The Masks We Wear by Lee Jacquot
TWENTY EIGHT
School’s been in session for a couple of weeks, but I haven’t seen Spencer once. Not at lunch, not with Remy during passing periods, nowhere. I even decided to start going back to Mr. Jones’s science class and... nothing. The teacher doesn’t even call his name for attendance, and reality begins to settle in the pit of my gut.
He must have moved.
Blaze’s words from Christmas loop in my ear on repeat. He was right. I mean, I already figured that, but to know Spencer left without so much as a fuck you twists my stomach in knots.
Knowing I care makes me nauseous.
The way he’d held onto my face, the desperation that dripped from his words, I almost thought he meant them. Thought that even after all the shit I’d thrown at him, he still found a way to see under the facade—the hurt.
I had this naive notion that maybe this time, he would come after me.
But then Spencer performed the infamous disappearing act I’m so familiar with.
It goes without saying at this point, I’m conditioned to expect certain things from people. First and foremost, they are selfish. They think about what the relationship (be a friendship or otherwise) can offer them. They need to know it will be worth the effort required to make it work, whether it be social status, a good lay, or compliments to fill their ego.
And there’s not one thing I can offer Spencer. Nothing that matters to him anyway. He couldn’t give two shits about where he is on the social ladder. He’s handsome enough to get any ass he wants, should he actually try. And his grades probably fill his ego more than anything I could ever say. So logically, he has no reason to want a friendship with me.
Still, I thought maybe one thing he said might have been true, so I held on to it.
But as the days turn into weeks, the gnawing sensation in the back of my head grows, filling me to the brim with a truth I’ve known since the day I overheard him with William.
He’d said he loved me.
And I think out of all the lies I’ve ever heard, that was my favorite one.
“WHAT THE FUCK are you doing here?”
I stop midway up the path to my house, terror stealing the air from my lungs.
That’s my mom’s voice coming from inside. She hasn’t come by in months, and to be honest, she hasn’t crossed my mind at all. Even at school, she works the night shift, so I’m gone before she arrives.
I rush to the door, pressing my palms against it, unsure if I should go in or stay put. Her voice sounds like a growl and angrier than I’ve ever heard it.
But when my aunt Mina speaks, it’s level, and there’s a strong authoritative tone lacing every word. “No, the question that needs to be answered is, what are you doing here?”
“This is my house, puta. Yo—”
“Let me stop you right there. This hasn’t been your house since the day you left a child to raise herself. Second, if you call me another name, hermana, I’ll be mopping your blood off the floor later.”
My mom scoffs, and I hear the faint sound of spit hitting the tile. “You have no business here. Where is the little chocha?”
“Again. I’m going to ask you to watch that mouth of yours. My patience is wearing incredibly thin. You’re drunk, and I don’t want my dear niece coming home to her mother in pieces on the freshly polished linoleum. So why don’t you leave?”
A cackle erupts from my mom, churning my insides like butter. It’s the same sour laugh I’ve heard too many times before, usually after having my ass thrown against the wall. Still, something I haven’t had the heart to tell my aunt about. I was scared she would do something drastic.
“Hmm… I need to see my daughter.” Her words are slurred, and she mutters something I can’t make out.
“I don’t care. I’ve been here since Thanksgiving, and she hasn’t mentioned you once. She doesn’t want to see you. Leave. Now.”
There’s a clack of heels followed by the muffled sounds of something hitting the ground. I wonder vaguely if my mother tripped in her stupor or if my aunt pushed her.
“I’ll be back, big sister.”
“You won’t. And if you do…” I push my ear painfully close to the wooden door, straining to hear my aunt’s hissed warning. “I’ll make menudo from your guts.”
I wince at the thought of my mother’s intestines floating in broth. This time though, my mother makes no sound and instead fumbles toward the front. I skirt back, my pulse in my throat, and wince as I trek through the snow to the side of the house.
Not one time did I ever consider what things would be like if my mom showed up. I’ve been happy living in this new bubble, pretending nothing else existed. It’s like I had replaced Mom all together, so caught up in absorbing every ounce of love my aunt gives that it purged out my mother’s hate, like an antidote to a poison.
But that’s not how it works, and of all people, I should know better.
The pain my mother inflicted isn’t surface level, easy to push out in a few months. No, my mother’s toxins run soul-deep, twisting in the pits of my gut, to the lining in my heart, curling around my brain stem and piercing into my cerebellum.
Her words, the physical pain, her absence—all of it, are embedded in every hesitation I have, every negative thought, every foul action.
And just now, the placebo effect my aunt had on me is gone, replaced by the realization that no matter how happy I am now, it isn’t real. Not in a way that lasts because it can be ripped to shreds at the drop of a hat.
The door slams shut, and after a few minutes, when my heart returns to a fairly calm rate, I enter through the back door.
Mina is on her knees, sweeping up dirt from a plant that must have been knocked over. Her shoulders are shaking with a silent sob, but when she hears me shuffle behind her, she snaps up, a calm grin on her face.
“Ah, how was school, mi amor?”
“It was okay,” I whisper, grabbing some napkins and joining her on the floor.
“Clumsy me.” She motions to the mess, but I don’t look away from her. Her dark amber eyes scan my face, searching for something before I grant her a soft smile, not wanting to lie. I wrap my arms around her neck, pulling her closer.
It hasn’t been easy watching my mother become lost to alcohol, but to be honest, I never really knew her in the first place. She was always locked away in her room, treating me like I was an annoying house guest. But my aunt Mina? She knew her before her first sip. When they were kids who probably loved each other more than anything in the world. So the pain currently coursing in my veins, squeezing my heart in the process, isn’t for me. But for her.
Mina’s silent cries reverberate through her body, sprouting goose bumps along my arm and a shiver down my spine.
We’re both hurt, just in different ways.
The daughter who wasn’t good enough to love, and the big sister who couldn’t save her.
“HOW MANY GIFTS did you get, Amora?” A genuine laugh erupts from my mouth as I take in the pile of presents and assortment of flowers she’s attempting to balance.
Valentine’s Day came fast, and while the flowers and parading of love used to just annoy me, now it twists the muscles in my chest until breathing’s a chore. Amora suggested a break by heading out for lunch.
“Come on, Lily. A little help.”
I roll my eyes but grant her an olive branch by opening the back door to my car and taking the top bags from her pile. It’s not a secret Amora’s had her fair share of guys, but the truth is, she hasn’t slept with any of them. Well, maybe sleep is the wrong word. She definitely enjoys the pleasure of their tongue between her thighs, but her slight obsession with Blaze has left her waiting on him to dick her down.
I’ve told her more times than I can count that she and Blaze are too polar, but she has this notion that opposites attract. Opposites, sure, but not in the way she and Blaze are different. Amora needs someone who will take the shit she throws, add a little spice, and toss it right back. Someone with a tongue sharper than her and the patience to reel her in.
All of which, Blaze is not.
After loading up way too much shit, we head up the street for lunch. The drive-through lady takes our order and has us park while we wait. Amora adjusts in her seat, facing me.
“So, how’s Mina? Does she need a touch-up yet?”
Amora dyed my aunt’s strands a shade of honey and platinum that make her look like she walked out of a magazine. It damn near looks like a professional job.
I sigh, leaning back and stretching my hands above my head. “No, but we do have our first family therapy session coming up.’
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” I’m extremely excited about it too. My heart flutters when I think of going and finally healing the way I need to.
My aunt and I are fine, better than that, actually. But just because that piece of my garden is pretty doesn’t mean the weed growing in the corner can’t overtake it someday. We’ve decided to tear it up by the root, and for that, we need a little help.
“That’s really good to hear, Lil. How often?”
“Once a week at first and go from there.”
Being able to tell Amora about therapy openly does something to me. It chips away at the barrier I’ve held in place for so long, not allowing others to truly see me.
Amora smiles, grabbing my hand as the worker appears at the driver’s side window with our food. “I’m proud of you. I still want to call the police on that crazy bitch of a mom you got, but this is good.”
The corners of my mouth curl. “Enough about me.” I poke my thumb in the direction of all the presents. “Who got you what?”
And just like that, I learn about the fourteen guys that think they stand a chance with the Duchess of Emerald Falls.
THE THERAPIST’S office resides in the middle of downtown, at the top of a fifteen-story building. Walking inside, it feels more like a business meeting than a place to let loose and delve into all my secrets. Not to mention the high windows give me pause. I wonder how many people have looked out of them longingly.
When I used to dream of running my own practice, I was going to buy a home on some land. Make it comfortable and inviting, have a playroom for kids and a couple of therapy animals.
This place is sterile, like a hospital, and every piece of furniture is hard plastic. We’ve been sitting in the waiting area for fifteen minutes, and the entire time I’ve become entranced with watching the aging secretary twirl a set of pearls between a fresh manicure. She told us the doctor would like to see us separately at first and finish up with a joint meeting at the end.
Finally, the door creaks open, and a tall woman steps out. Her inky hair is brushed into a taut bun, and she dons an equally dark-fitted linen dress. Small black spectacles sit on the bridge of her skinny nose, held in place by a silver chain wrapped around her neck. When her neutral tinted lips stretch into a smile, it transforms her relatively sad face into a ball of warmth.
“Miss Conley. I’m ready when you are.”
My aunt squeezes my hand, leaving a whisper of a kiss on my temple as I stand. I follow in behind the doctor into another sterile room. It lacks personality, with only a few diplomas, abstract art, and a couple of dying ferns scattered around. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, letting too much light for comfort.
No part of the space makes me want to bare my soul, and I vaguely wonder how many people stopped seeking help because they felt so out of place here as well.
The doctor strides behind her desk and sits, tapping her computer, so it whirls to life. That simple act leaves me feeling as though this is an interview, but I force my mind to hold on to her warm smile and shove away the nagging wall that’s trying to rise up and shield me.
“Miss Conley. My name is Dr. Floren. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Swallowing around the knot in my throat, I plaster on my cheerleader smile. “Lily is fine.”
Her dark eyebrow raised above the rim of his glasses. “So not Liliana? Got it.”
She types into her computer, and I shift in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the chill in her room. It sprouts goose bumps all down my arms even though I have on a thick sweater.
After a few more seconds, the doctor grabs a notebook from inside her desk drawer and shoots her chair around, sitting a few feet to my left.
“Alright, Lily. How are you feeling today?”
It’s a simple question. One that people literally ask one another every day. But being asked in a room that I’m not sharing with him cuts through the air, slicing into me despite my emotional barriers. Despite her impersonal office, tall windows, and lack of therapy animals.
It punctures my chest, letting everything seep out and pool on the floor beneath me.
The truth is, I’m not okay, and pretending to be is becoming too hard. Burying my issues seemed easy, but after each rainstorm, everything just floated back to the surface, leaving me to repeat the process. So instead, I bury my nails in the dirt and rip up the ground. Taking out every little thing for me to shove on a table to be dissected and picked at. Scrutinized and judged.
I hate my mother. I hate that she carried me for almost ten months and felt absolutely nothing when I was born. That she was able to throw me aside, and nothing I did was enough for her attention—enough for her to leave that goddamn room. That I’ve let my mother turn me into a monster like her.
I hate my father. I hate that he left me with someone he knew didn’t love me and found himself a new family instead. He’s a coward that couldn’t fight for me.
He’s a coward that couldn’t fight for me.
Spencer.
I fucking hate Spencer Hanes. I hate that he left me, again when all I wanted him to do was stay.
My eyes reconnect with the doctor, and my smile fades to a grimace. I tell her what I wanted to tell him every time he asked. “I’m pretty fucking sad today.”
JENNY’S SMOOTHIE SHOP.
Still a relatively new place not too far from Emerald Falls stadium, and it’s dead as a doornail on a Thursday night. Blaze suggested we stop by after our stint at the gym. One of the many things my therapist suggested.
“Find a way to relieve some of the tension. Instead of focusing only on cheer and helping other people, try focusing on your body.”
It turns out you really can’t judge a book by its cover. Her plain-jane office had nothing to do with her incredible personality. Every session, she milks more out of me than a dairy farmer. I try to pass some of that on to Blaze, but I’m not quite sure if any one of it sticks yet. He’s got a soft spot for me only because we share the same bruise. Not sure if he’ll ever let anyone else see it.
When we walk inside, Remy’s face is buried so far in a book that she doesn’t even hear us come in.
Blaze stiffens and nudges my shoulder. “Grab me a banana mango. I’ll be in the car.”
Instead of questioning him, I nod and strut to the counter.
When I’m three feet away, I clear my throat, letting her face pop up.
The customer service smile she wears fades quickly, replaced with furrowed brows and twitching lips. She snaps the book closed. “Lily, what do you want?”
I bite my tongue. The temptation to spew a harsh comment or quick insult is strong, but it won’t get me what I want, what I need. Instead, I shove my hands in my back pocket and rock on the balls of my feet.
She raises a brow, drumming her fingers on the cover of her book, her patience clearly wearing thin.
Forcing a large breath through my nose, I relent. “Two mango banana smoothies. Also, did Spencer move?”
“Why do you care?” she clips, and the nerve in my temple tics.
This girl has been a frustrating conundrum since the day I learned of her existence, and it’s clear that won’t be changing. I clench my jaw a few times, swallowing the dozens of retorts that nearly slip before finally answering, giving her the simplest answer I can muster. “Because I do care, Remy.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes before snatching her book off the counter and away from me. Almost as if I could taint her precious romance with my words. She rings up our smoothies and shifts to make them, keeping her back to me. “Yes, and I believe you like I believe in Santa Claus.”
Like you believe in those romance novels. I bite my cheek again and focus on keeping my tone neutral; after all, she’s seen me do some not-so-nice things to her friend. “No need to be sarcastic when I’m being honest.”
“Lily, you’ve done nothing but make his life miserable. Why should I believe even for a second that you give a crap about him?”
“Look, Remy, I don’t know what Spencer’s told you, but...” I pause, searching for the right words.
She twists, dropping two smoothies in front of me, and tilts her head, narrowing her eyes as if there’s nothing I could tell her she hasn’t already heard. Maybe she does know the whole thing and sees no fault on Spencer’s part, but that doesn’t make my hurt any less valid.
“We all handle our pain differently. Out of all the books in the world, none of them agree unanimously on how we have to deal with our traumas. I think you need to make amends for any hurt you may have caused someone and let it go.”
I replay Dr. Floren’s words. I overreacted with my treatment of Spence; that much was evident even when I was lashing out. And now, it’s time to right my wrongs the best I can and close the chapter properly. For the both of us.
The thought of letting him go completely, feels like swallowing a rock straight out of a volcano. It sears my insides, leaving scars I’m unsure will ever mend. But at this point in my healing process, it needs to be done.
Remy taps the counter, and I realize she’s waiting. “Just need to clear a few things with you.”
She ignores my comment and instead asks a question that surprises me. “How were you ever best friends in the first place?”
My brows knit together, and I think about her question for a second. It’s not her place to ask and my business to keep, but a small part of me wants to tell her. To make her realize just how amazing Spencer is, so she doesn’t mess up his friendship the way I did.
I latch on to my necklace and begin pulling it back and forth. “For me, he was the light in the dark. He made me feel important, funny… loved. Out of all the superficial friendships I’ve had, he was the only one that felt real. He would stay up with me till three o’clock in the morning in our treehouse, reading stories to me after I had a bad day. Even when he had to be up at six to go fishing with his dad.”
A swell of emotions bloom in my chest at the many memories we shared throughout seven summers. Amora, with all her funny quirks and fearless attitude, to Blaze, my broken knight in shining armor. No one has ever made me feel the way Spencer did.
I try to swallow down the knot that’s now tripled in size, making it difficult to breathe, and find Remy’s natural hazel eyes on mine. She pushes up her hexagon glasses and nods, pursing her bee-stung lips. “He’ll be back for the fair.”
He’s coming back?
The temptation to drill into this small girl and gather as many details as possible is overwhelming. Almost as perfuse as the excitement lighting my nerves on fire. Instead, I take a quick breath and grab our drinks. “Thank you.”
“The love he has for you is going to ruin him. So please, just…” She sighs and looks behind me out the window. “Decide what you want and stick with it.”
Has. Present tense.
I tell myself not to read into that, not to let the small flicker of hope turn into a full-blown inferno.
But I’ve never been too good at putting out fires.
