Page 38 of The Masks We Wear

Unfortunately, cheer is not recognized as a sport, and a full-ride isn’t guaranteed. My GPA is going to help, along with winning regionals, but I still need to apply for more scholarships.

Dad refuses to pay for Kentucky, saying I have a spot waiting at Solace, but I don’t want anything handed to me. When people give you something, they in turn hold power over you—the ability to either take it away on a whim or hold it over your head.

So instead, I’ve worked my ass off to get it paid for by myself—a big middle finger to the parents who probably won’t even notice. But I’m proud of myself regardless. I may have started cheer for the wrong reasons–cover some bruises, become the hot chick Spencer wouldn’t ignore, and maybe grab some of my mother’s attention. But in the end, it gave me a reason to keep getting up every day. There were girls who needed me, and I couldn’t let them down.

A flicker of white draws my attention to my window. Pulling my blanket around my shoulders a little tighter, I stand, edging toward the sight.

Snow.

The first of the season. Flurries of white dance in the sky on their way down, spinning around one another before breaking off and finding new partners to twirl with. A particularly big one plummets faster than the rest, and when it gets to my eye level, I realize I’m not the only one watching it.

Spencer.

He’s leaning against his window frame, hands in his dark wash jeans and a snug black tee stretching across his chest. His glasses were broken in the fight in the cafeteria, which would explain the fresh raw line across his cheek.

He got off with a warning at school since, technically, he didn’t initiate it and had no prior offenses. I’ve thought about the altercation a few times, remember him lost in the pure fury that shook his body. I was at the edge of my seat, stiletto nails sticking so hard in my palm I still have the marks. Watching him feel something in that moment, something at the hands of my doing was the hottest thing I have ever seen.

Spencer threads a hand through his dark locks and sighs. He doesn’t notice I’m watching him. At least if he does, he doesn’t seem to mind, and something about that sends a spike of heat through my chest.

I hate that.

I hate that after everything, my body still calls to him. Every ounce of my being wants nothing more than to be next to him—while to him, I am nothing. I hate him.

“William. How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve been friends forever, bro. There is nothing going on with me and her. She’s not even my type—too plain, boring. She’s nothing.”

The voice on the phone is so loud I can hear it through his ear piece. It’s deeper than it should be for a thirteen-year-old, and his laugh curls the hairs on my neck. “You’re a dog, Hanes.”

Squeezing my eyes against the burn, my chest heaves. The once dull pain, now alive, radiating through my body with a vengeance. It’s hard to look at him without hearing his whispers from that day.

When I look back at him, his eyes are locked on mine. My breath hitches—no, it stops. Each nerve-ending tingles as we stand, waiting, but for what I don’t know.

Do something. Anything. Urging him with my thoughts, I take a quick breath. Just once, I want to see that same fire in him like from the cafeteria. I want to know I get under his skin the way he does me.

Instead, his gaze flits down before he thrusts himself off the window, turning and disappearing behind his curtains.

My shoulders deflate as I let the air fill my lungs. This is stupid. I’m stupid. Falling back on my bed, letting it curl in around me, sleep comes. The crushing weight of nearing midterms, scholarship deadlines, regionals, and all things Spencer finally taking its toll.

When I wake up, I have too many messages and notifications, but one makes my heart stutter.

Bulldog: Monday, 4:45

I’M EARLY TODAY,but only because I want to get this over with. The quicker we start, the faster we’ll be done, and I don’t have to see Spencer the entire week. Blaze took me out to eat for lunch, so I spared myself the nausea of having to see him while I ate.

Slipping into the worn chair, I sling my bag on the back and begin drumming my fingers on the desk. Waiting is still something that drives my nerves into overdrive, though I’m not sure if it’s from irritation or anticipation.

The door opens a few minutes later, and Spencer appears in the frame. He doesn’t notice me a first, flopping into the seat with a sigh, letting his backpack drop from his shoulder with a dull thud. His ugly confetti sweater hugs his biceps as he runs a hand through his hair, and that’s when I notice he still doesn’t have any glasses. The scratches on his face are starting to scab, and I ignore the twinge of guilt that wells in my throat.

I swallow it down and clear my throat. He deserved it. “Rough day?”

Spencer jerks back, his eyes narrowing, and I assume, trying to get me into focus. I wonder how he managed to get through the day like that.

“Between being barked at all day during the passing period, finding a bowl of dog food in my locker, and a new collar with a ‘Lily’s pet’ tag, I’d say yes.”

A hideous bark of laughter spills from my mouth before I can stop it. I knew when I posted it on social media, things would get a little rough, but this is gold. Part of me wonders if he’s connected the dots. If he’s figured out why being a dog is so significant.

Spencer shakes his head, and his body vibrates with the anger he won’t let out, which makes the prior guilt fade. He still won’t react. Why?

“I’m going to start the timer. Please don’t talk until then.”

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