The Masked Truth(3)

“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.