Page 69 of The Masks We Wear

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 FUCKare 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 areyoudoing 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.

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