It had been one week since Shaila announced the Project Pitch assessment. Most of Class 5 had dropped the idea after the initial excitement faded, treating it like extra homework they could ignore. Only two students had actually accepted it and were working seriously: Aryan Kumar and Riya.
On Monday morning, the classroom felt unusually heavy. The fans spun in tired circles, pushing warm air around. Ms. Devi stood at the blackboard, repeating the First Five-Year Plan in her slow, monotone voice. Her expression held the familiar dullness of someone who had taught the same topic too many times.
Aryan's textbook lay open, but his mind wasn't anywhere in that room.
The dull ache behind his right eye pulsed steadily, counting down the remaining three weeks he had to finish his pitch. He scribbled ideas into his notebook with quiet urgency.
Water bottles → Too common.
Notes sale → Low demand.
Tour fees → High friction.
He wasn't thinking about marks. He was thinking about the leaking roof at home.
Three weeks left.
Three weeks to build something that mattered.
Across the room, Ms. Devi paused mid-sentence, her gaze settling on Aryan. She recognized the concentration on his face—he wasn't distracted; he was thinking too hard. She almost called on him, then changed her mind. Instead, she snapped at a boy behind.
"Aditya! Read the paragraph."
The bell rang moments later, releasing the room into noise and chaos. Students ran out immediately, laughing, shoving each other, talking about lunch.
Aryan stayed seated for a moment, breathing slowly.
"I don't need money," he whispered. "I need leaks."
He stepped into the hallway with one purpose: map the school's problems.
Not as a student, but as someone looking for a weak point he could fix.
At the main gate, conflict unfolded with predictable timing.
A fruit seller and a momos vendor argued over a patch of pavement. Black charcoal dust streaked the ground. The security guard—already tired by 10 a.m.—left his post to push them apart.
"Every single day," the guard muttered, rubbing his forehead.
One guard. Too many jobs.
One gate. Too much friction.
Friction = cost.
Aryan wrote it down.
Next, he walked to the Library, where the air-conditioning was so cold it felt wasteful. New reference books lined the entrance—expensive, glossy, untouched.
But Aryan moved straight past them to the dim, forgotten corner.
He opened a crooked cabinet. Dust rose in a soft cloud.
Inside were old comics, activity books, science magazines—dozens of them, perfectly usable but ignored.
Behind him, two staff members sorted files while talking quietly.
"You think Admin will ever use these old books?"
"Admin? They can't decide anything. The school might have new owners before they do."
The librarian laughed. "Please, don't start rumors."
"Stranger things have happened."
Aryan didn't pay attention. His mind was already shaping the idea:
Project Saffron — A vendor hub.
One organized space.
Less chaos. Less waste.
Small fee → big improvements.
Only two students were in this race.
And he refused to lose.
But his idea needed structure—something clean and professional.
He needed someone who could make it presentable.
He knew exactly where to go.
Riya's Privilege — and Her Work Behind It
While Aryan analyzed the school, Riya analyzed opportunity.
She had accepted the assessment immediately, confident and unafraid. Privilege gave her the tools—her own study room, a graphic tablet, access to her father's designer—but it didn't reduce her workload.
For seven nights, she had worked past 11 PM. Her wastebasket overflowed with drafts: hoodie designs she rejected, notebook covers she redrew, logo sketches she erased repeatedly. Her hand hurt from constant drawing; her eyes were red from staring at screens. She spent nearly an hour deciding between two shades of navy blue for the hoodie base.
That afternoon, she sat in the administrative lobby, reviewing her final designs. She opened her notebook and wrote a final note:
"Goodwill is unquantifiable. Profit is measurable."
It was exactly the kind of logic Shaila respected.
As she packed her portfolio, she bumped into Savithri.
"Wow… you really did all that?" Savithri asked softly. "It must've taken a lot of work."
Riya's reply came out sharper than she intended.
"Yes. Obviously. Designs don't make themselves."
Savithri blinked and stepped back, sensing the tension beneath Riya's exhaustion.
Riya regret flashed briefly, but she didn't apologize.
Win first. Fix things later.
That was how her world worked.
Aryan made his way to the Arts Wing. The smell of paint and wood instantly calmed the pressure in his head.
Aditi sat on the floor with her legs crossed, sketchbook open. She hadn't accepted the assessment—she didn't care about winning anything—but her drawing skills were unmatched.
Without looking up, she said,
"Stop frowning. You look like you're doing algebra inside your head."
"I might be," Aryan muttered.
"What if Shaila asks for transition costs? Fencing, bins, roofing—"
Aditi tapped her drawing board.
"We don't need new bins," she said. "The school already has three broken ones behind the old cycle stand. If we ask Maintenance to move them, it becomes part of the project. It's not new expense—it's just resource relocation."
Aryan blinked.
He had been calculating new purchases.
She saw a way without spending anything.
His chest loosened.
She added a small figure at the center of her sketch.
"That's Gopal," she said. "The gate attendant. Tell them his story. People understand stories before they understand spreadsheets."
Aryan stared at the board.
Clear lines.
Defined spaces.
A plan brought to life.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Aditi reached out and gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Relax. You're doing fine. Just don't fall asleep on the presentation day."
He picked up the board, feeling more stable than he had all week.
Then something caught his eye.
"Aditi… look here," he said, pointing at the bottom corner of the layout. "This part… it falls in the Gate Zone."
She leaned forward, checking carefully.
"Oh," she murmured. "You're right."
They both stared at the spot in silence.
Aryan exhaled slowly.
"So… this might need a permit."
Aditi nodded once, thoughtful but uncertain.
"We'll have to find out."
The question lingered between them.