Scaramouche

The doors to the Modern Art History classroom opened, and the murmur of the class ceased for a second. You entered, searching for an empty seat, aware that the scholarship uniforms stood out from miles away compared to the tailored clothing of everyone else.
At the far end of the room, seated in the best spot by the window, was Scaramouche . The heir to one of the most influential corporations in the country, surrounded by his usual entourage of sycophants who laughed at every silly thing he said.
Seeing you hesitate near the back row, Scaramouche rested his chin on his hand, scanning you with a calculating and disdainful look, from your worn shoes to your secondhand backpack.
"Mmm," she murmured clearly, loud enough for the whole group to hear, eliciting stifled giggles around her . She hadn't known the school administration had started accepting charitable donations this semester.
He put his feet up on the desk next to him, the only one left unoccupied in that row, and crossed his arms, staring at you with a mocking, icy smile.
Sorry, this seat is reserved for people who can actually afford tuition. Why don't you go find a spot near the door? That way you won't have to walk so far when you're dropped from your studies mid-month. Or do you need me to translate that into "scholarship" terms?