The Masked Truth(100)

That’s when Max realized he had to take a stand. That his mother thought she was doing her best for him. That Mum hated the suggestion that this “girl” knew better, but this wasn’t about Riley—it was about him. Riley was suggesting two hours a week in a writing class, which she’d drive him to and from. Max wanted it. Max saw no fault with the plan. So Max registered. After three weeks in this class, he signed up for two college-level winter term classes. If those went well, in September he’d be off to uni … or college, as they called it here. With Riley, he hoped, though it was too soon to do more than hope. Granted, he’d broached the subject already, as a joke, and she hadn’t quashed the idea, which was a start.

Max is not “fixed.” Max will never be fixed. What he is, at the moment, is stable, and that’s where he needs to stay. He won’t, of course. It’s like walking a tightrope. There are bound to be wobbles.

The catch-22 of schizophrenia is that if he is slipping, he is no longer in a mental state to see he’s slipping. That means he needs someone to watch for him. Everyone to watch for him. Everyone in his life to know what to look for and be willing to call him on it, and if they are wrong and it’s simply a mood swing, then there can be no hurt feelings, no recriminations, no resentment at being under a microscope. He needs to deal with the scrutiny as he deals with the side effects of the meds. This is the price for stability. It’s the price for life too, because his alternative is not house arrest—it’s writing another suicide note and maybe, just maybe, doing more than writing it.

Class ends, and he’s first out the door. First down the hall and through the exit, and then she’s there, waiting for him.

“Good class?” she asks.

“It was. I worked out my plot problem.”

“Oooh, nice.”

He takes her hand and leads her around the building. “I’ve decided my protagonist—who is not really you, as I’ve said …”

“Of course.”

“Despite looking and acting and even sounding like you.”

“Mere coincidence.”

“It is. Because modeling my protagonist after you, while flattering, might imply that I am utterly and absolutely smitten.”

“Mmm, that would be wrong.”

“It would be.” He tugs her into an empty doorway and backs her up to the wall. “Because if you knew that, you could use it to do something alarming, like convince me to enroll in that first-aid class with you.”

She sputters a laugh. “I do believe you asked to join me.”

“Only because you’ll need a partner for practicing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and naturally you’ll want me.”

“Naturally.” Another laugh, and he revels in the sound, so pure and happy.

He did this. He made her happy.

Yes, Maximus. You did. Now stop gloating and kiss her.

Which he does. He pulls her to him and he kisses her, a deep and delicious and wondrous kiss, and this is what matters, not just the kiss but every little moment with her, every kiss and every look and every laugh. This is what he holds on to, what helps him believe—truly believe—he can do this, have a life, a real life, because Riley gives him those kisses and those looks and those laughs, and says he’s worth them, that he’s worthy of a girl like her, and the rest doesn’t matter.

Yes, he’d told himself this was a very bad idea, but that hadn’t actually stopped the flirting or the hand-holding or the kissing, and eventually—well, all right, it only took a week—they came to the conclusion that, bad idea or not, it’s what they want. Sometimes, that’s what matters most, that if you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way to make it work.

He wants a life. He wants a future. He wants Riley. His parents raised him to believe he could achieve anything he put his mind to, and as much as that made it harder to accept the diagnosis—to accept that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to life than putting in the effort—it still holds true that at the very least, if he wants something, he can put his mind to it and put his everything into getting it and, in the end, cross his fingers and hope.

When the kiss breaks, Riley says, “You never told me what you decided with the story.”

“Ah, yes. You distracted me.”

“I did not—”

“Completely did, but I forgive you.” He eases back, his arms still around her. “I decided to let my protagonist be happy. In the end, she will be happy.”

“So she wasn’t going to be before?”

“I hadn’t decided. One can’t give a character a perfect ending, and there’s something to be said for the classic literary downer, where she reaches the end of her journey only to discover it was all for naught, that the world is a hard and harsh place, and it will ultimately devour her and all she holds dear.”

“Umm …”

“I hate those endings.”

She laughs. “Good.”

“The question was what note to strike for the conclusion, because it can’t be perfect, after what she’s been through, what she’ll still need to go through. In the end, having cleared her name and brought her parents’ killers to justice, she will return to her drought-stricken village, and she’ll see her sister and her friends and the boy she left behind, and despite everything that’s happened, she will be happy. And then it will rain.”