Page 22 of The Masks We Wear

Just because she fails to see me doesn’t mean I don’t notice every little part about her. I observe her any chance I get—which isn’t often considering shelivesfull time with her boyfriend downtown. She only comes back periodically, and even that is too often.

Lucky for me, though, is her morning drink of choice. I couldn’t find it in the stash of good alcohol she hides here, and I didn’t want to dish out fifty bucks for it.

The truth serum I need for Remy tonight.

Absinthe.

My mom staggers through the kitchen, her long sundress struggling to keep up behind her. For a brief moment, I wonder how she stays warm in the frigid October air, but then she turns, and the hint of pink on her cheeks reminds me. Her veins bleed liquor.

“House looks good, mija.”

My face shifts, wincing at the phrase. I hate when she talks about the house, and even more so when she uses that term of endearment like sheactuallycares about me.

Mom hasn’t given two shits about me since she took her first drink of hard Vodka—probably ever, if I’m honest. And every single time she got wasted, she tore up this house, leaving me to clean it until it shined, hence her shitty comment. But by my eighth-grade year, she met a guy and moved out, leaving less to clean.

At first, it hurt to be left by both parents—forgotten, and thrown to the side as a mistake of their past. But eventually, that hurt turned into something else. Something tragic and twisted, coiling in the dark part of my soul, marring it with its ugliness.

I can guarantee that’s exactly what my mom wanted. It’s like she has some vendetta, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. All I know is that she wants me to fail at life, just like she has.

But I’ve worked too hard to let that happen.

She stumbles over her sandals, before holding on to the doorframe, and opening the pantry. Her ugly brown eyes widen, probably at all the extra food for the party tonight.

My dad has bills and grocery money sent to an account for me. I never touch anything outside of what I need—partially because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking money can replace him being present. And also because every now and then, mysweetmother blackmails me when her funds get a little low. Says if I want her out of sight from the school Populus, I need to make it worthwhile.

Which is total bullshit. She doesn’t want anyone to see her just as much as I don’t, but I entertain her for now. Only a few more months and my whole childhood will become a bad memory. And memories can be forgotten.

“Your father sent extra this time around, huh? How is he anyway?”

“Thriving,” I lie. Honestly, I don’t know. My dad hasn’t called in a couple of months. He lives somewhere in Texas, flipping houses like hotcakes. After my mom’s affair during my fourth-grade year, he left and only visits every now and then. Really, I think it’s to check on his property more than it is to see me.

I swallow around the cotton ball lodged in my throat. Fortunately, I’ve been so busy I haven’t allowed myself much time to think about him. Trying to ignore the sudden tightness in my chest she’s caused, I fold my hands together and glare at my mother.

She grimaces, tucking her peppered gray hair behind an ear.

Guess the custodial position and blackmail money only pays for her habitand shitty apartment.

Leaning against the island, I prop my head in my hand, staring out the open window into my backyard. My eyes flash tohiswindow, and my stomach flips, filling with an anxiousness similar to a couple of weeks ago.

Spencer will probably come with the girl tonight. Or maybe not considering what happened last time he came over. Still, I can’t tamp down the few butterflies that take flight at the chance he might.

“He still hasn’t sent you money? What about cheer? Don’t you need funds for that?” My mom’s grating words slices down my spine.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still stings. It’s always about the money. She thinks he sends it sparingly, or else I’d be paying her rent. So anytime she comes home, she wants to know if my arrangement with my dad is any different.

Blinking back the burn in the corner of my eyelids, I return to tracing the liquor bottle’s shape. “He has everything on autopay. I never see a cent.”

It’s hard to keep my voice steady, and I hate the way her mouth pulls into a lopsided grin. It’s like she knows she’s getting under my skin.

“Why are you here?” I’m careful not to snap since I’m not quite sure how drunk she is.

My mom tilts her face. “I can’t swing by and make sure you’re okay? I am your mother, and this is my house.”

“Used to be,” I counter. “Dad’s name is on the deed, and after high school, it’s mine.”

I cross my arms and frown.Just a few months left.

Her eyes cut into me, darkening with a storm surging through them. “Aren’t you trying to go to some cheer school? What do you need with a house?”

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