I’d been singled out like this. Sure, I had been touching up my makeup, but others were just as distracted with their phones, snacks, or whatever. Yet she only targeted me.

My classmates casted me pitying and mocking glances, as if they were watching a show.

“Teachers should guide students, not humiliate them,” I reminded myself, keeping my tone as mild as possible while defending myself.

“Out! Stand outside and reflect on your behavior!”

Not keen on staying there, I packed my things and moved to the door.

“Students, let this be a lesson. There are some bad examples in class that you should not follow. Girls should take care of themselves and not live with such poor conduct,” the teacher continued, her voice full of reprimand.

The roll call resumed, but when she called out “Quinn Monroe,” her tone was notably softened, likely influenced by the events of the previous night and her biased view of me.