It was the first week of school when our homeroom teacher burst in, excitement bubbling in her voice. “Our class has been chosen for a groundbreaking ‘Self-Identity Transformation Experiment’ in partnership with the school counseling center!” The whole class crowdfunded plastic surgery for the poor class beauty, $100 per person. I refused. The next day, my desk was doused with soy milk, and the school network was filled with posts exposing my cold-blooded selfishness. They called me ugly, poor, and mean-spirited. They even dug up my mom’s workplace and posted notes at her office door, cursing her for raising a heartless daughter. But no one knew that the class beauty who claimed her family couldn’t afford plastic surgery. Her dad was the director of the plastic surgery hospital that ruined my face. It was the first week of school. The homeroom teacher burst in, excitedly announcing: “The school and psychological center are jointly launching a ‘Self-Identity Transformation Experiment,’ and our class is the first pilot group!” The class erupted in applause. I didn’t join in, just chewed on my pen tip silently. She continued, “As you all know, our classmate Olivia Shaw has been struggling with severe appearance anxiety. The counselors have suggested she undergo cosmetic surgery to boost her self-esteem. We’ll be starting a class fundraiser to help make her dream come true!” I looked up at Olivia. She stood at the front, wearing our school uniform with perfectly applied makeup, her head bowed demurely. “I… I don’t want to trouble anyone… it’s just…” “Don’t say another word!” A boy slammed his hand on his desk. “You’re the prettiest girl in our class. If you get this surgery, our school’s enrollment will double!” Someone else chimed in, “He’s right! Donating to Olivia is an investment in our school’s future!” Olivia shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “I just hope that even if I leave this place one day, I can be remembered by the world in my best form.” Her words sent a wave of emotion through the classroom. Our teacher pulled up a PowerPoint slide. “For this ‘Beauty Boost’ campaign, we suggest a donation of $100 per person. It’s voluntary, but we hope everyone will do their best to support Olivia.” I glanced at my phone: $4.25 in my account. So, I spoke up quietly, “I won’t be donating.” The air in the room seemed to freeze. Then someone let out a cold laugh. “Tch, figures.” “Seriously? Not donating is one thing, but that attitude? Didn’t you hear how gently Olivia phrased it?” “Didn’t she just buy that $150 skincare set? With her skin, a $5 moisturizer would do the job.” “Look at her eyes, always staring at Olivia. Jealous of her small face and high nose, perhaps?” “Does she think we’re all idiots, falling for Olivia’s act? Is she the only ‘smart’ one here?” Olivia spoke up softly, “She’s… not a bad person. I understand… maybe her family situation…” “Her family situation is way better than yours!” Someone stood up, slamming their desk. “Doesn’t her mom drop her off in a car every day? What about you? Two bus transfers!” I opened my mouth, but my throat felt blocked. Not a word came out. The entire class was staring at me. Olivia looked at me and suddenly said, “It’s… okay if she doesn’t want to donate. I don’t mind.” In that moment, I was utterly defeated. Because not only was she the class’s protected “angel,” now she was playing the “magnanimous goddess” role too. I was about to speak when someone at the front stuck a QR code on the blackboard. “Let’s vote on whether Rachel should donate or not.” I had barely scanned the code when my screen displayed: Current voting results: Support Rachel Chen donating: 94 votes Support Rachel Chen’s free choice: 1 vote My hands were shaking. “The votes are in. Still not going to chip in?” Someone tossed an A4 paper at me. It read: “Help Olivia’s Dream Come True, $100 per person, SnapPay only.” “Don’t talk about it being voluntary. This isn’t about morals, it’s about class unity!” “If you really don’t want to, you can get out of this class!” Gritting my teeth, I said coldly, “Her dad owns a plastic surgery clinic. If she really wants surgery, doesn’t she have the equipment at home?” The room fell silent for two seconds before erupting into even louder laughter. “Haha, are you crazy? If Olivia’s family really owned a hospital, would I be killing myself trying to get into an Ivy League?” “You think just because her family can afford a house in this small town, they own a hospital? Why not say her dad’s the chief surgeon and her mom’s the head nurse?” “Give it up. Don’t go around spreading lies and smearing others just because you’re insecure about your looks!” Olivia didn’t say a word, just looked at me. I remembered that look. A year ago, her father had me sign a contract for “double eyelid surgery only, no other procedures.” I signed, but on the day of the surgery, while I was unconscious, they altered my nose, my chin, my whole face. When I woke up, I cried and tore at the bandages. The doctor said, “It’s just a bit of technical instability. Go home, apply the medicine, it’ll get better slowly.” It took me a whole year of being disfigured before I dared to go out without makeup. And she used my ruined face for marketing, made promotional videos, and even claimed she was “born with poor facial structure, became beautiful through hard work.” Now she was turning the whole class into her second experimental ground. I stared at her, my voice low and trembling: “I won’t donate. Dream on.” 0
She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “I know you’ve never liked me, but I really didn’t mean to embarrass you like this.” Our teacher sighed. “Rachel, don’t be so selfish. Is it right to stop the whole class’s plan just because you disagree?” The class chimed in. “That’s right! You’re the only one making us all look bad!” “Is this how your parents taught you to be so cold-hearted?” “If you really won’t donate, just drop out. We don’t want you in this class!” Someone splashed water on my shoes, while others threw paper balls at my back. I clenched my fists, my nails almost digging into my palms. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a payment notification. It was a SnapChat from my mom. [Rachel, your teacher called and told me everything. I’ve been working overtime, here’s the $100. Don’t let your classmates give you a hard time…] My hand shook, and I almost dropped my phone. After Mom transferred the $100, I didn’t donate right away. I sat at my desk, biting my lip so hard my fingers trembled too much to even tap the screen properly. The class group chat was still buzzing: [Everyone’s donated. How many more times does Rachel want to make Olivia cry before she’s satisfied?] [Some families aren’t poor, they’re just heartless.] Before I could reply, another message popped up on my phone. It was from my mom’s coworker: [Rachel, your mom collapsed at the office. She’s been taken to the hospital by ambulance.] I froze. The next second, I ran out of the classroom like a madwoman. I could hear someone sneer, “She’s putting on another show. Making it life-or-death over a simple donation.” I couldn’t care less. For the first time in my life, I splurged on a taxi and rushed straight to the city hospital. My mom was lying in the emergency room, her face pale, the back of her hand bruised from the IV. The doctor spoke coldly, “Your mother fainted due to long-term sleep deprivation, low blood sugar, and extreme fatigue.” I remembered how she’d been working until 1 or 2 AM these past few days, rushing to two part-time jobs during the day, not even eating breakfast. Standing by her bedside, my heart felt like it was being torn apart. The nurse handed me the bill. I looked at the amount and bit my lip, not making a sound. I had less than $20 left on my phone, but our homeroom teacher was tagging me in the class group: [Rachel, Olivia’s cosmetic surgery fund is just waiting on you now. Everyone’s waiting for you to chip in.] [We know your family isn’t well-off, but even Yolanda’s family donated, and her dad just lost his job last year.] [Do you want us to crowdfund your share? Don’t be so disheartening.] I replied: [My mom fainted and is in the hospital. I really can’t afford this right now.] Olivia replied instantly: [It’s okay… if Rachel is really struggling, let’s just forget about it. I don’t blame her…] She said she didn’t blame me, but the whole class exploded. [Olivia, don’t be too kind. She can afford lipstick, perfume, and skincare, her family has a car, and she’s claiming hardship? Isn’t that laughable?] [Didn’t her mom drop her off at school in a car the other day? What was it, a blue Volkswagen?] [Her mom fainting means she doesn’t have to donate? Why not say her grandma fell or her grandpa’s in the hospital too?] [Besides, Olivia didn’t force you to donate, she just cried. If you don’t donate, it’s because your heart is too hard!] My fingers kept shaking. I was about to reply “I really can’t afford it” when I saw a new hot post pinned to the top of the school forum: “You cried so I must pay? How vicious can a ‘poor’ girl be?” The cover was a photo of me biting my lip and crying at the classroom door that day. The first comment under the title was: [Saying her mom fainted and is in the hospital, probably another old trick. I bet tomorrow she’ll be posting her own donation QR code.] 0
The next morning, before I even entered the classroom, someone dumped a bucket of soy milk all over me at the entrance of the teaching building. “Oops, sorry! My bad!” The boy who threw the cup laughed and walked away. I stood there, soaked from head to toe, the soy milk dripping from my hair onto my uniform, leaving sticky yellow stains on the white collar. I stood frozen, my face burning with shame. Olivia walked up to me and stood in front of me, her voice soft: “Rachel, you can’t keep making everyone think you’re putting on a pity show to clear your name. You’ll really be misunderstood this way.” I finally snapped, my voice hoarse and trembling: “Clear my name? When your dad ruined my face, did I even ask him to take responsibility?” She blinked: “What are you talking about? Didn’t you voluntarily sign up for the trial? You signed the contract yourself.” “Didn’t you say ‘I can endure pain for beauty’? How come now that you’re disfigured, you want to blame others?” She paused, then lowered her voice: “Rachel, I advise you not to say anything rash. The statute of limitations on my dad’s case has passed. If you really make a big fuss, it’ll only make your mom’s work situation more difficult.” “Also,” she smiled, “do you have any evidence for what you’re saying now?” I was stunned. She wasn’t wrong. I had no evidence. The trial contract I signed back then was taken away, and my mom had thrown away the copy as waste paper. I was only a freshman then, and after being disfigured, I only knew how to cry. I had no idea what to keep as evidence. I couldn’t even remember clearly what I had signed. And now, she stood brazenly in front of me, saying: “Without evidence, anything you say is just slander.” My whole body went cold, my teeth chattering. She turned and walked into the classroom with a smile. Classmates crowded around her, offering breakfast, hot water bottles, pink face masks, saying: “Olivia, you’re really too kind.” “Don’t let her get to you, she’s just trying to ride your coattails.” “Don’t worry, we all support you getting plastic surgery to live your best life. You deserve better.” And I, like a madwoman, was nailed to the corridor. My vision started to blur. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not because I had been doused with soy milk during the day, not because my mother was still lying in the hospital on an IV drip, but because Olivia had posted a new article on the school’s public account: “The Pursuit of Beauty is Never a Sin” She said she was a “patient with congenital facial structure imbalance” and had developed an eating disorder in middle school due to her facial issues. She said she could only fall asleep at 4 AM because “appearance anxiety has seeped into my bones.” Finally, she wrote: “Some people think I don’t deserve plastic surgery, that this is all an act. But I just want to stop being scared of my reflection in the mirror. I hope the next time I sit on the operating table, I’ll wake up with a smile.” There were over a thousand comments below, all praising her for being “brave,” “real,” and “beautifully powerful.” As for me, after being scolded for three whole days, I didn’t even have a single comment defending me. This donation storm, wrapped in the guise of “beauty,” had already become one-sided in public opinion. I sat on a long bench in the hospital corridor, took out my phone, and opened the official website of that plastic surgery hospital. The procedure Olivia said she wanted was the hospital’s newly launched “Full Face Dynamic 3D Fusion Surgery.” The introduction read: “Jointly developed by Shaw Hospital and overseas experts” and “Creating an Asian-adapted facial proportion model.” I recognized it immediately. This was the same procedure the doctor had mentioned to me before my double eyelid surgery. Fighting back tears, I dialed the consumer protection hotline and the city’s medical regulatory hotline. I reported the hospital’s name, saying they exaggerated their advertising, failed to disclose experimental procedures, and refused to provide complete medical records after disfiguring me. The person on the other end said they would file the complaint for investigation. After hanging up, for the first time, I felt a tiny bit of victory, no matter how small. But this small sense of victory turned into hell the next morning. 0
Hot post on the school forum: “Shocking! Girl refuses to crowdfund, reports Olivia’s plastic surgery hospital, even writes to school authorities slandering her father as a quack doctor” The post included a photo of my silhouette making a phone call in the hospital corridor late at night. There was also a secretly taken photo of me queuing in the cafeteria, with large red text: [This is Rachel Chen. Jealous that everyone likes Olivia, she reported her family’s hospital just because Olivia is prettier than her.] The post had thousands of comments. [Wow, how vicious can she be?] [Can’t get surgery herself so she wants to ruin someone else’s face? Does she even qualify as human?] [What did Olivia ever do to her? This girl must be a psycho!] By noon, as I was walking into the teaching building, I heard people scrolling through their phones and pointing at me: “Is she the one who reported the Shaw family hospital?” “I bet she’s mentally ill. If Olivia’s face is considered ugly, she might as well apply for a job at a haunted house.” “Write a sob story, make a fuss, and now she wants to play the victim of public opinion, huh?” I bit my lip and rushed into the classroom. As soon as I sat down, our homeroom teacher came in with several printed papers in her hand. “Rachel Chen, come to the office.” I stood up, my legs shaking. In the office, the dean of students had a grim expression: “Rachel Chen, your unauthorized report of Shaw Hospital has caused extremely negative impact on the school’s image. Now parents and outside media are demanding an explanation from the school.” The homeroom teacher also advised: “We’re not saying you can’t defend your rights, but doing it this way will only make the whole class resent you.” I looked up: “Weren’t they already resenting me?” The dean’s eyes turned cold: “Olivia just gave us the screenshot of the threatening message you sent her father last night. Do you want to take a look yourself?” I took it. The photo indeed showed a message I supposedly sent to the Shaw Hospital’s official account from a burner account: “Don’t think you can keep this under wraps forever. I still remember how you ruined my face back then.” “No matter how rich your dad is, I’ll make sure he’s exposed to the light of day.” At the bottom of the message was a red box noting: “Verbal threats, malicious false reporting.” My mind exploded. I never sent these words. My report was through the hotline, through official channels. I never privately messaged them. This burner account wasn’t mine! I was about to defend myself when the dean coldly handed me another paper: “Take a look at this.” I took it and saw it was a joint letter. “We, the classmates of Rachel Chen, strongly condemn Rachel Chen for long-term spreading of false rumors about Olivia and her family both inside and outside the class, seriously disrupting class unity, and even attempting to smear the plastic surgery hospital through online means. We believe her behavior is extremely vicious and implore the school to take disciplinary action.” At the bottom, over thirty names were densely packed, each signature clear and neat. I felt like I had fallen into an ice pit. I couldn’t even see the words clearly anymore. The dean spoke coldly: “You must write an explanation now, publicly apologize to your classmates, and promise not to make malicious comments again.” I looked up, my eyes red, and asked hoarsely: “What if I don’t apologize?” He raised his head: “Then please cooperate with the school disciplinary process. We will also suggest you take a leave of absence to reflect at home for a while.” I stood up, clenching my fists, and said word by word: “I will never apologize for something I didn’t do.” “You can punish me, even expel me. But let me tell you this” “Olivia is not the good person you think she is. Her father’s hospital has problems, and so does she. You can cover it up for now, but you can’t hide it forever.” I turned and walked out of the office. Behind me came the sound of the dean angrily slamming his desk. But I wasn’t afraid anymore. I opened my phone and dialed a number. It was the young assistant who had been responsible for filming pre-op videos at the plastic surgery hospital that year. I still had her phone number, and I still had the voice message she sent me when she secretly shared “screenshots of the surgical process” with me. Now, it was time to bring them out.
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