If courage had a taste, it would be stale cafeteria pizza and lukewarm apple juice.
That's what I'm staring at when the idea really lands—not as some dramatic lightning bolt, but as a quiet, annoying thought that refuses to leave.
You can't spend your whole life reacting.
The next day at lunch, the cafeteria is its usual chaos—sticky tables, kids yelling across aisles, somebody dropping a tray in the distance like a cymbal crash. Seraph and Niqua are arguing over whether pineapple on pizza is an actual sin, and I'm half-listening, half-scrolling through my notifications.
They haven't stopped.
My video is still climbing. There are more comments, more DMs, more girls telling me versions of the same story: I moved too.He lied about me too.They called me crazy too.
It should feel flattering, I guess. Or powerful. Mostly it feels heavy—like everyone dropped their pain in my lap and said, Here. Hold this.
"Jay, you're doing it again," Seraph says, snapping her fingers in front of my face.
I blink. "Doing what?"
"The disassociative scroll," she says. "You're not actually reading, you're just letting your eyeballs drown."
Niqua leans her chin on her hand, squinting at me. "Where's your brain at, ocean girl?"
I glance between them, my phone screen, the cafeteria.
"I was thinking about… something Miles said," I admit.
Seraph groans. "Of course you were."
"Shut up," I say, but I'm smiling. "He said I can't respond to every single thing Dan posts or I'll drown. That I have to pick my battles."
"Facts," Niqua says. "We already blocked his crusty ass, so that's one less wave."
"Yeah, but…" I twist my straw wrapper between my fingers. "What if I don't want to be in that battle at all anymore? What if I'm tired of my name only being in people's mouths when it's attached to guys—Dan, Miles, whoever?"
They both go quiet.
"That's fair," Seraph says slowly. "So what's the alternative?"
I look around.
At the murals in the hallway that peek through the cafeteria doors. At the clusters of kids who all look like they belong somewhere—basketball table, nerd table, theater table, the girls-who-wear-lip-gloss-like-armor table. At my reflection in my phone screen.
"Media Studies," I say.
Niqua blinks. "You good?"
"Ms. Torres keeps talking about how whoever holds the camera holds the power," I say. "How the lens decides whose story we center. And right now? The lens is still on him. On them. Even my video is partly a response to their noise. I'm tired of that."
"So you wanna… take the camera?" Seraph asks.
Maybe it's the way she says it—half joke, half dare.
Maybe it's the way anxiety buzzes under my skin like a trapped bee.
Maybe I'm just tired of being the girl people react to.
"Yeah," I say. "I think I do."
After school, I head straight to Media Studies instead of home.
The classroom smells like dust and electronics—the weird, dry air of old computers and newer cameras. Posters about fake news and bias peel at the corners. Ms. Torres is at her desk, scrolling through something on her laptop, glasses sliding down her nose.
She looks up when I hover in the doorway.
"Jayla," she says. "You're either very late for class or very early for detention."
I step inside, clutching my bag strap. "Neither. I, um… needed to ask you something."
Her eyebrows lift. "Is this a 'close the door' kind of something?"
I hesitate, then nod.
She nudges the door shut with her foot and leans back in her chair, giving me her full attention. "Talk to me."
I take a breath.
"You know about… the videos," I say. It's not a question.
Her mouth tightens. "I've had to confiscate three phones playing them in my class," she says. "So yes. I know of the videos. I also know you're more than whatever chopped-up narrative your ex is trying to sell."
The words hit harder than I expect.
"Thanks," I mumble.
She waits.
"Everyone's telling their own version of my story," I go on. "Dan, Makayla, random kids in the hallway, people online—and I'm… I'm done fighting each separate fire. But I don't want to just disappear either. I kind of… want to build something else. Here. With you. With this class."
Interest sparks in her eyes. "Go on."
I shift my weight from foot to foot. "What if," I say slowly, "instead of just talking about media and narrative… we made something? Like, an actual project. About… kids like us. Moving. Starting over. Getting labeled before people know us. Not just me. Everybody."
She's quiet for a long beat.
"You're pitching me a documentary," she says at last.
The word makes my stomach flutter.
"I don't know if it would be that serious," I hedge. "Maybe just… a series of short profiles? Interviews? Clips? People from different neighborhoods, different backgrounds. Their 'one thing you carry,' but on camera."
"Who's your main subject?" she asks.
I blink. "What?"
"Every story has an anchor," she says. "You can build a whole universe of voices around someone, but the audience needs one set of eyes to see through. Are you that set?"
The idea makes me instantly nauseous.
Me? Again? Center stage?
"I don't want it to be just about me," I say quickly. "Isn't that the point? I'm tired of my face popping up on everyone's feed."
"Why?" she asks. No judgment. Just curiosity.
"Because it feels like I'm always… exposed," I admit. "Like I can't screw up or breathe wrong without it becoming content. I don't want to feed that."
She tilts her head. "And yet you posted your ocean video."
I flinch. "That was different."
"How?"
"Because…" I search for the words. "Because that wasn't about proving something to Dan. Or to Makayla. That was… me talking to the girls who already know what this feels like. It was mine."
She nods slowly. "So you can stand in front of a lens without disappearing into someone else's version of you."
I don't answer.
She leans forward, elbows on the desk.
"Let me be clear," she says. "I like your idea. A lot. This school is full of kids carrying entire countries on their backs, and the only time they get interviewed is when a journalist wants 'immigrant B‑roll' or 'violence in the community' quotes. If you want to build a space where they get to tell their own stories? I will back you all the way."
Hope stirs in my chest.
"But," she adds, holding up a finger, "you don't get to erase yourself in the process. That's just a different kind of hiding."
I frown. "I'm not hiding. I'm… curating."
She cracks a small smile. "Cute word. Still hiding."
I glare at her.
"Let me ask you something," she continues. "If some other kid came in here with this exact idea, would you be okay with them telling your story? Editing your pain? Framing your ocean?"
The thought makes my chest tighten.
"No," I say quietly.
"Exactly," she says. "So if we do this, you're not just some invisible director in the back. You're a participant. A subject. One of many—but still there."
My brain starts listing reasons this is a terrible idea.
More eyes on me.
More chances to get clipped and twisted.
More ammo for people who already think I'm extra.
But under all of that is something else.
Control.
Not over what people say, or think, or edit—but over where I put my own voice.
"Would it have to be… public?" I ask. "Like, online?"
"For class credit? No," she says. "We could keep it inside these walls. Showcase it at school only. Or"—she raises a brow—"if it turns into something powerful and you all consent, we could take it further. Festivals. Online releases. Student showcases. That's not a today decision."
I exhale.
"Okay," I say, heart pounding. "Then… yeah. I want to try."
A slow smile spreads across her face.
"Congratulations, Ms. Santos," she says. "You just signed yourself up to executive produce 'Brooklyn Stories 101.'"
My eyes widen. "That sounds way more official than what I said."
"Welcome to media," she replies. "Now go find your co‑conspirators. I expect a loose pitch by next week."
"Next week?" I squeak.
She smirks. "What, you thought revolutions moved on your anxiety timeline?"
I groan.
As I head for the door, she calls after me.
"Oh, and Jayla?"
I pause. "Yeah?"
"You don't have to be perfect on camera for it to matter," she says. "You just have to be honest. That's already your thing."
I don't trust my voice, so I just nod and slip out.
By the time I find Seraph and Niqua outside the front doors, my brain is buzzing.
They're sitting on the low stone wall by the steps, sharing a bag of Hot Cheetos and bullying some poor freshman into taking their student council flyer.
"Vote for me," Seraph tells the kid. "I'll make sure the vending machines have flavors that don't taste like depression."
The freshman takes the flyer and flees.
I drop my bag at their feet.
"We're making a documentary," I blurt.
They stare at me.
"Like… now?" Niqua asks.
"I just talked to Ms. Torres," I say, words tumbling out. "We're gonna make a project—like a series of mini docs—about kids here. Where they're from. What they carry. Not just trauma porn, though. Real stuff. Funny, sad, everything. And I'm… apparently the executive producer?"
Seraph's eyes light up like I just told her she can legally commit chaos.
"Oh, this is dangerous," she breathes. "I love it."
"Executive what?" Niqua says. "Does that mean you get snacks first?"
"I don't know," I say, laughing. "Probably not. But Ms. Torres wants us to pitch something by next week. I told her I don't want this to just be 'The Jayla Show,' though."
"And she said…?" Seraph prompts.
"That I'm still in it," I admit. "Just… not alone."
Niqua nods thoughtfully. "Makes sense," she says. "You started this whole wave. Would be weird if you disappeared the second it turned into something bigger."
My stomach wobbles, but in a good way.
"So," Seraph says, hopping off the wall. "What's the angle? 'Broken Girls Anonymous'? 'Immigrant Kids and Their Emotional Baggage'?"
I snort. "You're not naming anything," I say. "Ever."
"We could call it 'Ocean Girls & City Boys,'" Niqua suggests. "Or 'Brooklyn Hearts.'"
"Worse," I groan.
"Okay, serious idea," Seraph says, holding up both hands. "What if it's just… 'Where I'm From'? Simple. Everybody answers it their own way. Some say a block, some say a country, some say a sound or a smell. Then 'One Thing I Carry,' like Ms. Carter's exercise. We film them talking. Walking. Existing."
My brain starts filling in images without permission.
Mason skating along a cracked sidewalk, talking about falling and getting back up.
Asia painting in the park.
Tia—annoying, messy Tia—maybe explaining why she loves posting everything, what it gives her.
"Not just sad shit," Niqua adds. "'Cause we're not walking billboards for trauma. We're funny. We're petty. We're hot. That deserves screen time too."
"Obviously," Seraph says. "If I'm not lit properly, I'm suing."
I laugh, the nerves in my chest loosening.
"Okay," I say. "So we start small. People we trust. You two, Mason, maybe a few kids from English. We shoot a couple of test clips, show them to Ms. Torres, see what she says."
Seraph grins. "I call first slot," she says. "You know I love a mic."
Niqua bumps my shoulder. "You sure you're ready for more cameras?" she asks softly.
I think about Dan's videos still floating somewhere I can't see.
I think about blocking him.
About Layla's voice saying, Live. Loud.
About Grandma's text.
"Yeah," I say slowly. "I think I am. This time… they're ours."
A familiar engine purrs at the curb.
Miles's ridiculous red Lamborghini pulls up like it owns the block.
He leans across the passenger seat, window rolling down.
"Get in, ocean girl," he calls. "Your mom wants you home before the second coming."
Seraph cackles. "Hi, problematic fave!" she yells, waving.
Niqua cups her hands around her mouth. "We're making a documentary!"
Miles blinks. "What?"
I scoop up my bag, heart thumping with that fizzy mix of fear and excitement.
As I head toward the car, Seraph calls after me.
"Hey, Jay!"
I turn.
"This time," she shouts, grinning, "you're not just the girl in someone else's story. You're the one rolling the credits."
The words hit me right in the center of my chest.
I slide into the passenger seat.
Miles eyes me sideways as he pulls away from the curb. "You look like you just robbed a bank," he says. "In a good way."
"I might have," I say, still buzzing. "Story bank."
He snorts. "That sounds illegal."
"Ms. Torres is the getaway driver," I reply.
He laughs, then glances at me more closely. "You really okay? You've got that 'storm in my head' face on."
I take a breath, watching Brooklyn blur past the window—kids on stoops, old women with shopping carts, murals and bodegas and lives stacked on top of each other.
"I'm… scared," I admit. "But also kinda… excited?"
"About…?" he prompts.
"Letting other people talk," I say. "But also… talking. On purpose. Not just because somebody pointed a phone at me when my life was falling apart."
He's quiet for a moment.
"That's big," he says finally.
"I know," I reply.
He reaches over and, without looking away from the road, laces his fingers through mine on the center console.
"Just promise me one thing," he says.
"What?"
"That you won't forget you're one of those voices too," he says. "Don't disappear behind the camera because it feels safer. I like seeing you in front of things."
My throat tightens.
"I won't," I say. "Ms. Torres already called me out on that. Y'all are annoying in the same way."
He grins. "We're right in the same way."
I roll my eyes, but I don't let go of his hand.
As we drive, my mind keeps jumping ahead—shots, questions, faces. Fear. Excitement. All of it tangled together like seaweed around my ankles.
For the first time, though, I don't feel like it's pulling me under.
It feels like something I could swim through.
Something I could shape.
Not just for me.
For everyone who's ever been turned into someone else's plot twist.
The mansion comes into view, all glass and stone and soft lights.
Out of habit, my eyes flick to the empty driveway next door.
For a second, I imagine a different house. Smaller. Salt-stained. A little tienda downstairs.
I don't feel torn between them as much as I used to.
Just… connected.
Two shores.
Same ocean.
As Miles parks, I squeeze his hand once more and let go.
"Tomorrow," I say, unbuckling. "After school. You, me, Seraph, Niqua. We start planning. We make a list of people to interview."
He raises a brow. "Do I get a role in this film, or am I just the chauffeur?"
I smirk. "We might need a token underground fighter," I say. "For representation."
He laughs. "Put me in, directora."
I step out of the car and look up at the house, at the sky, at the slice of city beyond the gates.
For the first time since I left San Ángel, the future doesn't feel like a storm I'm trying to outrun.
It feels like a script I haven't written yet.
Messy.
Complicated.
Mine.
And as I walk up the stairs, fingers still tingling from Miles's touch and my brain already drafting interview questions, I realize something simple and enormous:
I'm not just surviving the story anymore.
I'm telling it.
Wave by wave.
Frame by frame.
Chapter by chapter.
Starting now.