Unmasked

Chapter Two: Pretend Perfect

The aroma in the bar can only be described as a mix of desperation and spilled beer, all of which were covered with cheap cologne. The bouncer let us hoop using fake IDs after giving them a cursory glance. Damien casually gave the man a folded twenty as if it was nothing more than a parting gesture.

At that moment, I was frozen.

He stood oblivious.

Internally, the music was deficient enough to the point where I didn't think it could rattle my ribs. Everyone was neon yellow spinning in circles, masks moving as cyan and red lights danced on their surfaces. This was a special place we were not allowed to visit, but that was what made it special.

"Loose up," Damien said, smiling while guiding me through the crowd. "We’re not in Georgia anymore, Dorothy."

"Right," I said, forcing what felt like too loud a chuckle. Back where I was from, if I laughed loudly like that, an elderly lady would have approached me asking for some cough syrup. But laughing like this was the norm. Over the top. Quick. Drenched in sparkles.

“Cheers,” he said while knocking on my glass before laughing while handing me a drink. I never got the chance to put my drink down.

For us, I suppose, I muttered, letting the drink slide straight down my throat on its own.

Before turning it back, I thought I capped my thumb on the top but didn't. It pushed the icy drink harder, so the burn lanced my throat.

“Man, this feels good,” he said and ran a hand through his hair. “School is such a joke.”

I nodded as if I supported the point. As if I wouldn’t mind being a chem drop out or a college zero or anything on the road to being something. I mean, I’m the girl who offers tests and sips cocktails under a pseudonym while wearing painful high-heels.

So I played her. Flawlessly.

That is, until she began to come undone.

That happened to me when I spotted that girl on the other side of the bar. She was twerking as if nobody was watching: wildly, unapologetically, free. Her Afro-danced with every turn and her laughter brightened the room. She sported an oversized sweatshirt, no makeup, and gaudy neon green Croc.

Hmm... She seemed to be in a good mood.

I, on the other hand, resembled a costume.

Damien slowly crossed into my view and whispered something dirty into my ear. Heat rushed to my cheeks and I laughed while locking my gaze on that girl. For a split second, I wished I could switch places with her. Better yet, I would go back in time and tell my younger self not to sacrifice comfort for looks.

“Come on, let’s go higher up,” Damien said as he dragged me towards a shadowy staircase. “It’s more peaceful up there.”

The upper level had VIP access and was glass-railed, but still had velvet couches with more fake glam. He threw himself on one of the couches as if he had claimed it, so I settled onto the sofa beside him.

“You’re silent and stiff, which is not your norm,” was the first thing that came out of his mouth, as if he was confirming a hypothesis.

“Blink twice, what are you saying?,” was the first thought in my mind. “I’m perfectly okay.”

“No, like... off.” You’re not backing out on me, are you? He shot back.

Backing out? Backing out from what? Him? Their relationship? This entire fabricated version of myself?

“Definitely not,” I responded before adding. “Just feeling tired.”

Dipping forward, he captured my lips with his, and I tasted the boldness of the vodka like it was burnt right onto my tongue, spicy and cold at the same time.

Although I kissed him back, my heart was not at that moment. Instead, it was three blocks away, parked by myself in an art gallery, the real world freshly oxygenating my lungs, and my sketchbook rested on my lap.

Scene break (after a few hours)

I returned after midnight and I got home. My mom was dozing off on the couch, with a partially completed crossword puzzle resting on her knee. As I walked past her and then took off the makeup, heels and mask, I had to do it quietly.

After taking off the sweatshirt, I went towards the sketch and grabbed a pencil along the sweatshirt I held and began taking form in the palm of my hand. The girl who dances. The one who doesn’t pretend.

Framing her in capital letters, I wrote“ I miss me ”.