If anxiety had a soundtrack, it would be the sound of Brooklyn traffic on a Monday morning.
Car horns. Distant sirens. Somebody yelling at someone else in three different languages. And under all of it, my heart beating like it's trying to escape my chest.
Miles pulls up right in front of the school like he's dropping me at a red carpet premiere instead of my personal version of hell.
"Subtle," I mutter, staring at the building.
The school is huge. Old brick, tall windows, wide stone steps leading up to double doors that students flow in and out of like it's a train station instead of a high school. Murals cover one side—faces, fists, colors, words about justice and history and community. Back home, our walls were faded and cracked, washed out by salt and time. Here, everything is loud. Demanding to be seen.
"Relax," Miles says, throwing the car into park. "You look like you're about to rob the place, not study in it."
"Maybe I am," I say. "Maybe I'm here to steal everyone's GPA and leave."
He laughs, leaning back in his seat to look at me properly. "Ocean girl," he says, and the nickname somehow makes my shoulders loosen, "you've fought with drunk grown men, survived tequila, a cheating ex, and my mother yelling at you in Spanglish. You can handle a couple of teenagers and a math test."
"A couple," I echo, staring at the sea of backpacks and sneakers and hoodies. "There's, like, a hundred of them."
He shrugs. "Then imagine they're tiny waves. You like waves."
"Waves don't judge my outfit," I point out.
He lets his gaze drag down and back up, slow enough to make my cheeks heat. "Your outfit's fine," he says. "More than fine."
I groan, adjusting my denim jacket like it's suddenly too tight. "Don't be weird. This is stressful enough."
He rests an elbow on the wheel, watching me. "Want me to walk you in?"
The question hangs between us.
Part of me wants to say yes. Wants to walk through those doors with his hand in mine, daring anyone to look at me wrong. Another part screams no—that I didn't drag myself across an ocean just to hide behind some boy, no matter how pretty his dimples are.
"No," I say, finally. "If you walk me in, they'll think you're my security detail."
He smirks. "I am your security detail."
"Miles."
"Jayla." He mirrors my tone.
I exhale. "I have to do this by myself."
He studies me for a second, then nods slowly. "Okay," he says. "But if anyone messes with you—"
"I tell you or my mom or your boss," I recite. "Yeah, yeah. I heard the speech."
His eyes soften. "And if you freak out?"
"I go to the bathroom, cry for three minutes, fix my lip gloss, and come back out like nothing happened," I say.
He grins. "That's my girl."
My heart does that stupid little flip.
"Text me at lunch," he adds. "Or I'll assume you got kidnapped by the theater kids."
"Worse things could happen," I say. "They at least understand drama."
He laughs, then leans over, resting a hand lightly on my thigh. "Jayla."
"Yeah?"
"You got this," he says. No jokes. No smirk. Just those three words, said like a promise.
Something steadies inside me.
"Okay," I say quietly.
I unbuckle, grab my bag, and open the door. Cool air rushes in, carrying the smell of city and coffee and too many bodies in one place.
I swing one leg out, then pause and look back at him.
"Hey, Miles?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks," I say.
He nods once, like it's nothing. Like it's everything.
"Go be legendary, ocean girl," he says.
I snort. "Relax. I'm just trying to find homeroom."
Then I step out and close the door before I can change my mind.
The second I set foot on the sidewalk, I can feel it.
Eyes.
People don't bother hiding their stares here. Back home, they whispered from doorways and behind hands. Here, they look right at you, then at their phones, then back at you again.
I adjust my backpack and force myself up the steps.
"Damn, who's the new girl?" someone whistles low behind me.
"San Ángel," another voice says. "That's her. I saw her on TikTok."
My stomach drops.
TikTok.
Of course.
Fragments of that night flash through my mind—the video of Dan and Makayla, the comments, the DMs calling me dramatic, crazy, liar. The way I blocked them all like I was deleting a virus, but the infection still lingered somewhere in the code.
"Is it true she cheated first?" a girl's voice asks.
I pretend I don't hear.
Locker rows stretch like tiny metal cliffs along the main hall. People lean against them, swap books, talk too loud. Posters plaster the walls—upcoming game, club fair, some theater production where everyone looks like they're trying too hard.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. I focus on the main office sign and head straight for it like it's a lifeboat.
The secretary is an older woman with box braids pulled into a bun and glasses perched low on her nose. Her name tag says Ms. Ellis.
She looks up as I step in, eyes flicking over me in one efficient scan.
"You must be Jayla Santos," she says.
I blink. "Do I have my name on my forehead or something?"
She chuckles. "Your mother called me four times last week," she says. "Trust me, baby, I know your name."
My cheeks heat. "Oh."
"She's excited for you," Ms. Ellis adds. "Tried to make me promise the school would treat you like a queen."
I roll my eyes. "She knows this is Brooklyn, right? Not Disneyland?"
"That's what I told her." Ms. Ellis smiles, then hands me a schedule and a small black card. "Here you go. Timetable, locker number, and this—Student Support card. If you need anything—counselor, nurse, somebody to yell at on your behalf—you bring that to me."
I stare at the card. "Is this like a VIP pass to the principal's office?"
"Something like that," she says, amused. "And Jayla?"
"Yeah?"
"First days are loud," she says. "Doesn't mean they last forever."
For some reason, that helps more than anything Miles said in the car.
"Thanks," I mumble, tucking the card into my pocket.
First period is English.
At least the universe has a sense of irony.
The room is already half full when I walk in. Rows of desks. Posters about metaphors and themes and "finding your voice" like it's a lost sock. I can feel conversations dip as people clock me, then ramp back up, hissed and half‑hidden.
That's her—
San Ángel girl—
She dated that Dan kid, right?
I resist the urge to spin around and scream, YES, HI, I'M THE BROKEN GIRL FROM YOUR FOR YOU PAGE, NOW CAN WE MOVE ON?
Instead, I scan the room for a place to sit.
"Jayla!"
Seraph is already waving from the back row, one hand in the air like she's flagging down a taxi. There's an empty desk beside her.
Relief floods me.
I weave through the rows and drop into the seat. She leans over, eyes gleaming.
"Okay, spill," she whispers. "You and Miles looked like a Netflix teaser this morning. Did you sleep at all, or were you too busy making out?"
I elbow her under the desk. "We're in school," I hiss. "You're disgusting."
Her grin widens. "So you did."
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again. There's no point. She can read me too well already.
"Later," I mutter. "Focus on not getting us in trouble."
"Too late for that," she says, nodding toward the front.
Our teacher has walked in—tall Black woman in a long skirt and a fitted blazer, braids piled into a bun. Her presence hits the room like gravity.
"Phones away," she says without raising her voice. "Mouths closed. Eyes up. We have a new student today, and we're going to try not to scare her off in the first ten minutes."
Half the class glances at me again.
"Too late," I mutter.
Seraph chokes on a laugh.
The teacher smiles faintly. "I'm Ms. Carter," she says. "Some of you know me from last year. Some of you should know me from last year, but your essays said otherwise."
A ripple of laughter.
"Since we're starting fresh," she continues, "we're going to do something I know you all hate."
"Group work," someone groans.
"Worse," Ms. Carter says. "Intros. But. We're going to do it my way."
She writes on the board: Name. Home. One thing you carry.
"You'll say your name," she explains. "Where you call home—not where your mail gets delivered; where your heart lives. And one thing you carry. Could be literal. Could be not. Could be your grandma's ring. Could be the fact that you haven't forgiven someone from middle school yet. Surprise me."
My stomach flips.
"This is stupid," Seraph whispers.
"This is a trap," I whisper back.
They start in the front row.
"Jamal," a boy says. "Home is Bed‑Stuy. I carry my little brothers. Not literally, 'cause they heavy, but, like… I walk them to school. Make sure they don't do dumb stuff."
"Asia. Home is Flatbush. I carry my sketchbook."
"Diego. Home is wherever the rent's cheap this year. I carry… my mother's anxiety."
The answers range from silly to raw. A lucky pen. A playlist. A scar on a knee. A fear of failing. A girl says "my father's temper" and laughs, but it doesn't sound funny.
Then it's our turn.
"Seraph," she says easily. "Home is Brooklyn, always. I carry my mouth." She grins. "It gets me into trouble, but it also gets me free."
Ms. Carter nods, impressed. "And our new student?"
Every head turns.
For a second, I consider lying.
"Jayla," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Home is…" I stop.
San Ángel. The ocean. My old neighborhood. The sound of waves against the pier. My sister's laugh.
"Home is the water," I say finally. "Wherever I can hear it."
A few people tilt their heads.
"And one thing you carry?" Ms. Carter prompts.
I swallow.
The temptation to say something easy—phone, earrings, lip gloss—is strong.
But I can feel half the class waiting to see what version of me I present.
"The receipt from my last day in San Ángel," I say slowly. "From the corner store my uncle owns. I bought a soda and chips. It's stupid, but… I keep it in my phone case. Just so I know I didn't dream it. That I really had a life there before… this."
For a moment, the room is quiet.
Then Ms. Carter smiles, small but real. "Thank you," she says. "That was honest. I like honest."
Someone in the middle row whispers, "That's deep," like they didn't expect depth to come from a girl in hoops and a denim jacket.
"Don't get used to it," I mutter.
Seraph nudges my knee with her foot under the desk, pride shining in her eyes.
For the first time since I walked in, I let myself breathe all the way down.
By lunchtime, the whole school definitely knows who I am.
People aren't subtle.
They stare in the hallways. They glance at their phones when I walk past. In math, a girl two rows over whispers "That's her" three times like I'm Bloody Mary and she's trying to summon drama.
In gym, two boys nudge each other as I tie my sneakers. "Yo, isn't that the girl who left her man for some older dude?" one says, not quite low enough.
Old me might have swallowed it.
New me straightens and looks right at them.
"You wanna talk about my life, at least get the story right," I say calmly. "He cheated. I moved. Any other questions?"
They blink.
"Damn," one mutters.
The other looks away, cheeks flushing. "My bad," he says.
"Yeah," I reply. "It is."
After that, the whispers don't sting as much. They're still there, but they feel smaller. Like background noise.
I find Seraph and Niqua in the cafeteria, waving me over to a table by the windows.
"How's fame treating you?" Niqua asks, popping a fry into her mouth.
"I want to die," I say cheerfully, dropping my tray.
Seraph slides a juice box toward me. "That's the spirit."
We talk over each other—teachers, weird classmates, the girl in chemistry who already tried to recruit us into some after‑school activism club. For thirty minutes, I forget that people are still looking. That my name is still in their mouths.
Halfway through my sandwich, my phone buzzes.
Miles: Survived?
I smirk.
Me: Barely.
Another buzz.
Miles: Anyone needs their face rearranged?
I roll my eyes.
Me: No. I handled it. Stop trying to be Batman.
Miles: Too late. I already have the jawline.
I choke on my drink.
"Is that him?" Niqua asks, leaning over.
"Maybe," I say.
Seraph grins. "Tell him we approve. For now."
"For now," Niqua echoes.
I type back.
Me: My friends say they approve.
He replies almost instantly.
Miles: Smart.
I add one more message before I can overthink it.
Me: I told the class about San Ángel.
There's a longer pause this time.
Then:
Miles: Good. Let them meet the real you before they meet the rumors.
My chest warms.
I tuck my phone away, look at my friends, and realize something quietly terrifying.
For the first time since I got here, Brooklyn doesn't just feel like something happening to me.
It feels like something I'm actually… in.
Something I might belong to. A little.
"Okay," Seraph says, clapping her hands. "Enough feelings. We planning phase two of your world domination or what?"
"Phase two?" I ask.
"The next party," Niqua says. "Duh."
I laugh, shaking my head. "You two are insane."
"Yeah," Seraph says, bumping my shoulder. "And you love us."
She's right.
And as the bell rings and kids start shoving trash into bins and complaining about their next class, I realize something else, too.
Maybe the ocean isn't just miles away anymore.
Maybe it's right here, inside me, making space for new currents, new tides, new shores.
And maybe—just maybe—I'm finally learning how to swim in it on my own terms.