Chapter 2 Rejected

Maya

I don't remember walking away from them.

One second I was standing there, staring at Sarah like my brain was still trying to catch up with what my eyes already knew…and the next, I was walking away.

No—running.

I don’t remember deciding to run. My body just did it, like if I stayed there one second longer, I would shatter completely in front of everyone. Find somewhere. Anywhere. Just get out of sight.

Laughter followed me as I walked out. And then, there were the shared whispers, the kind that says everyone knows.

“Did you see it?”

“I heard there’s more than one picture—”

“Oh my God, that’s so disgusting—”

My chest tightened until breathing felt like something I had to force.

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.

I pushed through the hallway, bumping into people who didn’t move out of my way fast enough. Some of them stepped back like I was contagious or like I was something dirty. My fingers were still clutching the photograph. I hadn’t even realized I brought it with me.

The bathroom by the old gym was always empty this time of morning. I pushed through the door and it slammed behind me, echoing off the tiles.

I locked myself in the last stall, then I fell apart. My knees hit the floor before I even realized I was falling. The photograph slipped from my hand and landed face-up on the dirty tile. There I was again. Unconscious, exposed and ruined.

A sound came out of me that I didn't recognize. It was something uglier. A sob that got stuck halfway up my throat and turned into a dry heave.

No, no, no, no.

Footsteps approached from behind me.

“Maya.”

I froze. It was Luke.

For a second, just a second—hope rose so fast it hurt. He wasn’t with Sarah now. He was standing a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Luke…” My voice cracked instantly. “You saw that, right? It’s fake. I don’t know how…”

He didn’t move closer. That should have been my first warning.

“I saw it,” he said.

Relief rushed through me too quickly. “Okay, good, then you know I wouldn’t…”

“I didn’t think you were like that.”

The words landed wrong. Like they didn’t fit into the sentence I was expecting.

I blinked. “What?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Maya, I just… I didn’t think you were that kind of girl.”

Something inside me cracked.

“That kind of….?” I let out a short, broken laugh. “Luke, are you serious right now? You think I did that?”

He looked away. That was worse than anything he could have said.

“Just… stay away from me from now on,” he muttered. “I need to think.”

Stay away from me.

My throat closed.

“Luke….”

But he was already walking away and just like that, I was alone.

I grabbed my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely type my passcode.

Messages started flooding in.

The photo was everywhere. Not just printed but digital. Someone had posted it on an anonymous account. @WestbrookExposed. Five thousand followers already. The caption made me vomit into the toilet.

Maya Sandoval: cheerleader, immigrant's daughter, or the school's easiest lay? Vote below.

The comments were a war zone.

“Knew she was fake.”

“Go back to Colombia.”

“Luke deserves better.”

“She was probably paid for it.”

I dropped the phone and it clattered against the tile and slid under the stall door.

I couldn't breathe.

The door to the bathroom opened again.

I froze and held my breath. Please don't come in here. Please don't….

"Maya?"

No.

Sarah's voice. Sweet and concerned. Like she was looking for a lost puppy.

I didn't answer.

She walked past the sinks. I could see her boots under the stall door and she stopped right outside.

"Maya, are you in there? Oh my God, I've been so worried about you."

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

"Come out, honey. Let's talk."

Honey. She used to call me that when we were braiding each other's hair. When she told me I was more than just a friend to her.

I unlocked the door.

Sarah stood there with her arms crossed and her head tilted. The concerned look dropped off her face like a mask falling to the floor.

"There you are," she said flatly.

I stared at her. "Did you do this?"

She stepped into the stall with me. There wasn't room for both of us. I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall.

"Do what?" she asked. "Expose you for what you really are?"

My vision blurred with tears. "Sarah, please…"

"Please what?" Her voice was cold now. The kind of quiet that cuts deeper than screaming. "Please stop telling the truth? Please let you keep pretending you're one of us?"

"I never pretended…."

"You showed up at my house with your dad's tool belt and your sad little accent," she said, each word precise and sharp. "My dad felt sorry for you. I felt sorry for you. So I let you borrow my clothes. I let you sit at my lunch table. I even let you try out for my cheer squad."

I was crying now. Silent tears I couldn't stop.

"And then you took everything," she whispered. "Luke looked at me first. Did you know that? He was going to ask me out. And then you walked past with your hair swinging and your little skirt and he forgot I existed."

"Sarah, I didn't know…."

"Of course you didn't know. That's what makes you so disgusting. You don't even have to try." She smiled, but it wasn't a smile. It was a blade. "So I fixed it. You really don’t remember anything from that night, do you? You slept very deeply, Maya.”

My stomach turned. "You drugged me?"

She laughed softly. "I gave you a little help. Don't act like a victim. You've been playing one your whole life."

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to scream. But my body wouldn't move.

Sarah leaned in close. Her breath smelled like mint gum.

"Go back to Colombia, Maya. Nobody wants you here."

She turned and walked out. The bathroom door swung shut behind her and the sound echoed like a gunshot.

I don't know how long I stayed on that floor.

Minutes. An hour. The bell rang twice. I didn't move.

At some point I crawled out of the stall and washed my face in the sink. The girl in the mirror looked like a stranger—red eyes, mascara streaked down her cheeks and lips trembling.

This isn't real, I told myself. This can't be real.

But it was.

I walked out of the bathroom and through the halls. People stared, someone laughed and a girl I'd never spoken to before whispered slut as I passed.

It hadn’t gotten better. If anything…It was worse.

Someone had printed more copies. They were taped to lockers, walls and even the notice board.

My chest tightened again. I turned quickly, trying not to look but that just made it worse.I just kept walking, past the cafeteria, past the gym and out the side door that led to the hockey rink.

The bleachers were empty. School started ten minutes ago but I sat down on the cold metal and pulled my knees to my chest.

Go back to Colombia.

I pulled out my phone. Twelve missed messages from the cheer group chat. I didn't open them, I already knew what they said.

You're off the team. Effective immediately. Return your uniform by Friday.

I stared at the words until they blurred.

Then I looked up at the rink. There was a man on the ice. Skating alone in slow circles and a clipboard in one hand. He wasn't in a player's jersey—just dark sweatpants and a team hoodie. His hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it.

He stopped skating and looked up, right at me.

Great. Another person staring.

I turned away. But I heard the sound of skates cutting ice, then the rink door opening, then footsteps on concrete.

"You okay?"

His voice was low and calm.

I didn't look up. I couldn't. My throat was too tight to speak.

He didn't move closer or sit down. He just stood there at the bottom of the bleachers, waiting.

I opened my mouth and closed it. Am I okay? No. I was the opposite of okay. I was destroyed, humiliated and alone.

But I couldn't say that to a stranger. So I just sat there, silent, while he waited.

And for some reason—why?—he didn't leave.