The Masked Truth (2 page)

“Riley?” Darla pokes her head from under the bed.

I quickly shut the door and run back to her.

I’m overreacting. Cop’s kid—we do that. It’s a simple armed robbery.

Simple
armed robbery? At the thought, this weird burbling laugh sticks in my gut.

Yes, armed robbery is bad, but that’s all this is. The thief wants something. He fired a shot to scare them. That’s all. He wants debit cards or credit cards or jewelry, and they’ll give it to him. They’re smart. They aren’t arguing.

Just a robbery.

That’s it, that’s it, that’s it
.

I crawl under the bed and strain to listen. I can still hear Mrs. Porter, her words now too faint to make out, but her tone tells me she’s begging.

Why don’t I hear Mr. Porter?

That shot.

No, they’ve knocked him out. That’s all. Knocked him
—

A second shot. And Mrs. Porter stops begging.

If there’s anything more tragic than spending your Saturday night babysitting, it’s spending your Saturday night babysitting after canceling a date with the guy you’ve been dreaming about all year
.

How many times have those lines gone through my head in the past four months? How many nights have I lain in bed, thinking them? Stood in front of a mirror, thinking them?

You stupid, stupid girl. You had no idea what tragedy is
.

Tragedy isn’t a ruined Saturday night. It isn’t a missed date. It’s lying under your bed with the babysitter and listening to two shots, and then following your babysitter into the hall and seeing your parents at the bottom of the stairs, covered in blood. Tragedy is spending your life trying to understand how that could have happened, how you could have been under the bed, giggling, with your babysitter, while your parents were murdered. And your babysitter did nothing about it.

Hell is being the girl who did nothing, who has to live with that guilt. Worse, having to live as a hero, listen to people tell me how brave I was and how I saved that little girl, and all I want to do is shake them and say, “I hid under the freaking bed!”

It doesn’t matter if my mother and my friends and my priest and the police and two therapists have told me I did
the right thing. It doesn’t even matter if my older sister Sloane says it, rolling her eyes with “God, Riley, you are such a martyr. Would you rather have been shot? Like Dad?”

Any other time Sloane brought up our father’s death that casually I might have taken a swing at her for it. Maybe that’s what she wanted. To smack me out of my paralysis. It didn’t matter. I heard her say it, and I walked away.

After Lucia and I became friends, she admitted she used to cut. I’d been supportive and I’d tried to understand, but I couldn’t really. Now I do, because the impulse to feel something,
anything
, is so incredible that there are times I dig my nails into my palms hard enough to draw blood. It doesn’t help.

“Riley?” Mom says. “We’re here, baby.”

I look out to see a huge windowless building.

“Well, that’s not just a little creepy,” Sloane mutters from the backseat.

I look at the building, a hulking solid box, like a prison, and I should want to run. Tell Mom I’ve changed my mind, that I don’t need this therapy weekend.

I’m fine, Mom. Really. See? Big smile. Everything’s fine
.

Except it isn’t fine, and the surest proof of that is that when I look at this building—with a steel front door and not a single window—I don’t want to run away. I want to run
to
it, race inside and slam the door behind me and lock the world out.

“It’s a renovated warehouse,” Mom says to Sloane. “They’re remodeling it into offices, and in the meantime the builder lets community groups use it. Riley’s therapist says the lack of windows is a good thing. It’ll keep the kids focused. And of course, they’ll be allowed out for fresh air and walks.”

My sister’s gaze sweeps the city block, past more brick boxes—warehouses and industrial buildings, already dark
on a Friday evening, some permanently dark, judging by the boarded and broken windows.

“It’s an awesome neighborhood for walking,” Sloane says. “Great scenery. Probably plenty of friendly muggers and cheerful drunks.” She looks at me. “Did you pack your fencing saber?”

Mom sighs. “The kids won’t take their walks here, of course. There’s a park where they’ll go for two hours each morning.”

“To use the playground equipment? Or will they lock them in the dog park and make them run laps?”

Mom sighs deeper.

Sloane mouths to me, “Tell her you don’t want to do this.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

Sloane rolls her eyes and slumps into her seat.

Mom looks at me and says, “If you don’t like it, baby, you don’t have to stay.”

“It’s only for the weekend, Mom. I’ll survive.”

She grips the steering wheel tighter. “I know. I just … I wish …”
I wish your father were here
. That’s what she wants to say. Because as much as we love each other, she doesn’t
get
me the way Dad did. But he’s been gone eighteen months now. Killed in the line of duty. A hero. Just like his daughter.

I inhale sharply.
No self-pity, Riley. Chin up. Mom doesn’t deserve your shit
.

I reach deep inside and pull out the part of me she
does
deserve. The old Riley. She’s still there, and I can drag her out as needed, like when I’m fencing, and I can reach deep inside myself and pull out another girl, one who’s more aggressive, a girl who fights to win.

A different Riley for every occasion. Right now Mom needs the cheerful one, so I pluck her out and dust her off and smile over at my mother and say, “Are we still on for next weekend?”

“You don’t need to go to New York with me. I know you hate fashion shows.”

“But I love Broadway musicals, and that’s the deal, right? I watch your gorgeous designs paraded down the runway, and you sit through
The Lion King
for the fifth time.”

“Then we’ll go shopping,” Sloane says. “Now that you’re skinny, Riley, it’ll be much easier to find you stuff.”

“Sloane!” Mom says, twisting to glare at her.

“She lost weight. That’s good, right?”

“Your sister lost weight because she can’t eat. That is
not
good!”

“Mom …” I say.

“And she did not
need
to lose weight. She was a size
ten
.”

I get out while Mom lights into Sloane. An old argument and not one I need right now. Mom and Sloane are both five foot two and size two. I take after my dad. When my height started shooting up in middle school, Mom dreamed that someday I’d model her designs. I do have the height now, but as my grandma says, my figure is better suited to babies than a runway strut.

I grab my bag out of the trunk. Mom catches up with me. “You know I don’t think that, right, baby? I didn’t
want
you losing weight. I want you to be healthy. In every way, I want you to be healthy.”

“I know, Mom.” I give her a one-armed hug as we walk. “So … New York. Where are we staying?”

I have to pass the metal detecting wand test before I can enter the building. They say that’s standard practice these days, but I’m sure it also has something to do with the fact this is a group therapy weekend for kids with problems. They don’t want us bringing in anything sharp—for our own safety and everyone else’s.

“I’d ask you about a cell phone,” Aimee says as she scans my bag, “but I know if we told you not to bring one, you wouldn’t have.”

It’s meant to be a compliment, but at seventeen no one likes to be reminded what a rule-follower she is. I’d be tempted to smuggle a phone in if that wouldn’t just make me feel petty and immature.

I say goodbye to Mom, and then Aimee takes me up to my room. She’s been my therapist for a month now. She’s in her late twenties and reminds me of Zooey Deschanel, with both the slightly off-kilter prettiness and the manic-pixie personality. I like her, even if I’m not sure how much good therapy is doing. She’s my second counselor since the incident. Third if you count my priest. I started in teen group at church, but, well … I got a little tired of hearing how God would fix me. I want to fix myself.

I leave my bag in my room. I’ll be sharing it with a girl I don’t know. This weekend is for kids from several local groups, and there’s only one guy from mine. I was supposed to get my own room, but then this other girl—Sandra—signed up at the last minute. The old me would have been happy at the prospect of meeting new people. Now I wish I could grab a sleeping bag and find a spot alone on the floor downstairs.

With Mom gone, there’s no need to keep wearing my “old Riley” mask. As my mood drops, I remind myself it isn’t like I had anything better to do this weekend. After the incident, there’d been no need to explain to Travis that Shannon had tricked me, though Lucia still made sure he knew. He’d come by our house that week with two volumes of
Transmetropolitan
because the first time we talked, it was about graphic novels. He paired the comics with a giant Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup because he’d noticed that was my candy of choice from the school vending machines. Can a guy get any sweeter than that? No.

Two weeks later, when he asked me out again, I nearly threw up. A date with Travis would forever be linked to that night. I can barely face him in school. Hell, I can barely
go
to school. My grades are tanking, and my teachers keep saying they’ll adjust them “in light of what happened.” I don’t want them adjusted. I don’t want a free pass. I just want to pull myself together.

So I’m here, doing a weekend therapy camp. I need to make the effort, like I need to make the effort to get up every morning. If I stop moving, I’ll be stuck forever under that bed, listening to the footsteps of the man who killed the Porters and praying,
Please God, don’t let him find us. Don’t let him hurt Darla. Don’t let him hurt me
.

Aimee sends me downstairs to find the main therapy room. Easier said than done. Whoever designed this place wasn’t a fan of simplicity and order. It’s a warren of halls. Like someone with bipolar disorder drew the blueprints during a manic episode: “We’ll put a room here! And here! Oh, and we’ll connect them here!” After four months in group therapy, I’ve learned a lot about mental illness. Sometimes I feel like an impostor. As if I’m taking valuable therapy time from kids with
real
problems.

I’m following the maze to the main room when I pause to consider two options.

“Left,” a voice says. It’s a guy around sixteen. He’s an inch or so taller than me. Dark hair, slicked back. Dressed in a battered leather jacket, ripped jeans and filthy sneakers. The classic bad-boy look, ruined by the fact he’s wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt and two-hundred-dollar Air Jordans.

“Aaron,” he says, extending a hand.

“Riley.”

His lips twitch. “You don’t look like a Riley.”

Four months ago I would have asked what a Riley looks
like. Now I can’t work up the energy. I only shrug and mumble.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to be … whatever. It’s just that I heard there was a Maria here, so when I saw you, I figured you were her.”

He means because I’m Hispanic. Again, the old Riley would have had a comeback. Instead, I hear one— “And why would you think that?” —spoken in a British accent, heavy with sarcasm.

I turn. It’s Max—Aimee’s other patient. About six feet tall. Lean. Denim jacket. Jeans. Doc Martens. Dark blond hair worn long enough that he can tie it back, though today it’s hanging loose.

Aaron says, “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I just meant it’s weird her parents gave her an Irish name when she’s Mexican.”

“Are you Jewish?” Max asks.

“What? No. Why?”

“Then it’s weird your parents gave you a Jewish name.”

Aaron opens his mouth to answer, settles for a glare and stalks down the hall.

Max looks at me, eyebrows arched. “I don’t even get a thank-you?”

“If I wanted to snark at him, I would have.”

“Oh, you wanted to. You’ve just lost your footing, Riley.” He winks. “Or should it be Ril-ia?”

I don’t know Max well. No one in our group does. The rest of us have to sit in the semicircle and talk, while he stays in the back and rarely offers a word beyond a sarcastic comment. I have no idea what he’s there for. I’m not even convinced his accent is real. All I know is that I have to vomit out every last anxiety and fear and self-hating thought in my head, and he gets to listen to it and give nothing in return.

“Why are you here?” I say. “You don’t contribute anything.”

“I contribute my devastating wit and charm,” he says. “What more could you want?”

Less of both
, I think, but I only say, “The point of therapy is to discuss your problems.”

“But I don’t have any problems, old girl.” He cranks up the accent for that. It’s his shtick, dialing the Brit-talk up to eleven, like something out of a movie from the twenties.

I give him a look. “Does anyone say ‘old girl’ anymore? Even in Britain?”

“No, they do not. Because I’m over here now.” He grins, and I feel the overwhelming urge to shake it from his face. Well, at least I feel something. Though Aimee might prefer a less violent impulse.

“Since you
are
here,” I say, “in this group, you
do
have problems. That’s a prerequisite for the therapy.”

“Not for me. I’m right as rain, Ril-ia Vasquez. Right as rain.” He tosses me another grin and saunters down the hall toward the room.

I bend and retie a shoe that doesn’t need retying, giving him time to get ahead. Then I straighten and I’m about to head in the same direction when I hear the squeak of a shoe and turn to see a girl. She’s maybe fifteen, with dark curly hair, wearing a cute little dress—a bit formal for the occasion, but from the way she’s nervously glancing down the corridors, I don’t think she’s a therapy regular. While the new Riley’s impulse is to turn away and let someone else handle it, I know better. So I call, “It’s this way.”

She does a rabbit-jump and spins to face me.