If fear had a color, it would be the washed‑out gray of the projector screen in Ms. Torres's classroom.
Friday. The day our rough cut of Where I'm From was officially becoming a thing other people could see.
My leg bounced like it had its own playlist while Mason fussed with the HDMI cable at the front of the room.
"Relax," he muttered, smacking the side of the ancient projector. "If this thing dies, it's not a sign from the universe. It's just underfunded public education."
"It could be both," I said, fingers clenched around my pen.
Seraph, lounging half out of her chair beside me, nudged my elbow. "Breathe, Spielberg. Worst‑case scenario, they hate it and we go viral for being cringe. Best‑case, they cry and give us a standing ovation."
"Why are those the only two options?" I hissed.
"Because mediocrity is for people who don't have main‑character eyebrows," she said, flicking one of mine.
"Can you two stop flirting with the idea of my breakdown?" I muttered.
Across the room, Ms. Torres clapped her hands once. "Alright, phones away," she said. "Today you're going to do something many of you have forgotten how to do: watch something without pausing it to check the comments."
A few kids laughed.
I spotted Tia two rows over, purple braids up in a bun, eyeliner sharp enough to commit a crime. Her face was unreadable. Makayla wasn't in this class, but her absence felt loud anyway, like a chair pulled back and left empty on purpose.
"Some of your classmates have been working on a project," Ms. Torres continued. "You're going to see an early cut today. It's called 'Where I'm From.' You will be respectful. You will not record the screen. You will not turn somebody's story into a meme. If you feel the urge to do any of that, swallow it and journal later."
Groans, snickers, a half‑hearted "Yes, Miss."
My stomach climbed into my throat.
Mason looked back at me. "Ready?" he mouthed.
No.
"Yeah," I mouthed back.
He hit play.
The lights dimmed. The projector hummed. And there I was—huge and grainy on the wall.
"Name?" Seraph's off‑camera voice asked.
"Jayla Santos," my recorded self said. "You know this."
A few people chuckled.
"Home?"
"Home is… the water."
There was a tiny shift in the room. Not laughter. Not a gasp. Just bodies settling in like they hadn't expected to actually listen.
I stared at my own face, trying not to pick apart every pore and inflection.
San Ángel. The pier. The receipt.
As Past Me talked about the tienda, about the last bag of chips, about being more than one breakup, a weird quiet fell over the room.
I dared a glance away from the screen.
Asia from the front row had her chin propped on her hand, eyes soft. Jamal wasn't even pretending to sneak his phone; it sat face‑down on his desk. Even Tia had stopped twirling her straw and was just… watching.
When the cut faded from my interview to a shot Mason had taken of the hallway—the blur of backpacks, slamming lockers, somebody laughing too loud near the water fountain—my shoulders dropped an inch.
It moved to Seraph next.
"Seraph Jones," she said, all teeth and attitude. "Home is Brooklyn, always. The block, the bodega aunties, the old men who play dominoes like it's a sport."
She talked about her mom waking her up with gospel on Saturdays, about growing up being told she was "too loud," "too much," and learning to turn that into armor instead of shame. Kids laughed at her jokes; a few nodded at her lines about being the first one in her family trying for college.
Then Niqua. The "funny friend" who didn't know how to say "I'm sad" without adding a punchline. Mason. Talking about falling off his board and getting back up so many times he'd lost count.
It wasn't polished. The audio dipped in one place. My voice cracked in another. There was an awkward jump cut when Seraph swore too colorfully and Mason had clipped it.
But it was… ours.
When the last shot faded out—a slow pan of the mural outside the school, fists and faces and colors bright against the brick—the room stayed quiet a beat longer than I expected.
Then somebody in the back said, "Yo. That was kinda hard," and the tension broke.
"Asia?" Ms. Torres said, seizing the moment. "Thoughts that don't involve the words 'mid' or 'slay'?"
Asia smiled. "I liked it," she said. "It felt… I don't know. Honest. Like our hallways don't look like that on TV."
"Facts," Jamal added. "And like… my mom always says she doesn't care where I go as long as I don't forget where I'm from. Seeing y'all talk about that without it turning into some sad charity thing was… cool."
A few heads nodded.
Hands went up, surprisingly. People asking if they could be in the next round. A boy I'd only seen in passing—tattoos peeking from under his sleeves, gold tooth flashing when he talked—said he wanted to talk about being from two different countries. A quiet girl from the corner said she had a poem already written.
Then a voice I didn't expect cut through.
"So… you're just not gonna mention the TikTok stuff at all?"
Tia.
Of course.
Every neck in the room practically snapped in her direction.
My spine went rigid.
Ms. Torres folded her arms. "And when you say 'TikTok stuff,' you're referring to…?"
Tia rolled her eyes. "Come on, Miss. Half the people in this room have seen at least one video about Jayla. You really think we're not gonna notice that this doc pretends that doesn't exist?"
The air tightened. Eyes slid back to me.
I felt my throat close.
"We're not pretending it doesn't exist," I said, before Ms. Torres could jump in. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "We're just refusing to make it the whole story."
Tia tilted her head. "But isn't leaving it out also… editing the truth?" she asked. "Like, you're showing us where you're from but skipping the reason half of us even know your name. That's still a choice about the narrative, right?"
She wasn't wrong. That was the annoying part.
The room waited.
"For me?" I said slowly, "the reason you know my name is because somebody else decided to tell my story in tiny pieces that made them look good." My hands shook under the desk. I curled them into fists. "I'm not obligated to build my whole personality around cleaning up their mess."
Murmurs.
"And yeah," I added, "that's a choice. Editing is always a choice. But if you want to see the TikTok version, it's already out there. If you want to see the version where I'm not just somebody's villain? That's what this is."
Tia's mouth opened, then closed.
For the first time since I'd met her, she looked… unsure.
"I mean," Mason cut in, "if you wanna sit in the chair, Tia, nobody's stopping you. You can talk about what you think people get wrong about you. That's the whole point."
A few heads swiveled toward her.
She scoffed, but there was a crack in it. "I'll think about it," she muttered.
Ms. Torres clapped once. "Good," she said. "Think about it while you write a one‑page reflection on how media shapes identity. Due Monday. Welcome to my evil plan."
Groans. Shuffling. The spell broke.
As people filed out, more than a few paused by my desk.
"Yo, that line about the receipt?" a girl from the cheer squad said. "That was fire."
"I got one from the barbershop back home," a boy added. "Might steal your idea."
"Steal it," I said. "Just don't steal my chips."
By the time the room emptied, my nerves had untied themselves into something else. Not peace, exactly. But not panic either.
Maybe… pride.
Ms. Torres perched on the edge of a desk. "Well, executive producer?" she said. "How's it feel having your insides projected at 1080p?"
"Horrifying," I said. Then, after a beat: "Good. In a horrifying way."
She smiled. "You did well," she said. "All of you. It landed."
"Even with… that?" I asked, jerking my chin toward where Tia had been.
"Especially with that," she said. "You handled a critique without bursting into flames. I'm impressed."
"I was close," I admitted.
Seraph slung an arm around my shoulders. "You killed it, ocean girl," she said. "And you looked hot doing it. Which is what really matters."
"Obviously," Niqua said, appearing at my other side. "Speaking of hot, is your man picking you up or what? I need a free ride and his car smells better than the bus."
"He's not my—" I started.
"Yeah, yeah, your situationship smells like Dior and bad decisions," she cut in. "Let's move."
We laughed our way out into the hallway.
For once, the stares didn't slice. They just… slid off.
Miles was leaning against the red Lamborghini out front, arms crossed, hoodie up even though the sun was warm. A few underclassmen hovered a safe distance away, clearly debating whether he was famous or just annoying.
When he saw me, his whole face softened.
That stupid flip in my chest again.
"How'd it go, directora?" he asked as I approached.
"People didn't throw tomatoes," I said. "So I'd call it a win."
Seraph and Niqua flanked me like overexcited bodyguards.
"She was amazing," Seraph declared. "Cried on screen and everything. Very Oscar."
"It was only like one tear," I protested.
"It glistened," Niqua said. "Very cinematic."
Miles's eyes crinkled. "I'm proud of you," he said quietly, just for me.
"Stop," I muttered, cheeks warming.
"Never," he replied.
He glanced at the girls. "You two hopping in?"
"Obviously," Seraph said. "We have celebratory snacks to destroy."
"Backseat," Niqua added. "I'm DJ. I called it yesterday in the group chat."
They piled in, arguing about whether the playlist should be more Bad Bunny or SZA. I slid into the passenger seat, heart finally starting to settle into something like calm.
As Miles pulled away from the curb, I looked back at the school.
Mural. Brick. Glass.
Somewhere inside, my face still lingered on a projector screen.
Not as a warning. Not as a rumor. Just… a story.
Mine.
For the first time since I left San Ángel, that felt like enough.
Later, at home, with Seraph and Niqua arguing over popcorn toppings in the kitchen and Miles flipping channels on the couch, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
My stomach tightened.
I almost ignored it.
Then I remembered Miles's voice in my head: You pick your battles. And your peace.
I opened it.
Makayla: Saw the video.
I stared at the screen, pulse jumping.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Makayla:
You looked… I don't know. Different.
I swallowed.
Another bubble.
Makayla: You're right. I did my own damage. I'm not ready to say all of it yet. But I'm not gonna pretend I didn't hurt you anymore.
A breath I didn't know I was holding rushed out of me.
One more message.
Makayla:
I'm not asking to be in your movie. Or your life. Just
I'm sorry. For real this time.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Behind me, I felt the couch dip.
"You okay?" Miles asked, voice low.
I handed him the phone.
He read, jaw working.
"What are you gonna say?" he asked.
Old Jayla would've answered instantly. A novel. A scream. A block.
New Jayla—the one who had watched herself on a screen and not cringed out of existence—just sat with it.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly.
"That's allowed." He passed the phone back. "You don't owe her a fast answer."
I nodded.
For once, I didn't rush to fill the silence.
I set my phone face‑down on the coffee table and shifted closer to him, tucking my feet under me.
In the kitchen, Seraph and Niqua were still bickering.
"Sprinkles do not go on popcorn, you psycho."
"Let me innovate, coward."
I laughed, the sound surprising me with how light it was.
"Movie night?" Miles asked.
"Documentary night," I corrected. "We need to study the competition."
He groaned. "Nerd."
"Main character," I said.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in.
"Same thing," he murmured.
As the opening credits of some artsy doc rolled across the TV, my mind drifted back to Makayla's text.
I didn't know yet what I'd say.
But for the first time, I wasn't scared that her words would swallow mine.
I had my own voice. My own project. My own people. My own waves.
And I still had five chapters left in this messy, beautiful story I was writing.
I smiled to myself.
Let them watch.
I wasn't done yet.