The heavy oak doors of Houston University's grand auditorium groaned as Gerald pushed them open, the sound echoing through the cavernous space like a death knell. Dust motes danced in the pale afternoon light that filtered through the tall windows, settling on rows upon rows of burgundy velvet seats that had seen better days. The air hung thick with the scent of old wood and forgotten dreams.
"Christ, this place is massive," Clinton muttered, his voice barely a whisper in the vastness. He adjusted his worn backpack—a hand-me-down from his older brother—and surveyed the task ahead with visible resignation.
Gerald said nothing, his dark curls catching the light as he tilted his head back to take in the ornate ceiling. Cherubs and gold leaf adorned the baroque architecture, a stark reminder of the wealth that built this institution—wealth that students like him could only observe from the outside. His threadbare jeans and faded t-shirt seemed to absorb the grandeur around him, making him appear smaller somehow.
Rick stepped forward, his dormitory head authority evident in his posture despite wearing clothes that had clearly been purchased from discount stores. "Right, lads. Let's get this done quickly. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can get out of here."
They had barely begun unpacking their cleaning supplies when the auditorium doors burst open with theatrical flair. Blondie swept in like she owned the place—which, given her family's substantial donations to the university, wasn't entirely inaccurate. Her designer heels clicked against the marble floor with each calculated step, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"Well, well, well," she drawled, her voice dripping with manufactured sweetness. "Look what the janitor dragged in."
Gerald's hand tightened around the handle of his mop, but he didn't look up. He'd learned long ago that acknowledging Blondie's provocations only encouraged her. Instead, he dipped the mop into the bucket and began cleaning the stage area with methodical precision.
"Ignoring me now, are we?" Blondie's laugh was crystal clear and twice as cutting. "How very... fitting. After all, invisible people shouldn't speak."
Clinton shot a glance at Gerald, his jaw clenched. Rick placed a warning hand on the younger boy's shoulder, shaking his head slightly. They all knew the rules of this game—retaliation would only give the administration excuse to make their lives more miserable.
Blondie circled them like a predator, her Hermès bag swinging gently from her manicured fingers. The bag alone probably cost more than Gerald's family made in six months. "You know, I've always wondered—do poor people actually enjoy being poor, or is it just that you're too stupid to be anything else?"
The question hung in the air like poison gas. Gerald continued mopping, each stroke deliberate and controlled, but his knuckles had gone white where they gripped the handle. The familiar burn of shame and anger twisted in his stomach, a sensation he'd grown intimately acquainted with over the years.
"Cat got your tongue, Gerald?" Blondie pressed, stepping closer. Her perfume—something expensive and French—mixed unpleasantly with the cleaning fluid. "Or maybe you're saving your voice for begging?"
Before Gerald could formulate a response—not that he intended to give her the satisfaction—the auditorium doors opened again. This time, a parade of girls from the student union department filed in, their designer outfits creating a kaleidoscope of wealth and privilege. They moved with the casual confidence that only came from never having to worry about money, their laughter bright and careless.
"Perfect timing, ladies," Blondie called out, her voice suddenly animated. "I thought you might enjoy watching the floor show."
The girls giggled appreciatively, arranging themselves in the front rows like an audience at a particularly cruel theater performance. Gerald recognized several faces—daughters of senators, heiresses to tech fortunes, girls who drove cars worth more than most people's houses.
"Are we really rehearsing here while they're..." one of them gestured vaguely at the cleaning crew, "...doing that?"
"Of course," Blondie replied smoothly. "They're practically furniture. Besides, I thought it might be educational for them to see what real talent looks like."
What followed was a masterclass in calculated cruelty. As Gerald and his friends worked to clean the auditorium, the girls would "accidentally" spill drinks, drop programs, and scatter debris in areas that had just been cleaned. Each mess was accompanied by saccharine apologies that fooled no one.
"Oops," one girl said as she knocked over a full cup of coffee, the liquid spreading across freshly mopped marble. "How clumsy of me."
Gerald watched the brown stain spread and felt something inside him crack. Not break—he was too practiced at enduring humiliation for that—but crack, like ice under pressure. He grabbed his mop and began cleaning up the mess without a word.
"You missed a spot," another girl pointed out helpfully, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
The rehearsal, if it could be called that, was more performance art than preparation. The girls posed and preened, their voices carrying easily through the acoustically perfect space as they discussed weekend plans in the Hamptons and spring break trips to Monaco. Each anecdote was carefully crafted to highlight their wealth, their connections, their effortless superiority.
Gerald tried to focus on the repetitive motions of cleaning, letting the familiar rhythm calm his racing thoughts. Sweep, mop, wipe, repeat. It was meditation through manual labor, a skill he'd perfected over years of similar humiliations.
Then everything changed.
The auditorium doors opened with a soft whoosh, and the temperature in the room seemed to shift. The girls' chatter died mid-sentence as a figure stepped through the doorway, and Gerald looked up despite himself.
Sammy entered like he was walking onto a movie set. His purple hair caught the light in ways that seemed almost supernatural, styled with the kind of casual perfection that only came from expensive salons. His clothes were understated but unmistakably high-end—a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than Gerald's entire wardrobe, perfectly tailored pants, shoes that gleamed like mirrors.
But it wasn't his appearance that commanded attention. It was the way he moved, the casual confidence that radiated from every gesture. This was someone who had never doubted his place in the world, who had never questioned whether he belonged.
"Sammy?" Blondie's voice came out as a strangled whisper, all her earlier arrogance evaporating like morning mist. "What... what are you doing here?"
The transformation was remarkable. The girl who had been terrorizing Gerald and his friends moments before now seemed to shrink, her perfectly applied makeup unable to hide the flush creeping up her neck.
Sammy's laugh was rich and genuine, completely unlike Blondie's artificial tinkle. "Hahaha, I'm just testing my new McLaren P1 and having fun with it." He said it so casually, as if he were discussing the weather rather than a car worth more than most people's homes.
The effect on the assembled girls was immediate and dramatic. They leaned forward like flowers turning toward the sun, their eyes wide with undisguised hunger. Gerald had seen that look before—the way people looked at things they desperately wanted but could never have.
"Is... is it imported or domestic?" Blondie managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sammy's smile widened, revealing perfect teeth that had undoubtedly benefited from years of expensive orthodontic work. "One of my dad's friends helped import it. Cost about $1,200,000."
The number hit the room like a physical force. Gerald felt his mop slip in his suddenly sweaty palms. One point two million dollars. The amount was so astronomical it barely registered as real money—it was more like a concept, an abstract representation of wealth so vast it defied comprehension.
The girls erupted in excited murmurs, their voices overlapping as they peppered Sammy with questions about the car's specifications, its top speed, its custom features. Gerald tried to return to his cleaning, but found himself listening despite his better judgment.
"The acceleration is incredible," Sammy was explaining, his hands moving expressively as he spoke. "Zero to sixty in under three seconds. The engine sound is pure poetry."
Gerald's breath caught in his throat. Cars had always been his secret obsession, his one indulgence in a life otherwise devoid of luxury. While other boys his age collected baseball cards or video games, Gerald had spent countless hours studying automotive magazines salvaged from library dumpsters, memorizing specifications and dreaming of the day he might own something beautiful and powerful.
His dream car had always been the Lamborghini Elemento—a limited edition masterpiece that existed more in fantasy than reality. Only twenty had ever been made, each one a work of art as much as a vehicle. Gerald had never seen one in person, but he'd studied every photograph, every technical drawing, every review until he could recite the specifications from memory.
As Sammy continued describing his McLaren, Gerald felt that familiar ache in his chest—the longing for something so far beyond his reach it might as well have been on another planet. He gripped his mop tighter and forced himself to focus on the mundane task at hand, but the damage was done. The seed of want had been planted, and like all seeds, it would grow whether he wanted it to or not.
The cleaning continued in silence now, the earlier harassment forgotten as the girls clustered around Sammy like moths around a flame. Gerald and his friends had become truly invisible, which was perhaps the cruelest irony of all—only when someone with real money arrived did their tormentors lose interest in tormenting those without it.
Gerald squeezed out his mop and tried not to think about McLarens or Lamborghinis or the vast, unbridgeable gulf between his reality and his dreams.