How to Make Money

October 16, 1997 | Oxford, London

POV: Oliver

Oliver let his gaze wander idly around the room until it came to rest on the piggy bank sitting on the dresser.

One hundred and fifty pounds.

Between the rehearsals and the performance, Oliver had managed to save one hundred and fifty pounds in a single month. Forty pounds from the performance alone. But he was slowly coming to the bitter realisation that it wasn't going to be nearly enough.

Qualcomm.

Oliver didn't remember Qualcomm because he had a photographic memory or because he'd memorised every historical stock price in his previous life. The name had stuck with him for a much simpler reason.

During his studies, both Qualcomm and Monster had been covered extensively. Both were among those historical outliers that were still used as examples decades later.

Monster because of the almost absurd growth of its stock over the years, and Qualcomm because of its historic explosion within a single year.

He still had a little over a year to scrape together enough money to make an investment worthwhile. At least, if he really wanted to take advantage of the opportunity Qualcomm presented.

At this rate, he wouldn't have anywhere near enough starting capital by then. He needed a solution!

"What's the answer to this one?" a voice asked.

"Yeah, that's a good question," Oliver replied, staring blankly into space for a moment.

"Olli?" the voice said, pulling Oliver from his thoughts.

Then he remembered that he was currently supposed to be tutoring his new friend.

**Flashback**

The teacher stepped in front of the class with a stack of marked papers. As always, he began with the two results that apparently mattered more to him than all the others.

"Best result: Bennett. Ninety-eight percent."

Oliver ignored the looks and teasing from his classmates. He was used to it by now. This teacher apparently believed it was motivating for his students to have something to aim for—or, worse, something to avoid becoming.

"Thomas Hargreaves. Twelve percent." The teacher glanced down at the paper again. "At least you managed to spell your name correctly."

His classmates started laughing, and Oliver quietly let out a long breath. He hated it when teachers did things like this. Even in 1997, most of them had long since abandoned this sort of thing.

Not this one.

Oliver looked over at Thomas—or Tom, as most people called him. He was one of the few students who didn't get completely on Oliver's nerves. Tom was one of the quieter children in the class, which was why Oliver even tolerated him sitting beside him during meals.

"Thomas, if you're planning on spending Christmas at home, I'd make sure your next paper doesn't look like this," the teacher added.

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Oliver grimaced. From the few conversations he'd had with Thomas, he knew how much the boy missed his family. Oliver knew perfectly well that it was nothing more than an empty threat.

Tom didn't.

The effect didn't take long. Oliver watched Tom's eyes fill with tears as some of his classmates started laughing again and teasing him.

Enough was enough. Oliver stood up and called across the classroom, "I'll help you, Tom. Wait for me after class."

The room fell silent as the teacher looked at Oliver and Oliver met his gaze angrily. For a moment, he considered saying something, but eventually just shook his head.

You can't teach an old dog new tricks. Apparently, that applied to teachers too.

***

"Forget the calculation for a moment. Imagine you have twenty Freddos and you have to divide them equally between three of your friends and yourself."

Tom thought for a moment. "Everyone gets five."

"Good. And if your three friends keep their Freddos, how many do you have left?"

"Five."

Oliver pointed at the problem. "Then you've just worked out one quarter of twenty."

Tom stared at Oliver in surprise. "I get it now! Why didn't the teacher just explain it like that?"

Oliver smiled at him and was about to answer when an idea occurred to him. Suddenly, he no longer saw the poor boy who missed his parents.

He saw a fat Christmas goose.

The school was full of children with rich parents—he could hardly ask for better conditions to make money.

"Hey, Tom," Oliver said hesitantly. "What do your parents actually do?"

"My mum and dad work at the same hospital. They're both doctors," he said, looking at Oliver curiously.

Jackpot!

"Tom, you know I'm a very busy man—" He cleared his throat. "Boy. A very busy boy! I have my courses at Oxford and my side job to worry about," he said meaningfully.

But Tom continued to do nothing more than stare at him in confusion.

Oliver let out a long, irritated breath. Tom clearly hadn't understood the hint. How the hell was he supposed to explain that he wanted to be paid for tutoring him after he'd loudly announced in front of the entire class that he would help him?

Fuck me! Me and my big mouth!

"Never mind," he said eventually. "Let's do the next problem!" After all, he'd already promised to help Tom.

An hour later, Tom said goodbye while Oliver was already putting the next part of his plan into motion. With a handwritten note in his hand, he set off to find Whitaker.

"Mr Whitaker!" Oliver called when he spotted him in the distance, apparently giving two of the boys a hard time.

"I hate to interrupt," Oliver said, gesturing for the two of them to disappear. "Can we put this up somewhere?"

Whitaker gave him an annoyed look while his two dormmates shot Oliver grateful glances and made themselves scarce as quickly as possible.

Oliver held out the note. Whitaker regarded it suspiciously before finally taking it.

*

TOO STUPID FOR YOUR HOMEWORK?

Fed up with being humiliated in front of the entire class?

Want to hear your name called out for the right reason for once?

Then come to me.

Tutoring in every subject, for every year. After curfew until bedtime.

£10 per hour

Oliver Bennett | Room 12

P.S. No refunds.

*

Whitaker read the note in silence. His eyebrow had already risen at the headline, but Oliver waited patiently as his eyes moved down the page line by line.

He paused at the ten pounds.

"Ten pounds an hour?" he asked eventually, looking at Oliver over the top of the note.

"Education is important," Oliver replied with a serious expression. "And the kids are rich!" he added emphatically.

Whitaker gave a quiet snort and turned his attention back to the note. After reading it over once more, he walked over to the noticeboard and pinned it up among the other notices.

"Ten pounds an hour," he muttered. "The boy has a higher hourly rate than I do."

On his way back to his room, Oliver went over the numbers again in his head. Ten pounds an hour was nice, but nobody had said he could only tutor one student at a time.

Three students meant thirty pounds. If he did that four times a week, that was one hundred and twenty pounds—and he wouldn't even have to sacrifice any of his free afternoons.

Oliver started calculating.

More than a hundred pounds a week. Over four thousand a year once he accounted for the holidays. By the time he wanted to put his money into Qualcomm, tutoring alone could leave him with several thousand pounds. Then there was the theatre, and whatever else he managed to come up with before then.

There was just one problem.

He could earn as much as he wanted—with a seven-year-old body, he could hardly walk into a bank and invest several thousand pounds in stocks.

For that, he needed an adult. Oliver grimaced. It seemed he was going to need God's help again.

Sister Margaret—the Saint!