Page 23 of The Masks We Wear

After a beat, she throws her head back and cackles. It bounces against the walls, echoing in the open living room before carving into my eardrums. I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off, downing the rest of her drink as she comes around the island. “Oh, you couldn’t make the cut, could you, chica estupida. Not so different from your mother, after all?”

My lips pull back in a snarl, jaw ticking as I grind my teeth together. “I amnothinglike you.”

The cup she’s holding connects with my face, the cheap glass shattering on impact. I grab my cheek, pain radiating across the spot as a warm liquid seeps between my fingers.

“You can act big and bad like you have cojones,mija, but the truth is, you’re weak. And soon enough, when all these people see you for what youreallyare—what you bury deep inside, they won’t want you either.” She pauses, letting her words burrow in my skin like poison. “Soon, you won’t be shit, and everyone will forget you. That boy included.”

Her silhouette is fuzzy under the haze of my blurry vision, but I hear her keys jingle and the door slam behind her.

I crumple to the bright linoleum tile, gripping around my waist as a sob rips through my chest, shredding what little strength I had left. My heart thunks violently in my sternum, and even my hand pressed against it doesn’t feel like enough to keep it inside.

Checking my reflection in the sliding back door, I make out a short, vivid crimson line just below my eye. My leg jerks out, kicking a barstool into the glass. The muscles in my body quiver as heat and realization washes through me.

She’s right, after all.

I was weak the night my father left and agreed when he asked me if I could stay with my mother, knowing how much I didn’t want to.

I was weak the day I told Spencer not to move to Emerald Falls.

Iamweak because I’m letting his return threaten everything I’ve worked for.

My mother’s poison is so deeply embedded that even with all my credentials, it’s not enough.I’mnot enough. It’s making my mask of strength weak, and the edges are becoming fragile.

And the person that can crack it completely is thirty yards away.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?”

Shit.

After my mother left, I sat in the glass too long, throwing myself a little pity party, and now Amora’s in my foyer, watching me wipe-up blood.

Being the child of an abuser, you pick up the natural ability to lie and cover it up rather quickly. So when I look up at Amora, with paper towels clutched in her hands, the lie comes out as easy as breathing.

“Trying to get this damn liquor from the top shelf, and the step stool slipped from under me.”

She grimaces, bending down to help me with the rest. “I swear, for the best damntumbleron this side of Washington, you sure are clumsy.”

I laugh from my nose, using the counter to balance me. When I told Amora about the counselor, she almost had an aneurysm.

“You know that bitch is just mad because she couldn’t make the squad back in her day. I don’t need a damn guidance counselor, so just say the word. I will march in her raggedy office, and I will herkie jump her face.”

“Thank you, Amora. Think you could help with the cut?”

I’m used to covering up bruises, but my experiences with cuts is still pretty limited. Usually, Blaze helps me, but it’s too late since Amora is already here. Luckily though, it’s superficial, and the only reason it bled so heavily was from the location—under my right eye where the skin is thin. The hour of ice while I sat on the floor helped but it’s tender as hell and partially swollen.

“Duh, bitch. Let me grab my stuff. Meet me in your bathroom.”

A few hours later, and I feel much better about my appearance. It’s still a little noticeable, but only if you’re right next to me and looking directly at the spot.

Amora grabs the last bit of gel she needs and combs it through my ends. The tips of her pink and blue pigtails swing back and forth as she shakes her head. “Broke up with John.”

I lift my eyebrows, a silent ‘oh yeah?’

“Yep. Maybe I’ll try Blaze this time,” she suggests, watching me in the mirror as I smear lipstick on the side of my mouth.

There’s no need for a response. I’ve told the girl too many times that even her nonchalant attitude won’t work on Blaze. His tastes are preferred. But still, she can’t help herself.

I check my reflection one last time. The green dye sticking my hair back, and the yellow bralette doing wonders for my boobs should serve as a distraction from any lingering facial puffiness.

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