The Masks We Wear by Lee Jacquot

 

FOURTEEN

 

“That’s a pretty dope deal if you ask me. Free period to do whatever the hell you want and still get the grade?” Amora sits next to me on the bench in the locker room.

I’m not a thousand percent sure how I feel about this deal I’ve just agreed to. But I am pretty relieved he’s still letting me work with him. I hadn’t given the after-effects much thought, and even though Spencer isn’t the type to snitch, he could have pulled out on being my partner.

“Yep.” I pop the p, braiding my hair to the side.

Amora stops fiddling with her socks and glances up at me. She’s gotten a lot of sun lately, making the little brown freckles on her nose more apparent, and when she wiggles it, I bite back a laugh.

“Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit.” She shrugs.

This gives me pause.

All the horrid shit I’ve done thus far has been child’s play because of the very tiny piece of me that still holds some regard to the guy he used to be. If he doesn’t care, that means one of two things. One, he really does, and he’s doing a good job suffering in silence. Or two, his replacement of me, Remy, is doing a good job helping him through it.

My stomach hardens, and my throat tightens—my mother’s voice stabbing into my thoughts. Or perhaps, he really doesn’t care because I mean nothing.

The revelation burrows into my heart like a poisonous barb, piercing through the soft muscle with ease. I clutch at the phantom pain, but it’s too late. Each beat pushes the toxin further into my bloodstream until I see red.

I mean nothing?

Fine.

I can show him just how much nothing can mean to someone.

“Are you going to be late to practice again or what?” Stacy’s grating voice draws my attention, but as always, I don’t have to say a word. I’m glad for it because in my current state, I might shove the end of my heel through her eye.

“And if she is? You’ll wait like the good little bitch you are.” Amora snaps, standing up and side-stepping in front of me. “On your knees, ready to gobble up whatever scraps we feed you.”

Stacy’s a junior, and she’s next in line to be captain after we graduate. I always tell myself that’s the reason Amora has it out for her—make Stacy’s skin thicker. But I have noticed Amora’s snark is a little spicier after she found out Blaze has slept with her.

Stacy scoffs, tossing red hair over her shoulder. Her face flushes pink, but she keeps her voice impressively level. “I’m not rushing. I was just wondering what to tell the gir—”

Amora’s mouth pops open, a sarcastic cackle erupting from her throat. “I don’t give a fuck what you tell them. You seem to be the only one that has a problem when we’re two seconds late.”

I massage my temples, the throb of annoyance slowly creeping in. Standing up, I grab my water and find Stacy’s dim tawny eyes. Taking two steps, I stop right in front of her—my frame enclosing her space, reveling in the way she shivers, unable to look at me. “We’ll be there when you see us.”

She swallows and moves to the side.

Amora giggles, and I hear her steps bounce behind me. “Respect, bitch. Every mutt needs to know its place. If not, I can always teach you a new trick.”

I roll my eyes and walk to my locker. Stuffing my clothes inside, I wait until Stacy has left the locker room. “New trick?”

Amora saddles up next to me, leaning on the locker. “Yeah. I got a few pictures of her I wouldn’t mind posting around the school. Knock her off that horse she managed to find herself on.”

My eyebrows draw together. “Pictures?”

“In some compromising positions, I might add. I think I’ll blur her face out in each one, leaving just a piece of it clear. Let people put the puzzle together. Make it funnier.”

I huff, turning to put the rest of my things inside the metal box, but my phone rings. It’s that damn unknown number again.

“Who is it?”

“No idea. They never leave a message or respond to texts.”

Amora holds a thin hand out. “Let me answer, tell them to fuck off.”

Shaking my head, I push the green button and put it on speaker. “Hello?”

“L-na. I have tr-g t-ch its- y-ue.” Every word is broken up by static and shitty service.

“I think they know you.” Amora sighs.

“Maybe.” I hit end and chuck the phone in with the rest of my clothes. “Let’s go.”

When we get to the field, only Stacy seems huffy that we are forty-five seconds late. And I can’t lie, the majority of the afternoon is spent running the girls in the ground, since the one person I want to, is out of reach... for today.

It feels good to release some of the frustration. The more the girls fuck up, the tougher I get, and it works out in our favor. By the end, the routines are almost perfect, and a few tears of joy are even shed. We’re close, and my chest swells when I think that in a few short months, we’ll be reigning champs yet again—sealing my deal with Kentucky.

Almost.

After practice, I check my phone. Just a few social notifications and another missed call from the unknown number. Right as I begin to slip it into my bag, it buzzes.

Bulldog:Tomorrow, 3:20. There’s a small door next to the service elevator by the upstairs art room. Don’t be late.

A soft smile snakes across my face

Oh, I’ll be late, and he’ll wait.

I’ll make sure of that.