Chapter 3: Reunion and Rivalries

Gloomily, I found the Community Guidelines study section—so long, so, so long, it gave me a headache.

It was like reading the IRS tax code—pages and pages of legalese. My eyes glazed over, and I could barely keep them open.

Clicked on video tutorials, but there were hundreds. My head spun.

I tried watching a few, but they all sounded the same. I nearly nodded off at my desk.

At that moment, a Facebook Messenger ping popped up: “Class reunion tonight, come join us!” with an address attached.

I blinked at the notification, half-expecting it to be a scam. But the sender was legit.

Looking at the group name, “Didn’t Go to Harvard Because I Didn’t Want To,” I remembered it was my high school classmates’ group.

The name always made me laugh—Maple Heights pride, or maybe denial, depending on who you asked.

A class reunion… I decided to go. Maybe I’d find a way out of this mess, or meet someone who could help.

I dug out my least-wrinkled shirt and tried to look like I hadn’t just bombed out of a live stream.

That evening, the reunion was at the local VFW hall, decorated with blue and gold Mustang banners and a table piled high with casseroles, fried chicken, and a suspicious-looking Jell-O salad.

Everyone wore their fanciest clothes: suits, watches, gold chains, car keys tossed on the table—the reunion had become a show-off contest.

It was like a used car lot and a fashion show had a baby. Everyone was trying to outdo each other.

In this atmosphere, I quickly found the most successful person in the room—Sebastian Cole, with over a million followers.

He was holding court at the end of the table, surrounded by wannabes and hangers-on. His laugh was loud, his stories even louder.

If I could connect with him, maybe he could give me some traffic, or even promote our fruit on his stream. That would be a huge help.

Sebastian, surrounded by admirers, was boasting about which platforms wanted to poach him, which studios were fighting over him, and what female influencers did to ride his popularity.

He dropped names like confetti, and every so often, someone would gasp or clap him on the back.

When he was at his most excited, eyebrows and spit flying, I walked over, faced his spit, gave a thumbs-up, and put on my most exaggerated expression: “Awesome.”

I made sure my voice carried, just enough to cut through the noise. Heads turned.

The room fell silent.

All eyes were on me. For a second, I thought I’d overplayed it.

Sure enough, I caught his attention.

“You are…?”

He looked puzzled but seemed to recognize me, shaking his gold-ringed thumb at me.

“Sissy!” he blurted out.

The nickname stung, but I kept my cool.

“Tyler Reed.”

I smiled and repeated my name: “Tyler Reed.”

“Ha, sissy is easier to remember.” Sebastian waved dismissively and turned to the others: “We all called him that in high school, right?”

I saw a few nods, but most folks just looked away. No one wanted to get involved.

Some nodded, some smiled awkwardly.

Sebastian kept grinning. “Can you still do the girl’s voice? Give us a—”

“Sebastian!” I raised my voice to cut him off. “I have a business proposal. Can we talk in private?”

I tried to sound confident, but my heart was pounding.

Interrupted, Sebastian’s smile faded. He looked a bit annoyed, swirling his wine glass. “Old classmate, do you know how many people want to talk to me every day? How many have said exactly what you just said?”

He leaned back, looking me up and down like I was something stuck to his shoe.

His contemptuous gaze swept me from head to toe, inside and out. The scorn was obvious.

A man’s pride told me to walk away, but reality kept me standing there.

I swallowed my pride and stood my ground. If I wanted to help my family, I couldn’t afford to be shy.

“We can cooperate,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“Mm.” He sounded dismissive, glancing at the door.

I explained my plan and promised to give him 20% of the profits from orange sales as a promotion fee.

I tried to lay out the numbers, showing him how it could be a win-win. But he barely listened.

“Just your family’s few acres of orchard?” He waved me off and pulled out a crocodile leather wallet.

He thumbed through the bills with a smirk.

“This is $150—buying 100 pounds of oranges from you. As classmates, I’ll support your business. No need to deliver.”

He slapped the cash on the table, like he was doing me a huge favor. The room went quiet.

Staring at the glaring cash, I felt like a beggar, while the classmates’ eyes were full of ridicule.

A hot flush crept up my neck. It felt like I was on display, the butt of the joke.

What’s this? Using money to insult me? I slapped his hand away and said, “That’s it?”

My voice came out sharper than I meant, but I wasn’t backing down.

I sneered and took half a step back. If you’re heartless, don’t blame me for being the same.

“No way, Sebastian. You’re too stingy. You have over a million followers and you’re this cheap? This money can’t even buy half an acre of my family’s oranges.”

I could hear a few people snicker. Sebastian’s jaw tightened.

Sebastian asked, “Why would I buy so many oranges?”

“Ah?” I covered my mouth in mock surprise. “You’re not going to give any to your fans? They treat you like family, send you gifts and likes, and you won’t even give a few oranges to your breadwinners? Don’t they deserve it?”

I watched his face go from smug to furious in seconds.

“You…!” His face darkened, fists clenched. Classmates quickly stepped in, “We’re all classmates, don’t ruin the mood.”

A girl in a red dress tried to calm things down, but the tension was thick enough to slice.

“Tyler, what are you saying? Apologize to Sebastian.”

“Sebastian, be generous…”

Everyone tried to play peacemaker.

I looked around, seeing the same old high school dynamics playing out. Some things never change.