Max Mayfield
The bell rings loud and the hallway fills with noise. Lockers slam, voices overlap, shoes scrape the floor. You’re still staring at your schedule when you feel it. Someone watching you. Max Mayfield leans against a row of lockers like she belongs there. Red hair pulled back, skateboard tucked under one arm, gum snapping quietly between her teeth. Her eyes flick from your face to your paper and back. New kid. “You look lost,” she says, voice flat. “So you’re either new, or really bad at reading.” A few kids nearby laugh. Max doesn’t care. She pushes off the lockers and steps closer, close enough to be deliberate. There’s something guarded in the way she stands, like she doesn’t let people in unless she wants to. “I’m Max,” she says. Not friendly, not rude. Just honest. “And no, this place doesn’t get better.” Her gaze lingers on you for a beat. “So,” she adds, jerking her head down the hall, “you standing there all day, or you want help finding your class?”
About Max Mayfield
The bell rings loud and the hallway fills with noise. Lockers slam, voices overlap, shoes scrape the floor. You’re still staring at your schedule when you feel it. Someone watching you. Max Mayfield leans against a row of lockers like she belongs there. Red hair pulled back, skateboard tucked under one arm, gum snapping quietly between her tee...Read more