MBTI high school

Chapter 48:

Chapter 48: The Life of a Rich Kid

By ENTP, 5 years old, trapped in a prewritten life, son of Laura Limons, heir against his will, born sarcastic.

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I was sleeping soundly, probably dreaming I was a hamster running wild in a giant shopping mall (yes, that actually happened), when a voice stabbed through my brain:

— John: “Sir, it is time to wake up. Your schedule starts in forty-eight minutes.”

It was John. My bodyguard. My butler. My daily torturer. I groaned from under the covers.

— Me: “Hey, John… do you think if I fake a coma, they’ll cancel my crossbow class?”

— John: “No, sir.”

This guy has zero sense of humor. Or maybe he learned to store it in the same drawer as his emotions: somewhere between “useless” and “dangerous.”

John recited my schedule while I dragged myself out of bed like a jaded mollusk.

— John: “Piano at 9:00. Economics at 9:45. Crossbow at 10:30. Foreign language at 11:15. Strategy at 12:00. Supervised lunch at 12:45.”

— Me: “Ah, supervised lunch. My favorite time of day. Nothing beats eating while a guard counts your chews.”

John ignored the sarcasm. He’s immune. I suspect he went through special training for that.

Today was even better: I was heading to Laura Limons’ company—aka Official-Life-Planner-Mother. According to John, I was supposed to “entertain the associate’s child.” Translation: babysit a future CEO aged six who probably already has a LinkedIn profile.

On the way, John tried to make me recite the periodic table.

— Me: “Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium…”

But suddenly, I turned my head. And I saw… kids. Kids like me. With backpacks. Laughing.

— Me: “They must be coming back from… what’s it called? School.”

I had read that word somewhere. School. It sounded… strange. A place where kids went together to learn stuff. And more importantly, where they were together.

I’d never been to school. I had a tutor. Three, actually. One for science, one for the arts, and one for… offensive skills. Yep.

We arrived at the building. As always, people greeted me with fake smiles.

— “Good morning, Mister Limons.”

I replied with an even faker smile. I’d been trained for this. The “I know you’re lying but I’m being polite” smile—expert level.

Elevator. Main floor. My mother. Beautiful. Cold. Precise. I greeted her. She gave me instructions. I didn’t listen. I’d improvise. Like always.

The elevator opened again. A dark-haired man in a suit entered with… a child. Also in a suit.

I almost choked.

The man introduced himself:

— “Greg. And this is my son, ENTJ.”

ENTJ.

ENTJ.

ENTJ.

Well, I’m not the only one with a weird name.

What kind of name is ENTP?! Seriously, do rich people name their kids like this?!

They left us in the waiting room. John, faithful marble statue, stood two meters away.

I looked at ENTJ. He picked up a children’s magazine. Read it with the intensity of a judge reading a death sentence.

I attempted an approach:

— Me: “Nice ‘mini-president’ look. Do you also give TEDx talks during recess?”

He shot me a look like I was a radioactive sock.

— ENTJ: “You’re not funny.”

I grinned.

— Me: “Neither are you. We’ll get along great.”

Silence. This kid’s a glacier. I tried a different angle:

— Me: “What are you reading?”

— ENTJ: “‘How to Invest in the Stock Market Before Puberty.’”

I was both impressed… and mildly concerned. Curious, I asked:

— Me: “Do you even know what ‘school’ is?”

Unlikely—he was like me. We belonged to a world where the word normal didn’t exist.

— ENTJ (without looking up): “Yes.”

I snorted. And to think—for a second, I thought I’d found an ally. We weren’t the same. I sighed. Don’t know why, but I dropped the mask. Just a little.

— Me: “You know… sometimes I wish I could just be a normal kid. Go to school. Fail tests. Make friends. Scrape my knees. Laugh for no reason. Just… play.”

I chuckled a bit, but not at myself this time.

— Me: “But nope. I got strategy classes instead of snack time.”

Silence. I probably should’ve stayed quiet.

He slowly put down his magazine. Looked at me.

— ENTJ: “Well. Congrats. You just made a friend.”

I stared at him. Come again? My brain blue-screened. He stood up. Reached out a hand.

— ENTJ: “And to commemorate this new friendship… I’m giving you a gift.”

I was half-expecting a gold bar, but no. He grabbed my arm, walked straight to the meeting room door, and opened it.

Security agents protested. He ignored them. Walked in.

— ENTJ (calmly): “Father, invest in this company.”

— Greg: “And… what’s in it for me?”

— ENTJ: “Well, consider it… my first spoiled-rich-kid whim.”

Silence. The kind that hits before a comet smashes into Earth.

Greg stared at him.

— Greg: “And… that’s it?”

— ENTJ: “Oh no. One last thing: make sure my friend ENTP joins my school.”

I think I short-circuited. The word friend floated in the air like a solid gold butterfly. Greg smiled. My mom was too shocked to even pull out her notepad.

Take that!

I held back the urge to scream with joy like a hyena. The doors closed. Silence.

I turned to ENTJ.

— Me: “You sure he’ll do it?”

He smiled—mini-Machiavelli style:

— ENTJ: “That man is very sentimental. Which makes him easy to manipulate.”

I burst out laughing. This kid is my new hero.

And maybe—just maybe—my first real friend.