But despite everything, I’d be lying if I said some part of me didn’t enjoy the constant stream of tasks, the new notifications lighting up my phone. No, maybe enjoy is the wrong word. It’s not about happiness; it’s about power. It’s the thrill of being needed, of knowing things other people don’t.

In the space of two months, I’ve learned more about my classmates than I have in my five years here—like how Yiwen, daughter of a billionaire, has been stealing entire plates of cupcakes from the café before school every day; how Sujin, another billionaire’s daughter, runs her own karaoke bar and spends all her money funding global warming research; how Stephen from Year Ten and Julian from Year Eleven have actually been making out behind the koi ponds when everyone thinks they’re busy taking photos for the yearbook; or how Andrew She and Peter Oh’s parents are running for the same global director position at Longfeng Oil, and in fear of their latest campaign ideas being stolen, have advised their children to stay far away from each other.

Secrets, I’m realizing, are their own kind of currency.

But even better is earning real currency, the satisfaction of seeing the numbers in my new bank account rise:

70,000 RMB.

100,000 RMB.

120,000 RMB.

More money than I’ve ever seen in my life. But even then, I know I could still earn more. I have to earn more. I still need another 130,000 RMB if I want to stay at Airington until I graduate.

Ten more tasks, I tell myself, and I’ll be able to make that much. Twenty more tasks and I’ll be able to pay for not just Airington, but an entire year of college.

It’s addicting. Intoxicating.

Who cares if I’m so busy I can barely breathe?

“Maybe you really are a ghost,” Chanel jokes to me one morning, when she sees me in the exact same position at my desk as the night before: head bent over my Chinese textbook, shoulders almost hunched to my ears. “The kind of invincible ghost that like, doesn’t need to eat or sleep or pee or anything, just runs on willpower alone. Seriously though,” she adds, peering at the tiny annotations and Post-it notes covering my textbook page. “How the hell are you keeping up with all your subjects?”

I don’t reply to her at the time, but the answer comes almost two weeks later, like some sort of sick joke.

And the answer is: I’m not.

When I hurry into history class on Friday, I freeze.

All the desks and chairs have been rearranged. Spaced out around the classroom in neat, single files, instead of the usual messy clusters that are meant to inspire “group work.”

Most of my classmates are already sitting down, zipped-up bags tucked away under their seats, faces set in solemn lines as they methodically place their pens out in front of them. Someone sighs. Someone else mimes slitting their throat.

There’s a palpable tension in the air.