Page 37 of The Masks We Wear

“Are you okay, Spencer?” She’s twirling her spaghetti with one hand and tracing the spine of her newest book with the other. The oversized sweater hangs down around her wrist, and every time I think it’s going to dip into the sauce, she shifts.

“Great, why?”

“I mean...” She pauses and turns to look behind her.

Following her gaze, it’s apparent people are staring at us. A group of football players are gawking the most obvious, and instead of looking away, they laugh, passing elbow jabs.

“Have you seen Lily’s social?”

“You know I haven’t.” The response is a little sharper than I mean it to be, but she knows I don’t look at that shit.

Remy stops swirling her pasta and digs out her phone. After pressing a couple of buttons, she turns her phone toward me, giving me a full view of Lily’s Instagram. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before—the picture of me licking her boot, but it’s the caption that curdles the lunch in my stomach.

I will be leasing Emerald Fall’s favorite bootlicking bulldog and his services to a closet near you. Stay tuned for details on rates!

The response from the first time this went around wasn’t so bad. Hell, Remy told me some of the girls even wanted me to lick their pussy like that, but now, Lily’s labeling me nothing more than a piece of property to be loaned out.

A searing heat washes over me, scalding my skin. I scan the cafeteria for her, and like a fucking magnet, my eyes find her quick. She’s perched on a barstool near the windows, a smirk painted on her face.

My Liliana is dead. Has been since our seventh grade summer. Whoever this is, is a fucking bitch I wouldn’t even let suck my dick.

Whatever fucked-up game this is, she can have it. Nothing is worth losing who you are.

Fine. Lily wins.

I’m done.

“Pretty sure I lost my appetite, Remy.”

She nods and pushes her glasses back, gathering up her items.

“You don’t have to come with me.” Dumping my tray, I turn to walk back to her before stumbling over something.

My face hits the linoleum with a loud pop, and a sharp pain rings across my face, threatening to rip my eardrums open. A warm fluid drips on the hand I tried to use to catch my fall.

Everything is out of focus, but I can hear the jeers echoing just fine. A red splotched Nike kicks me to the side, and a vaguely familiar voice rings out. “Ay yo, Lily. Your bitch bled on my fresh ass Nikes. That should be a free service for him to lick it off.”

I’m on my feet before she can respond, and my fist connects with the blurry figure in front of me. He staggers back, and I thrust forward, a left hook catching his jaw. The crack is audible, but I don’t give a fuck.

Staying with him as he steps back, I land two more jabs into his soft muscle before three strong arms wrap around me. The more I struggle against the restraint, the tighter they hold, yanking my arms behind me.

“Mr. Tilman! Back away from Mr. Hanes right this second!” It’s the assistant principal, but her voice is too far away. She won’t make it before he gets a few licks in.

And fuck does he.

The first one hits the side of my stomach. My muscles clench just before impact, making the pain worse, letting it radiate across my core. The second one is an uppercut to the direct center, shoving all the content to the back of my throat and spewing out of my mouth without a fight.

Whoever was holding me drops me immediately, letting me fall to the ground. A crowd of hazy faces backs away as well, screaming about the stench.

When the AP reaches me, an all too familiar tightness pulls across my chest. The same one I got every time I was in trouble at school. Every time I knew my mom would come and have to listen to the teacher tell them how utterly disappointing I was—a waste of a good brain.

Hold fast, hold steady. Don’t let anyone make you forget who you are—my sweet boy.

Yeah... Lily won alright.

SIXTEEN

For the first time in forever, I stay home the entire weekend, confined to the four corners of my room, chugging coffee like it’s water. Deadlines are approaching, and these essays won’t write themselves.

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