The Masks We Wear by Lee Jacquot

 

TEN

 

Sitting on the barstool, I stroke the half-empty green bottle in front of me. My black stiletto nail trails down the long skinny neck, stopping at the label before it drifts up again. It’s almost as if the shape is purposeful—warning those of its contents, reminding them to drink it in small doses.

My mom doesn’t know I saw her pour it in her coffee cup. But I did.

I always do.

Just because she fails to see me doesn’t mean I don’t notice every little part about her. I observe her any chance I get—which isn’t often considering she lives full time with her boyfriend downtown. She only comes back periodically, and even that is too often.

Lucky for me, though, is her morning drink of choice. I couldn’t find it in the stash of good alcohol she hides here, and I didn’t want to dish out fifty bucks for it.

The truth serum I need for Remy tonight.

Absinthe.

My mom staggers through the kitchen, her long sundress struggling to keep up behind her. For a brief moment, I wonder how she stays warm in the frigid October air, but then she turns, and the hint of pink on her cheeks reminds me. Her veins bleed liquor.

“House looks good, mija.”

My face shifts, wincing at the phrase. I hate when she talks about the house, and even more so when she uses that term of endearment like she actually cares about me.

Mom hasn’t given two shits about me since she took her first drink of hard Vodka—probably ever, if I’m honest. And every single time she got wasted, she tore up this house, leaving me to clean it until it shined, hence her shitty comment. But by my eighth-grade year, she met a guy and moved out, leaving less to clean.

At first, it hurt to be left by both parents—forgotten, and thrown to the side as a mistake of their past. But eventually, that hurt turned into something else. Something tragic and twisted, coiling in the dark part of my soul, marring it with its ugliness.

I can guarantee that’s exactly what my mom wanted. It’s like she has some vendetta, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. All I know is that she wants me to fail at life, just like she has.

But I’ve worked too hard to let that happen.

She stumbles over her sandals, before holding on to the doorframe, and opening the pantry. Her ugly brown eyes widen, probably at all the extra food for the party tonight.

My dad has bills and grocery money sent to an account for me. I never touch anything outside of what I need—partially because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking money can replace him being present. And also because every now and then, my sweet mother blackmails me when her funds get a little low. Says if I want her out of sight from the school Populus, I need to make it worthwhile.

Which is total bullshit. She doesn’t want anyone to see her just as much as I don’t, but I entertain her for now. Only a few more months and my whole childhood will become a bad memory. And memories can be forgotten.

“Your father sent extra this time around, huh? How is he anyway?”

“Thriving,” I lie. Honestly, I don’t know. My dad hasn’t called in a couple of months. He lives somewhere in Texas, flipping houses like hotcakes. After my mom’s affair during my fourth-grade year, he left and only visits every now and then. Really, I think it’s to check on his property more than it is to see me.

I swallow around the cotton ball lodged in my throat. Fortunately, I’ve been so busy I haven’t allowed myself much time to think about him. Trying to ignore the sudden tightness in my chest she’s caused, I fold my hands together and glare at my mother.

She grimaces, tucking her peppered gray hair behind an ear.

Guess the custodial position and blackmail money only pays for her habitand shitty apartment.

Leaning against the island, I prop my head in my hand, staring out the open window into my backyard. My eyes flash to his window, and my stomach flips, filling with an anxiousness similar to a couple of weeks ago.

Spencer will probably come with the girl tonight. Or maybe not considering what happened last time he came over. Still, I can’t tamp down the few butterflies that take flight at the chance he might.

“He still hasn’t sent you money? What about cheer? Don’t you need funds for that?” My mom’s grating words slices down my spine.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still stings. It’s always about the money. She thinks he sends it sparingly, or else I’d be paying her rent. So anytime she comes home, she wants to know if my arrangement with my dad is any different.

Blinking back the burn in the corner of my eyelids, I return to tracing the liquor bottle’s shape. “He has everything on autopay. I never see a cent.”

It’s hard to keep my voice steady, and I hate the way her mouth pulls into a lopsided grin. It’s like she knows she’s getting under my skin.

“Why are you here?” I’m careful not to snap since I’m not quite sure how drunk she is.

My mom tilts her face. “I can’t swing by and make sure you’re okay? I am your mother, and this is my house.”

“Used to be,” I counter. “Dad’s name is on the deed, and after high school, it’s mine.”

I cross my arms and frown. Just a few months left.

Her eyes cut into me, darkening with a storm surging through them. “Aren’t you trying to go to some cheer school? What do you need with a house?”

After a beat, she throws her head back and cackles. It bounces against the walls, echoing in the open living room before carving into my eardrums. I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off, downing the rest of her drink as she comes around the island. “Oh, you couldn’t make the cut, could you, chica estupida. Not so different from your mother, after all?”

My lips pull back in a snarl, jaw ticking as I grind my teeth together. “I am nothing like you.”

The cup she’s holding connects with my face, the cheap glass shattering on impact. I grab my cheek, pain radiating across the spot as a warm liquid seeps between my fingers.

“You can act big and bad like you have cojones, mija, but the truth is, you’re weak. And soon enough, when all these people see you for what you really are—what you bury deep inside, they won’t want you either.” She pauses, letting her words burrow in my skin like poison. “Soon, you won’t be shit, and everyone will forget you. That boy included.”

Her silhouette is fuzzy under the haze of my blurry vision, but I hear her keys jingle and the door slam behind her.

I crumple to the bright linoleum tile, gripping around my waist as a sob rips through my chest, shredding what little strength I had left. My heart thunks violently in my sternum, and even my hand pressed against it doesn’t feel like enough to keep it inside.

Checking my reflection in the sliding back door, I make out a short, vivid crimson line just below my eye. My leg jerks out, kicking a barstool into the glass. The muscles in my body quiver as heat and realization washes through me.

She’s right, after all.

I was weak the night my father left and agreed when he asked me if I could stay with my mother, knowing how much I didn’t want to.

I was weak the day I told Spencer not to move to Emerald Falls.

I am weak because I’m letting his return threaten everything I’ve worked for.

My mother’s poison is so deeply embedded that even with all my credentials, it’s not enough. I’m not enough. It’s making my mask of strength weak, and the edges are becoming fragile.

And the person that can crack it completely is thirty yards away.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?”

Shit.

After my mother left, I sat in the glass too long, throwing myself a little pity party, and now Amora’s in my foyer, watching me wipe-up blood.

Being the child of an abuser, you pick up the natural ability to lie and cover it up rather quickly. So when I look up at Amora, with paper towels clutched in her hands, the lie comes out as easy as breathing.

“Trying to get this damn liquor from the top shelf, and the step stool slipped from under me.”

She grimaces, bending down to help me with the rest. “I swear, for the best damn tumbler on this side of Washington, you sure are clumsy.”

I laugh from my nose, using the counter to balance me. When I told Amora about the counselor, she almost had an aneurysm.

“You know that bitch is just mad because she couldn’t make the squad back in her day. I don’t need a damn guidance counselor, so just say the word. I will march in her raggedy office, and I will herkie jump her face.”

“Thank you, Amora. Think you could help with the cut?”

I’m used to covering up bruises, but my experiences with cuts is still pretty limited. Usually, Blaze helps me, but it’s too late since Amora is already here. Luckily though, it’s superficial, and the only reason it bled so heavily was from the location—under my right eye where the skin is thin. The hour of ice while I sat on the floor helped but it’s tender as hell and partially swollen.

“Duh, bitch. Let me grab my stuff. Meet me in your bathroom.”

A few hours later, and I feel much better about my appearance. It’s still a little noticeable, but only if you’re right next to me and looking directly at the spot.

Amora grabs the last bit of gel she needs and combs it through my ends. The tips of her pink and blue pigtails swing back and forth as she shakes her head. “Broke up with John.”

I lift my eyebrows, a silent ‘oh yeah?’

“Yep. Maybe I’ll try Blaze this time,” she suggests, watching me in the mirror as I smear lipstick on the side of my mouth.

There’s no need for a response. I’ve told the girl too many times that even her nonchalant attitude won’t work on Blaze. His tastes are preferred. But still, she can’t help herself.

I check my reflection one last time. The green dye sticking my hair back, and the yellow bralette doing wonders for my boobs should serve as a distraction from any lingering facial puffiness.

My muscles relax as I straighten my spine, smoothing the lapels on my glittery purple jacket. I turn on my heels and leave without a second glance.

Amora follows me out of the bathroom, and we emerge from the stairs to Blaze resting against the kitchen island. His school jersey hugs him in all the right places, and I see Amora stiffen in my peripherals.

I can convince Blaze to do lots of things, but committing to a Halloween costume isn’t one of them—a football player is as good as it gets. He tips his chin slightly, raking a hand through his dark locks, before returning his steel gaze to the TV.

Behind him, everything is set up. Kegs, red Solo cups, at least five varieties of liquor and juice, some nachos for those that dare to eat—all lined up and ready to start the night. Amora even had some girls on the squad hang up Halloween lights on the back patio.

The doorbell rings before I get a chance to ask him if our cocktail for our special guest is finished. My eyes trail behind Amora as she prances to the door, her pigtails and tiny skirt bouncing in tune to her step.

It’s the football team in attire like Blaze’s, followed closely behind by my cheerleaders donning Sailor Moon outfits. Soon after that, bodies fill the entire downstairs and trickle into the backyard.

Music hums through the house, and for a moment, I find myself enjoying it. This afternoon’s incident, long forgotten, and the words of my mother drowning in its melody. My pulse hums in my veins, and I grab on to Amora’s hand, leading her to an open spot in the living room. Our bodies melt together as we move, hips rolling in tempo.

Warmth spreads across my chest, and the growing crowd of onlookers fills me with deep-seated satisfaction. My eyes flutter closed, lost to the beat thrumming through my veins, but when they open, everything stops. Everyone in the room seems to blur as one person comes into focus.

My breath catches in my throat.

He’s here.

I knew he would be, but to see him, to feel him sets my once calm pulse into a frenzy. Even with the muddled conflict that surrounds him and I, every part of my body trembles, aching to go toward him. The fine hairs on my arm stand as I take him in.

An emerald green shirt pulls across his broad chest, and a pair of dark khakis hang from his hips. The tee has short sleeves, leaving his corded arms exposed and my stomach clenching. If it wasn’t for Remy, I almost wouldn’t know what his costume is.

Next to him is the literal real-life version of Velma. Her knee-length skirt is pleated to perfection, matching the hideous Mary Jane shoes. Surprisingly, her orange turtle neck hugs curves I wasn’t aware she had, making her a tad sexier than the cartoon character. Still, she’s bumped her short black hair and attached a red ribbon for good measure, sending her sex-odometer to a solid two.

My eyes flit to Blaze, standing in the kitchen. His eyes are trained on the poor girl, and I don’t miss the way his chest heaves a little deeper. I vaguely wonder if he feels bad about our plan but quickly dismiss it.

Blaze has no conscience. Well, maybe he’s not entirely void of one, but it sure isn’t as prevalent as the average person.

As if he can feel me, his gaze finds mine, and he nods, sending a tingle through my hands.

Tonight, I find out what the girl knows, while also freeing myself from the outlandish tie my body still seems to have to Spencer.

Tonight, I set the course to once and for all forget the boy that’s been the root of my torment.

Of all my deepest fantasies.

Of my existence.

It’s time to finally dig up the weeds in my garden and see if there’s anything left behind.