The morning sun filtered through the grimy windows of Gerald's dormitory, casting long shadows across the cramped room he shared with three other students. Gerald woke to the familiar sounds of his roommates shuffling around in the limited space—Clinton mumbling complaints about their broken alarm clock, Marcus searching for his textbooks under piles of laundry, and James attempting to shave with cold water from their communal sink.
"Another day in paradise," Clinton muttered, pulling on a wrinkled shirt that had seen better days. At nineteen, Clinton Rodriguez was Gerald's closest friend and the only person who truly understood the daily struggle of being poor at Houston University. His family ran a small auto repair shop in East Houston, and every semester was a financial battle to keep him enrolled.
Gerald sat up slowly, his mind still processing the events of the previous night. The weight of the gold-black card in his wallet felt heavier in the harsh morning light, a secret that threatened to consume him from the inside out. Around him, his friends continued their morning routine, blissfully unaware that the boy they shared cramped quarters with could buy the entire university without breaking a sweat.
"Come on, Gerald," Marcus called from across the room. Marcus Thompson was a scholarship student from Mississippi, tall and lanky with an easy smile that masked the anxiety of someone always one semester away from dropping out. "Cafeteria opens in ten minutes. You know how the lines get."
The fourth member of their group, James Park, nodded in agreement while struggling with his tie. James was a first-generation college student whose Korean immigrant parents worked sixteen-hour days to afford his education. Every meal at the cafeteria represented savings they couldn't afford to waste.
The west wing cafeteria was a study in institutional efficiency—long metal tables, fluorescent lighting that gave everyone a sickly pallor, and food that was nutritious but utterly lacking in flavor or presentation. Gerald and his friends claimed their usual table near the back, away from the subtle social hierarchies that played out even during breakfast.
"Did you guys see Xavier last night?" Marcus asked between bites of scrambled eggs that had the consistency of rubber. "Girl looked like she was about to cry when Gerald showed up with that bag for Naomi."
Clinton snorted. "Good. Maybe now she realizes what she lost."
"She didn't lose anything," Gerald said quietly, stirring his coffee without really tasting it. "She made a choice based on what she thought was best for her."
James looked up from his cereal. "Bro, she dumped you for a guy with money. That's not making a choice—that's being shallow."
Gerald wanted to tell them the truth, wanted to explain that Xavier's decision made perfect sense in a world where survival often depended on financial security. But the words stuck in his throat, trapped behind the secret he couldn't share.
They finished eating quickly, conscious of their first class starting in thirty minutes. The walk across campus required navigating the invisible boundary between the west and east wings, a journey that never failed to remind Gerald of his place in the university's social ecosystem.
They were halfway to the academic building when Gerald heard his name being called. The voice was sharp, authoritative, and unmistakably familiar. He turned around to see Blondie Stevens approaching, her designer heels clicking against the pavement with military precision.
She moved with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the early hour. Her outfit—a tailored blazer, silk blouse, and skirt that probably cost more than Gerald's entire wardrobe—marked her as someone from the elite circles of the east wing. But it was her expression that made Gerald's stomach clench with dread.
"Gerald Martinez," she called again, her voice carrying across the courtyard and drawing curious glances from passing students.
Gerald's friends exchanged worried looks. Clinton stepped slightly closer, his jaw tightening with the protective instinct of someone who had grown up fighting other people's battles.
Blondie came to a stop directly in front of Gerald, her hands settling on her hips in a gesture that radiated contempt. Her blue eyes were cold as winter sky, and her perfectly glossed lips curved into a smile that held no warmth whatsoever.
"So," she said, her voice pitched just loud enough for nearby students to hear, "you really think it's okay to rely on student union subsidies to buy expensive bags for your friends?"
The accusation hit Gerald like a physical blow. Around them, other students began to slow their pace, sensing drama in the air. He could feel their eyes cataloging his secondhand clothes, his worn sneakers, his obvious otherness in their world of privilege.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gerald replied carefully, keeping his voice level despite the anger building in his chest.
Blondie's laugh was sharp and cutting. "Please. Everyone knows you're on financial aid. Everyone knows you run errands for pocket change. There's no way you could afford a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar handbag without help from the student assistance programs."
Behind Blondie, several other girls from her social circle had gathered—all perfectly dressed, all wearing expressions of amused superiority. Gerald recognized most of them from various campus events, daughters of senators and CEOs who treated Houston University like their personal playground.
"The student union subsidy program is for students in genuine need," Blondie continued, her voice gaining strength as she sensed the growing audience. "It's not for buying luxury gifts to impress girls who are already rich enough to buy their own designer bags."
Clinton stepped forward, his face flushed with anger. "You don't know what you're talking about, Blondie. Gerald didn't—"
"I'm not talking to you," Blondie snapped, not even bothering to look at Clinton. Her gaze remained fixed on Gerald with laser-like intensity. "I'm talking to the scholarship boy who thinks he can game the system."
Gerald felt the familiar burn of humiliation in his chest, the same feeling he had carried throughout his childhood whenever teachers or social workers had spoken about his family's circumstances in that tone of pitying condescension. But now, with the knowledge of his true background, the emotion was mixed with something else—a cold anger that surprised him with its intensity.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Blondie's smile widened, revealing perfectly straight white teeth that probably cost more than most people's cars. "I want you to understand that actions have consequences. As class president and head of the student union budget committee, I'm hereby removing your name from next year's subsidy list. Students who abuse the system don't deserve assistance."