Page 3 of The Masks We Wear

Jeers and snickers of nearby observers echo in the hallway. Well, if there’s any way to announce my arrival, I guess this is as good a time as any.

Turning on my heels, I shove my glasses up my nose and look at the pale girl in her eyes. “If you’re gonna be the school’s blow-up doll, at least be a hot one.”

My gaze flashes to Lily’s before shifting back toward the AP hallway.

I can feel her eyes on the back of my head, in the endings of every nerve, and in the deepest, darkest part of my soul.

Fuck.

TWO

When the hell did he get back?

Scratch that. When the hell did he get so...delicious? Even under his thick orange flannel, the muscles in his back and biceps flex when he gets up. I also don’t remember his jaw being so defined or his face being perfectly symmetrical. But his eyes are the same. A swirl of caramel breaks up the smooth brown in a way that almost feels hypnotic.

They pull me back to Earth—reminding me who I am, what I was, the things I lost.

My biggest fears.

My greatest regrets.

“Can you believe that asshole? I mean, seriously…” My friend, and co-captain, Amora, drones on about her encounter with Spencer.

Spencer Hanes.Holy Shit.

I blink a few times—a failed attempt to capture one of the dozens of thoughts careening around my mind. The last thing I need to worry about is old secrets being dug up for anyone to find. And Spencer knows just where I buried them.

Finally grounding my head, I shrug. Talking isn’t one of the things I often do, even when rattled. The less you speak, the less people know. I try to keep my face neutral as I wiggle my fingers and turn toward the front office.

“Where are you going? It’s time for lunch.” The sparkle in Amora’s usually glossy eyes, dims. One hand is propped on a thin hip, while her face is pinched in disgust. She hates being alone with our cheer squad, though I haven’t been able to figure out why. My dear friend is the biggest bitch they make in her five and half foot size, and she has no qualms with displaying it.

“Bolwig,” I call over my shoulder without stopping.

I’ve been putting the guidance counselor off for a while now, but two months into my senior year, I know it’s no longer an option. At least, not a smart one. I have a feeling I know what she’s going to say, and I’ve never been in the mood to hear it.

Rotating my increasingly tight shoulders as I reach her office, I can’t seem to hinder my thoughts from returning to the mess that just dropped over my feet. Between Spencer and the uncertainty of my future, everything in my mind is becoming a tangled mess. Both unpredictabilities twist around each other like two weeds fighting for dominance in a garden. Both of them spread their tendrils around everything beautiful, threatening to overtake what I’ve worked so hard to cultivate.

I sigh—one thing at a time.

Ignoring the slight ache creeping behind my eyes, I walk towards Ms. Bolwig’s collage-covered wall. Her office is littered with university pendants and pictures of prior students at graduation, probably her favorites. As I bide my time, attempting to keep my mind clear, I trace a finger over a few. Each one was taken on an impossibly sunny day, in an almost picturesque light. The many smiles shine back at me, and I wonder vaguely just how genuine their happiness is. No one isthathappy. They’re all just wearing masks, waiting for the moment they can take them off.

“Excited about graduation, Miss Conley?”

Ms. Bolwig’s voice jolts me from my thoughts, and I whirl around to face her. The aging woman stands in the doorway; her signature clipboard hugged tightly against her massive chest. She twirls a fluffy purple pen between her short fingers as she gazes past me to the pictures.

“Yep.” I pop the p, leaning on the wall. “Ready for the University of Kentucky.”

The crows’ feet at the edge of her dull blue eyes make an appearance as she grins. “Ah, yes. Kentucky. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”

Ms. Bolwig gestures a hand toward an empty chair in front of her pristine desk before taking a seat in front of her computer. She grabs a file from a stack and opens it with care, tracing the pages of what I assume is my permanent file.

It’s clean, full of A’s, a thirteen hundred SAT score, and not one referral. Captain of the cheerleading squad with perfect attendance since fourth grade. Even on that day, I would have given my left kidney to be at school. My file is—

“Uneventful,” she determines.

I don’t stop my face from crumpling. “Uneventful?” I repeat as though I’ve misheard her. I mean, I must have. I know it isn’t the prize horse at the Derby, but it’s still pretty impressive, nonetheless.

She nods her graying head slowly, still perusing the file. My fists clench at my sides, and I ignore the pain of my stiletto nails piercing into my palm.

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