High school wasn’t just tough—it was merciless. Every hallway felt like a stage where the rich kids performed their cruelty, and I was always their favorite punchline.
My name is Clara, and I was branded before I ever had a chance. My father worked nights as the school’s janitor, mopping the very floors those same kids strutted across in their designer sneakers. That was all they needed to decide who I was.
“Janitor’s Girl.”
“Broom Girl.”
“Trash Princess.”
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