Masked

Entry Four

Hey, future me. On October first, Danielle and I were walking to our first period class, donuts in hand, smiles playing at our lips, and jokes dancing in our ears. I'd learned from the first month of school that I had to wear my mask tighter than expected because people sometimes put in the effort to make sure I was feeling alright. They'd still hand over chocolates as well, even though a month had already passed.

I always smiled and thanked them and kept my mask on. It was easy, they'd look at me with pity and whisper behind my back, telling their parents or partners or siblings about the girl who survived the crash. I didn't mind; I was perfectly fine with my mask. No one wanted to get close to me, besides Danielle, and that was perfect. They would be safer away from me, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Danielle went to her locker and grabbed her books for English while I waited outside the English door for her a few metres away. People would smile sheepishly when walking by me, and I'd pull on my signature smile and carry on. I got lost in my head when waiting for Danielle, letting the weight of my failures press deep grooves into my shoulders and the fear of myself clawing at my stomach. I didn't pay any mind when my hand slipped up my shirt and grabbed the edge of the scab and ripped it clean off again. The regret was just starting to come to the surface of the wound and trickle down when someone tapped me on the shoulder, making me jump, knocking the mask off.

"Hey, gorgeous," the voice echoed in my reeling mind, overwhelmed by the sounds of scrambling teenagers, ringing school bells, and my broken thoughts trying desperately to recover the mask before I turned around. I composed myself, tying the mask snugly at the back of my head before swiftly turning to meet his smirking eyes.

"Hello," I faltered, unsure of what to do. No one had said anything other than "I'm sorry for your loss" or "Feel better, it'll be alright". I was intrigued, a flirtatious playboy hitting on the victimized crash survivor. A scene from a movie, maybe, like a cheesy rom-com. I was curious, and my mask slipped down just enough to show my eyebrows. The boy staring back at me noticed my raised eyebrows and recovered quickly.

"Hey, Brooklyn, is it?" He smiled, but the grin quickly developed into a smirk.

"Brook."

"Well, Brook, baby, I'm new here, and was wondering if you know where Mathematics 12 is? You seem really busy and all, but your smile is cute," I was shocked, but readjusted my mask and dropped the smile. The irony behind his comment nearly made me laugh out loud.

'Look, you seem like a nice guy and all, but I'm not looking for a date, I-" the boy cut me off mid-sentence with a frustrated grimace. He had a hand running through his hair on the back of his neck, fluffing up his wavy brown hair that was swept to the side of his forehead.

"Oh baby, you don't understand, I'm not a fuck-boy, just a flirt, and no offence, but I'm not looking for a slut...but if I were, you'd be at the top of my list," He stated, with a flirty once-over and a wink as he checked me out. I flinched at the words and severity of his judgements, but let him continue, paying no mind to his flirtatious attitude.

"I'm just looking for my class, and I thought a cutie like you knew where to go, but you also seemed preoccupied with all the birthday gifts and wishes you've been getting, so I shouldn't have bothered. I'll see you around, Brook." He stretched my name out slowly as if it had a bitter aftertaste or a twisted meaning as he turned and blew me a kiss. He walked away with a nearly indistinguishable limp in his left leg.

I was stunned and honestly, a little hurt by his comment. I misjudged the situation for the first time in years. I had gotten so many date requests in the past six years that I was the prize in high school. I never accepted, and it became a challenge among the high school boys. The one who could get a date with Brooklyn Casse would get laid, get girls jumping at his heels, and a definite ticket to Prom King.