When the social structure was as hard as cement and your name was on the wrong side of it, high school may be a particularly cruel place to be. This was a lesson that I learnt at a young age, as I stood in the hall and watched the children of wealthy families, children whose parents controlled half of the town, laugh at me. To introduce myself, my name is Clara, and I am the daughter of Mr.
Grayson, who works as the night janitor at our high school. As soon as I went through the doors each morning, I had the impression that I was considered an outsider. My uniform was never nearly as clean as theirs, my shoes were always scuffed despite my best attempts, and my rucksack had years’ worth of hand-me-downs rather than designer labels due to the fact that I was always carrying them.
Due to the fact that my parents worked hard and had very little money to spare, my lunch consisted of a peanut butter sandwich and a thermos of water most of the time. In a short amount of time, the wealthiest students in the school were aware of it. “Janitor’s Girl” was the moniker that they gave to me, and it was whispered behind my back and occasionally directly to my face.
They had nicknames for everyone, and the majority of them were harsh. A day in the hallway, Victoria Lorne scowled at the broom girl while she was flipping her nicely done hair. “Hey, broom girl,” she said.
To what extent do you find it amusing that you are attempting to sit with us in the cafeteria? It is possible that you might feel more at ease in the custodial closet, so you could prefer to continue with that. I did my best to avoid an answer.
The ability to maintain my dignity in the face of muck was something that my mother had instilled in me as a form of quiet strength. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I kept my gaze fixed on the ground and concentrated on walking. But my heart was ablaze on the inside.
There was a part of me that wanted to disappear, and another part of me promised that I would not allow them to win. Every insult, every snicker, and every nasty moniker meant that I wanted to disappear. It was prom season, and the rumors started spreading as they always do.
Every aspect of the event was meticulously organized by the affluent children, including the clothing shops, the hair appointments, and the limousine reservations. I did not agree with that at all. I was not in possession of a designer gown, a stylist, or a father who had the financial means to treat me to a night of opulence.
To them, I would be inconspicuous, and if I were to show up at all, it would most likely be in a plain dress purchased from a budget store. Over the course of several weeks, I sat and watched as Victoria and her pals paraded through the school, spreading rumors about who would date whom, what color their dresses would be, and how ludicrous it would be if I somehow showed up at the dance. I was shaking with fear at the prospect of going to the event and being humiliated, but I also came to the realization that if I didn’t turn there, I would let them to determine the finish of the story.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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