A few weeks ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life. My custom Porsche 911, my multi-million dollar mansion in the Bahamas, a ticket to a lifetime of free food at Taco Bell: gone. I put it all on the line for the chance to make billions, BILLIONS, I tell you. I checked out the new tab on the Nobles app, ShieldMoney, which lets you trade predictions on just about anything Nobles. It appeared the other day, and I could feel it calling out to me, begging me to try it out. Noah Brauner (N’25) recently stepped down as CEO of the multi-trillion-dollar corporation that developed the Nobles 2.0 app. In his place, Mr. Draftkings von Polymarket III rose to the occasion, and this new tab was his first declaration as president. Allegedly. When I first opened that tab, I put it all on the line, hoping, PRAYING that Vihaan Batra (Class I) would win The Bachelorette. You know what he does instead, though? He gets disqualified, for, get this, being an Eagles fan. Now I sit here in my idiot pants with $19.97 left in my bank account and nothing but affinity group leftovers on the menu. But, I’ve yet to lose hope. I’ve seen the ads. People win BIG on this app, and I will be one of them, too. This here will be the tale of how I got my free unlimited Chicken Chalupas back on the menu.
I boot back up the Nobles app, eager to make myself some dough. You could say my palms are sweating and my cortisol’s spiking because I’m addicted to this sort of thing, but I prefer to call it dedication. After extensive market research—charts studied, trends evaluated, risks assessed to a T—I select the first bet I see: “Will English Faculty Charles Danhof ask over/under 4.5 people to join the wrestling team next year?” Thankfully, this is my domain. I took English II with him; it’s obviously over. I place all 19.97 clams on it, buying myself 65 shares of “more.” Should my bet be right, each share I purchased for 31 cents shall be rounded up to a dollar. If I be wrong, I lose it all. But that won’t be the case; these 65 glorious digital monuments shall mark my rebirth.
Before I know it, each of my 65 “mores” cashes out at a dollar. Sixty-five whole dollars, all for me. That’s $45.03 profit. I don’t want to say I’m a financial prodigy or anything, but there’s a Category 6 hurricane heading to Wall Street right now, and its name is Ricky. I move quickly onto the next bet to keep the ball rolling: “Will every practice room in the Henderson Arts Center be occupied during M-Block?” Perfect. Another gimme. Limited rooms, unlimited euphoniums. I just open my wallet and the cash starts flowing in. Sixty-five smackers in. Two hundred sixty smackers out. Of course, it’d be full. Economists everywhere are rushing out new drafts of their textbooks. Chapter One: This Guy.
The cycle continues: I bet it all, I win it all. Over and over again, I grow richer and richer. “Will a middle-schooler volunteer to go up during an assembly game tomorrow?” Obviously. “Will a freshman be told at least three times that ‘it only gets worse from here’?” Sure. “Will more than 50% of all sophomores think they’ve hit the ‘worse from here’ then be told that it only gets worse from here?” No-brainer. “Will more than fifteen juniors email their teacher about their research paper by Monday?” Of course. “Will a senior begin every sentence with ‘Since I’m already in college…?’” I’m practically stealing from them at this point.
I don’t need school anymore; the school needs me. My bank balance at the ATM doesn’t even show a number anymore; it just asks me how much I want, and it knows I’ve got it. I’ve donated more money than anyone ever has to the Annual Nobles Fund AND set that same number as my recurring payment every 3–5 years to join the Dawg Cage. The school is flourishing, and they couldn’t have done it without me. But, does this mark the end of my bets? No. God, no. I’ve made it this far by going all in each and every single time, and I’ll keep doing that until the end of my days. People start coming to me for guidance. Students alike ask me to be their financial advisor. Children of faculty ask what to short as if I’m legally allowed to answer that. Seniors are still doing absolutely nothing as they succumb to senioritis. Even the faculty themselves have started asking for hints, and they’ve tasked me with leading the economics senior workshop. I’m sitting here eating chicken chalupas and printing money off things like “Will a freshman pass out from the joy of their first noodle bar,” and “Will Mathematics Faculty Aaron Duphily tell his BC Calc class to ‘lock in’ 5 minutes before the bell rings on a last-period Friday class?”
It’s a regular Thursday afternoon; I skipped school today. What’s the point in going? I know everything. I open the app as usual and see it. What would become my magnum opus of bets: “Will the Shattuck Schoolhouse renovation be completed on time?” My palms sweat for the first time since that very first day. This isn’t a mere “Will Mr. Kovacs’s next story be the funniest one to date?” This is authentic. Real. Structural, brick-and-mortar consequences. We’ve been told it will be done on time every other Monday assembly for the better part of a year now. I stare at the percentage. The market is confident. The school is confident. I didn’t build my empire by hesitating. I move my entire balance to YES. The hurricane holds still as I wait. My name is Ricardo Watkins, and this has been the greatest mistake of my life.
