Page 86 of The Masks We Wear

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.

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