Maya listened to Nana's declaration, then paused.
"That doesn't really sound like something you'd say. Where did you hear it?"
Nana, caught out, didn't look remotely embarrassed.
"Julia Roberts said it to Charlie Geer?"
"...What?"
Nana explained: yesterday she'd gone to the cinema and caught an older film from a few years back. She couldn't quite remember the title — something like Pretty Girl Meets Rich Man, maybe? It was wonderful, Maya should really see it. Julia Roberts plays this girl who looks up at this rich, handsome man — Charlie Geer — and tells him: we love each other, so why not say it out loud? I love you. And the rich man is completely swept off his feet. It was the most beautiful thing Nana had ever seen. So she'd decided to do the same with Matt.
Pretty Woman, Maya thought. Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. Not "Charlie Geer." And that wasn't even close to what the character actually said. And the title was "Pretty Woman" — pretty woman, which in English was already a perfectly good description. And Nana had somehow turned it into something else entirely.
Also: the character was not exactly the romantic heroine Nana seemed to think she was.
Nana. Bless your heart.
Maya raised a hand in a faint wave of resignation.
"Good luck."
She turned and walked toward the cafeteria.
The lunch line was long, as usual.
Maya joined the queue, tray in hand, and was minding her own business when she felt it — the unmistakable prickling of people pointing at her back. She glanced around. Instantly, a half-dozen students found sudden urgent interest in the floor, the ceiling, their trays.
Maya turned back to face forward.
And quietly extended her perception outward.
"Did you hear? The President likes dirty magazines!"
"No, no — it's videos. Adult videos. That's what I heard."
"You're both wrong. She likes women. This is straight from Andrew — second-year Andrew, in class two. He lives next door to her. Apparently he once saw the President bring a girl home to spend the night."
"Bringing a girl home doesn't mean anything — I sleep over at my buddy's place all the time!"
"You don't get it. Andrew said he personally saw them—" [snickering]
"Word is President Maya and cheerleading captain Liz have a thing going on."
"Guys, Will is out there claiming the President is a lesbian. What an idiot. Our goddess? A lesbian? As if!"
"Wait — the President likes Anna? Oh no. I've been in love with her for two years. This is heartbreaking. Although... if it's the President... I suppose I could find a way to accept it."
"They say the President has been having threesomes with the cheerleaders!"
"What about Nana? Those two are always together—"
"Are you out of your mind? Watch your mouth—"
"Oh, get out of here, you moron—"
"Honestly? Even if the President turned out to like women, I get it. I've confessed to her thirty-six times. Thirty-six. She's never looked at me once. At least now everyone's equally hopeless. Ha!"
"Oh, HEAVENLY FATHER. Oh Lord. President Hansen — straying from His path is not permitted! My beloved President Hansen, you are the Virgin Mary in my heart! Please do not abandon God's teachings! Have mercy on your flock! Amen!"
"BREAKING NEWS — the President is THAT kind of person — is this a moral collapse, or—"
"Shh, all of you — you're signing your death certificates. Spreading rumors about the President? Do you have a death wish?"
"It's not a rumor if the Odom brothers saw it themselves—"
Two soft system chimes sounded somewhere in Maya's peripheral awareness. She ignored both of them.
With every new fragment, Maya's expression darkened by another shade. She stood perfectly still in line and began untangling the threads with cold precision.
Multiple sources had mentioned Andrew. He hadn't necessarily lit the fire himself, but he was clearly connected to whoever had — and he was close enough to trace.
Her perception swept the cafeteria, moving through several hundred students, and landed on one very specific figure: Andrew, hunched in a corner booth, forehead shiny with cold sweat, muttering to himself in a continuous desperate stream.
She observed him.
Andrew's version of events, as he'd replayed it about forty times in his own head by now: this morning at the gate, Will Whitfield had slid up beside him and whispered in his ear — Maya's a lesbian. Andrew, who had grown up next door to Maya, who had watched her grow up and never once seen any such indication, had immediately dismissed the claim as ridiculous. His younger brother Jamal, for instance, had shown obvious signs since he was tiny — liked to wear girls' clothes, the whole thing, anyone could see it. But Maya? Not once. Not ever.
So whether it was out of old neighborhood friendship, or out of that small private feeling he'd been carrying around for years, Andrew had gone after Will to demand an explanation.
Unfortunately, "gone after" had been rather loud.
And then he'd kept going. Followed Will, grabbed his sleeve, pressed for more details, more details, I need to know everything—
And then the Odom brothers had wandered by.
Short answer: the information had escaped containment the moment Andrew had opened his mouth in that hallway, and it had mutated beyond recognition through each retelling until even Andrew, hearing the current version, found himself wondering if he'd actually said any of those things or had suffered some kind of temporary break from sanity.
Now the whole school knew. Every version was wilder than the last. And it all traced back to him.
Rotten luck. The thought landed with quiet resignation in Andrew's chest. I'm done for.
Being found out was inevitable at this point. The only question was when.