The Masks We Wear by Lee Jacquot
THIRTY SIX
Imake it around the senior lockers and into the art hallway before my feet give out. Luckily, Blaze was behind me, scooping me into his arms and taking me straight back to my car. He drives me home, making quick work of explaining everything to my aunt, and tucks me into bed. I notice when he tells her, he leaves out the part that it was Spencer’s doing.
That he ripped my fucking heart out of my chest and waited for the perfect time to throw it in a blender.
And it was perfect, really—extremely smart planning on his part.
Play this little victim, come up with some story to make me feel like a dumbass for getting so mad at him all those years ago, then leaving conveniently for three months. Letting me stew over everything and realize that I miss him. That I lo...love him.
Then he does all that stuff at the fair, which makes me rethink my entire future in the blink of an eye. Makes me consider rearranging things so I can have the future I wanted while doing what I’ve come to love. But that wasn’t enough. He dug so deep under my skin, I gave myself to him. All of me. Every tear, scream, and orgasm.
I trusted him. Fucking trusted him.
And at the precise moment when it would hurt me the most, he dropped the other foot. Five days before regionals. Spencer knew it would fuck up my head, mess up the hierarchy of the squad, and ruin any chance I have of winning.
I scream, throwing pillows across the room and letting obscenities tumble from my lips into Blaze’s face. And he just waits. My wonderful, broken little knight just waits. Not once does he ask me if I want him to take care of the problem (Spencer), which pisses me off more. Instead, he merely watches until I’m blue in the face, depleted of any more tears, and utterly spent. That’s when he moves in, humming his song until I’m asleep.
He doesn’t leave for the next three days. And neither does Amora. She comes later that night bearing gifts in gallon-sized ice cream containers and horror movie classics. Neither she nor Blaze says anything about the rumors I know are running like wildfire or why they keep getting up and going downstairs and returning empty-handed.
Finally, when Blaze heads to a basketball game, my aunt and Amora force me to get up and have a spa night with them. My toes are stretched out with little foam separators, my face is nearly frozen in a mask, and I’m slightly tipsy on some wine my aunt brought up, but I’m content. I think.
“Lil.” Amora’s just washed off her mask and sits next to my aunt, grabbing another handful of popcorn. “I need to ask you something?”
I nod, not wanting to break the charcoal mask quite yet.
Her eyes are averted to the pile of popcorn sitting in her lap, while one of her hands fist the hem of her shirt. Her words rush out, like if she waits too long she’ll tell me to forget about it. “I hate to bring it up, but it’s bothered me for months. Why didn’t you tell me about your mom a long time ago? Didn’t you trust me?”
It’s not often I see Amora be vulnerable, so when I do get the rare opportunity to, it drives guilt into me like a sledgehammer. She’s right, after all. She’s been through the thick of it with me when it wasn’t borderline domestic violence anymore, but straight abuse. But like Dr. Floren has brought to my attention, I have some issues with fully releasing trust in relationships.
You know, abandonment issues and all.
Instead of apologizing, I decide to be honest. “I didn’t want you to know for two reasons. One, you would have definitely stayed after school one day to confront her. And the other… I thought if we ever fell out, you would use it against me.”
Amora’s face contorts, her features pinching together as though I’ve offered her a month-old glass of milk. She stands, her hands clenched in fists. “First off, yes. I would’ve gotten the bitch fired off top.” She glances at my aunt, an apologetic grimace before returning her sharp gaze to me. “Second, is that what you think of me, Lil? That fucking low that I would expose something like that? Bitch, I am your girl. Through thick and fucking thin. Your friend twin flame. Or is that not what you think of me?”
Now I’m standing, ignoring how ridiculous I must look with the charcoal mask on my face cracking. “Yes. Of course, I know this. I have issues, Amora. Ones I didn’t even know I fucking had until recently. Yeah, I was a little standoffish, but I didn’t know how deep my mother’s poison actually went. How it embedded in me so deep I couldn’t feel it. It’s not an excuse. It’s an acknowledgment. I’m so freaking sorry. Everyone I’ve ever trusted has fucked me over, and I love you so much I didn’t want to give you or Blaze the chance. I wouldn’t be able to come back from that.”
My body shudders as the tears cut through my mask, dropping fat black droplets on my white rug. It’s the truth. Dr. Floren has shown me that we all deal with trauma and abuse so differently. In my case, I chose a mask.
But it’s one I’ve never taken off. One that I never let slip, even with the people I trust the most. It’s no fault of theirs, but I hope she can understand, or at least try, and realize it was never to hold her at arm’s length because of anything she did. It was because, really, I was terrified of the mess I’d be without her.
Her arms wrap around me, engulfing me in her lemon hues and floral undertones. She smells like a field full of daisies blooming under the Sun. After a few moments like this, she pulls my face into her hands, and I nearly fall into the depth of her blue ocean eyes.
“Lily. Listen to me and listen good. I am not going anywhere. Ever. Even when you’re off in Kentucky, living your best life. Especially not then because helloooo, football players.”
I laugh through my tears, accepting the wet cloth my aunt materialized out of nowhere to wipe my face.
Amora waits, sitting us back on the bed, crossing her legs. “Also,” she starts, grabbing a vial of Juliette Rose Gold Nail polish and taking my aunt’s hand. “I don’t think Spencer did it.”
“Same here,” my aunt chirps in.
My face snaps to them so fast my neck actually cracks. “What?”
Mina sighs, resting her bed against my pillow. “That boy is torn up. He’s been by every damn day trying to talk to you. I can see it in those little puffy eyes of his.”
I threw my phone across the room the Monday I came home and haven’t picked it back up since. There was no way I could take the millions of notifications and texts asking about the scandal, and I knew he’d blow up my phone. Instead, I became a recluse, ironically kind of like my mother, only leaving my room to pee or take a quick shower. It’s irresponsible to do, given regionals is literally this weekend, but I had to. For my own sanity and extremely brittle heart. “No one else knows who she is, and besides. When Spencer and I fought, he called me a peasant. That’s not a coincidence.”
“Someone has to know. By chance, maybe. Someone who has it out for you may be watching you.” My aunt examines her freshly polished nails, nodding in approval for Amora to finish. “And the name isn’t that random. You are the queen, Lily. Peasant is the literal opposite.”
I shake my head, refusing to allow their words to fill me with the little hope that’s dangling by a thread. My heart screams its piece, telling me to listen and go talk to him. Don’t jump to conclusions like I did the day I overheard him with William.
But my head. My stupid head does what it does best. Inflicts reason in order to save my mangled heart.
Spencer Hanes isn’t the pawn, I thought. He’s the Rook. The manager of the board, a flexible piece that smart players know how to use for their strengths. He moved quickly, in a straight path right past me.
And he just called checkmate.
“READY?”
I drove by myself to meet the girls in Richland, where regionals are. It will be the first time I’ve seen them in a week, and while part of me feels like shit about that, I know they were in good hands with Amora. Not to mention we had drilled the routine in their heads since the beginning of the year, so there wasn’t anything they needed from me that she couldn’t offer.
Still, guilt restricts my windpipe the closer I get, and by the time I pull up, I can’t breathe.
Amora leans against my car, eyeing me with those piercing blue orbs that I swear can read my mind. “I’ve already talked to the girls, no one gives two fucks about your shitty ass Mom. They know the team wouldn’t be half of what it is today without you. You got to have more faith in them.”
Even though my throat is dry, I still attempt a harsh swallow. Over the past few days, it’s settled in that I don’t really care how I’m perceived in terms of the Hierarchy at Emerald Falls. I created a facade of being distant to keep everyone away in hopes of never feeling neglected. When really, I never had to worry about it in the first place.
The people that matter, the ones that show up every day, have taught me what love is. How it looks when times are tough, and you need a kick in your ass. Or when you need the help of a doctor. Or when you’re being stupid and giving up that once-in-a-lifetime type love.
So while I’m glad the girls are fine, not bothered by my parentage, I’m even happier that they are ready to show out, despite it.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I finally answer, grabbing my pom-poms and joining Amora inside.
The colossal stadium is packed. Bodies squeeze past one another to find seats in the college basketball stadium. The smell of popcorn flits in the air, along with accidental taps of blow horns and chatter, making it impossible to think.
I catch a quick glimpse of the mat in the center of the court. It’s double the size from last year, I assume, to accommodate the new outrageous routines, and it lights up like the Radio City Music Hall.
Amora jerks my hand, weaving us through the bodies into the honeycomb hallways overridden with cheerleaders. Colors of every combination clash, reflecting off the polished walls. Music of all kinds stream in between the bodies, counts are recited, and girls dry heave into paper bags.
When we finally get to our room, a giant EMERALD FALLS sign is posted on the door.
But when we pivot inside, the room is quiet. Dead silence, actually. Stacy stands with her back to the entrance. A frail hand on her hip, the other gesturing in the air. Tonya catches us in the corner of her eye and slips a quick finger over her lips.
“Are you serious right now? No one fucking cares that this peasant son of a bitch is going to lead us out there? We’ll be the laughingstock,” Stacy scoffs, both hands on her hips now.
My stomach somersaults, landing with a sickening thud, while my blood turns into nothing more than boiling liquid, flowing through my veins so fast I start to see double. Nothing else matters except the vision of red, swaying her hips in front of me. All I need to hear, all I need to know is-
“So I did all that work, exposing the little bitch and it was all for nothing!?”
That’s all I needed.
“Stacy.” That’s her only warning because, frankly, I don’t give a fuck why she did it. There is not an excuse in the world that could justify her sticking a knife in my throat when I have done nothing but help groom her to take over next year.
She turns, her red pony swinging before her primped face connects with my fist. There’s a crack in the air, echoing through the narrow hallway, and then the pop of her ass hitting the floor.
I may have put the past eighteen years of neglect in that one punch, sprinkled with some of the abuse. And maybe a little bit of the closure Dr. Floren talked about.
Even though I’m seventy percent sure I fractured my hand, the relief is immediate. It spreads through my limbs, relaxing the muscles like the best dose of endorphins I’ve had in a week. But it’s a short high. I’m not stupid. Without Stacy, we are missing a near vital part of the crew, and our stand-ins won’t be enough. Dread creeps in. I let the girls down, in one weak moment, when I couldn’t control my emotions. They’ve worked so hard, and just like that…
“Wherever your head is at… stop. Focus.” Amora leans in with her whispers, the heat of her words combating the chill wrecking through my body. “Fuck her. She deserved it. We got this.”
I muster the best smile I can, turning to the crew that’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Amusement dancing in their eyes, excitement in their bouncy steps. Amora is right, and after we win, I’m racing home to get my damn man.
“Alright, ladies. Showtime.”
