How Many Working-Class Writers Have You Read?

“You’re poor,” a popular blond girl named Jillian lobbed, our desks sitting next to each other. “No, I’m not,” I responded, defending myself in front of our classmates with shame burning my cheeks. It was a stance that I would come to assume repeatedly. “Yeah, you are. Your dad’s a mechanic, he doesn’t make a lot of money,” she snapped back, glaring up from her worksheet with the coldest crystal blue eyes. “My parents are rich. My dad makes a hundred ninety thousand dollars,” she huffed. I guessed that was a lot of money.