The Masked Truth(71)

“Because they blame you. That’s bullshit.”

He blinks. Then he chokes a laugh.

“What?” I say.

“I’ve just never heard you curse.”

“Oh, I do. Just not out loud most of the time. This deserves cursing. It’s poor detective work and prejudice and—”

He presses a finger to my lips. “I know. Even worse is the way they’re dismissing anything you say. I can understand the conclusions about me. Not believing you is unforgivable. Still, I’m not worried. It really is just prejudice, and with a little detective work, they’ll sort it out. I don’t appreciate being stuck in here until they do, but …” He shrugs. “Mum has retained a barrister. He says it’ll be sorted in a day or two. Until then, I’m considering this a well-earned vacation. Even if the food is not quite up to snuff.”

“You’re doing okay, then?”

“Right as rain.”

I roll my eyes.

“Right as somewhat-inclement weather, then,” he says. “This too shall pass. I’m not concerned. Can’t be. This is my life now. The new normal for Max Cross.”

“I’m sorry.”

He makes a face again. “That sounded bitter, didn’t it?”

“No, it’s—”

“Honesty, Riley. These days, I really appreciate honesty.”

“It sounded frustrated.”

He nods. “Well, that too shall pass, I hope.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “On that note, as long as we’re delving into the dark pit of honesty, is there anything you want to ask? These days, I’m something of an expert on the spectrum of disorders commonly known as schizophrenia.”

“I think I’m okay. I looked it up. By that I mean I researched it, not just that I read the Wikipedia page.”

He smiles. “Of course you did. Well, here’s the short version. Thankfully, I don’t experience hygiene issues. I do hit the markers for delusions. Not truly paranoid, but rather a run-of-the-mill inability to tell reality from the wild imaginings of my overactive brain. I’ve been on various medications, as they try to find the right mixture. They seem to have done it, which doesn’t mean I’m cured—I can’t be cured, and that’s not bitterness or frustration. It’s reality. Must face it.”

“You seem to be.”

He laughs. “I thought we were in the honesty circle here, Riley. I go to therapy and sit in the back and offer only mildly witty commentary. That’s not facing it. It’s not even coping, really.”

“But you’re taking your meds. I read that can be a problem. That people think they don’t need them.”

“Oh, believe me, I know I need them. But, yes, it’s …” He shrugs. “There’s always the worry that the meds will lose their effectiveness, and since I don’t notice when I’m off my trolley, I won’t see problems until it’s too late.”

“Off your trolley?”

He smiles. “Off my trolley, lost the plot, away with the fairies … I’ve got a drawerful of them. Feel free to add any to my collection.”

“Plumb loco?” I say. “Combining the English word ‘plumb,’ meaning depths, and ‘loco,’ which is Spanish for crazy.”

The smile grows to a grin. “I will add that one. If you have any Spanish idioms, I’ll take them too, though I won’t presume you know more Spanish than the average American, because that would be stereotyping.”

I laugh. “It would be, thank you. But my Spanish is better than average, as is my Latin.”

“Latin?”

“I’m Catholic. I also know some French, but only enough to get me through a freshman trip to Paris. I’m completely illiterate in British, though.”

“I can teach you.”

“Perfect.”

He’s about to say something when the door opens. Sloane walks in. “Time’s up, kids. You have five seconds to spit out your goodbyes.”

“I’ll be all right,” Max says to me.

I nod.

“You just take care of yourself,” he says. “Rest up. I’ll see you on the outside.”

I smile, and he leans over to kiss my forehead. Then he says to Sloane, “Note: the forehead. No liberties taken.”

“Shaking hands is highly underrated.”

He rolls his eyes.

“You think I’m kidding?” she says.

He puts out his hand for her.

“Not what I meant,” she says.

“Ignore her,” I say. “Take care, and if I can get down again, I will. Otherwise, I’ll see you on the other side.”

He smiles and shakes my hand, and I pull him into a quick hug, which earns something suspiciously like a growl from my sister. We say our goodbyes and part.

We’re back in the stairwell when Sloane says, “I wasn’t joking back there. You need to be careful with him.”

“We’re friends.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I sigh.

“I mean it, Riley. He’s got a thing for you.”

“I think he’s a little too preoccupied for that.”

“Guys are never too preoccupied for that. Or girls, for that matter. He likes you. He wants to be more than friends. The answer is no. I’ve already told him so.”