“Hey, broom girl,” she once called, flipping her perfectly curled hair as her friends giggled behind her. “Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in the custodial closet? Or maybe with a mop instead of a lunch tray?”

I didn’t answer. My mother had always told me that dignity was a quiet shield, and though my heart burned, I kept my head down and kept walking. Still, every insult piled inside me, fueling something I didn’t yet have a name for.

By spring, prom season arrived—a glittering beacon for some, a looming storm for others. For weeks, the wealthy students strutted through the halls, chattering about their designer dresses, tux fittings, and limousines waiting like glass slippers to whisk them away. I sat on the sidelines, invisible, clutching books to my chest and pretending not to hear their laughter when