Lie By Default

Ch4

"Riley, I have to talk to you." I try to talk to her the moment we are remotely alone together, even if it is in the school hallways.

"I don't want to know," she says, not slowing the march to our lockers.

"Riles, you need to know-"

"I don't need to know what happened."

"I need to tell you, you need to know-" She turns to face me just in front of her father's classroom, cutting me off. I'm getting really tired of her cutting me off.

"Maya, I know a lot of things are going to happen. You know what else I know? I liked the new boy and you stepped back for me." I did, but not in the way she thinks. Why is she so insistent on this? "Then I saw how scared you were for him. You need to feel however you feel; how can I keep that from you?"

"But you are!" I burst, frustration burning in my veins. It feels like I'm going to split at the seams with it. "You keep telling me to feel what I feel, but you're not letting me! You have this idea you think you know in your head about how I feel, and you're shoving it down my throat! And you're not listening to me. I don't like Lucas, Riley. This is not me stepping back, this isn't me in denial. I don't like him like that."

She still doesn't look entirely convinced as she watches me. The tide of students continues sweeping past us, but it feels like we are the only two people in the world.

"Then why did you get so upset about him riding in the rodeo?"

"Because!" I hiss at her. "You know I have issues. Freaking abandonment issues or something. And he was going to die and leave me and it would have been my fault just like it was my fault when dad left, my fault mom started drinking, and probably my fault when-"

I swallow hard, cutting myself off from what I want to say. My fault when you leave. Either because of my feelings or because my craziness finally gets to be too much.

God, I want to cut. It's been so long.

All the rigidness in her body melts, and she reaches out to hold my hand. "None of that was your fault," she protests imploringly. As if she can convince me. "If Lucas got hurt, that wouldn't have been your fault. And Maya. How many times do I have to tell you that nothing you ever do will make me love you any less. You will always be my best friend. I'll tell you every day if I have to."

She might have to. Why can't I just believe?

Because people break promises, purposefully or by accident.

I swallow my doubts and try to draw confident, uncaring, 'Maya' back to the surface. I still badly want to cut but, instead, I pinch my leg as hard as I can.

….

"You love Riley."

I stare at the skinny boy, his hands casually stuffed into his hoodie pockets, and wonder how this is happening. How is this happening?

"Of course I love Riley; she's my best friend," I answer numbly.

"But that's not all she is. You love-love her."

"No, I don't," I say quickly, clenching my fists. "You know, Riley did this too. People really need to stop trying to tell me what I feel. I-I think I'd know my own feelings."

"You're a liar."

"Farkle."

"You're lying to yourself."

"I'm not a liar," I glare defensively. "I'm not. I just…" I sink down onto one of the steps in front of Topanga's. "Riley likes Lucas. She couldn't ever see me like that."

"I'm not sure how Riley feels," he says, lowering himself down next to me. "But this isn't about her. This is about how you feel. What you're thinking is how you really feel."

What I'm thinking right now is about how badly I want to open a vein so these thoughts will just stop. "What I'm thinking isn't usually what's good for me," I tell him lowly. "Besides, my shrink tells me my thoughts lie all the time, so if my thoughts are what I feel, doesn't that make my feelings lies?"

"I thought you said you weren't a liar?"

"I'm not," I say quickly. "I just… that's just what my shrink says." I stand up uncomfortably and move away, but the boy just follows after me.

"Just because your head lies to you, doesn't mean the way you feel about those thoughts aren't real, Maya."

My eyes dart around nervously, looking for anyone who might be coming or going from the café. It feels weird to be talking about this out here, out in the open. I've only ever talked like this in my therapist's office or the safety of the bay window. It makes me paranoid.

"You can't tell anybody," I demand.

"I will unless you do."

"Why?" I hiss.

"Because we are growing up. And I don't know how to handle these feelings we're feeling." He's gotten so brave this past year, I realize right then as he stares at me evenly. He's always been brave, but I used to also be able to intimidate him a bit. He's so sure of himself now, and I still feel like the same scared girl I've always been, trying to put up a brave front. When did I get left behind? "But I do know that we don't lie to each other. We don't lie to each other, Maya."

I laugh. I can't help it. I feel like I'm going to implode with stress. "I've always lied to you all." With every excuse, with every false smile or false bravado. "I do it every day." His brow creases in confusion. He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. "If you tell her, or anyone, I won't ever forgive you," I tell him as sincerely and severely as I can manage.

Then I turn and bolt away from Topanga's, ignoring that we were planning on hanging out before I had to drag Farkle away- before he said something he shouldn't know.

Far too many people know. Two too many people to be exact. Actually, three, since I'm pretty sure my shrink has figured it out (but he has the good sense not to mention it beyond insinuations).

I burst through the Mathews' front door, startling Auggie and Mr. Mathews sitting at the kitchen table. I consciously slow my movements as I start toward the hallway.

"I feel gross. I'm going to take a shower and probably take a nap," I inform, before disappearing down the hall.

I twist the nob to the shower, and it gushes out into a heavy, strong stream. I stare at it blankly, mind whirling frantically.

What if he tells? What if he doesn't care about me anymore as much as he does Riley, and he tells her anyway? What if Lucas tells? What if my shrink tells Mr. Mathews, since he's the one paying him? What if Mr. Mathews kicks me out, then, and doesn't love me anymore, and then mom starts drinking again because she doesn't really want me around, and then Shawn will leave because he didn't realize just how broken a family we are until right then.

I scramble toward the cabinet under the sink, yanking the doors open and shuffling through the contents. I find some scissors stashed in the first aid kit and take them into the shower with me after I strip. Riley got rid of the razors after she found me all those months ago. Leg hair isn't that bad once it grows out long enough to be soft again.

My hand trembles under the spray of the water, clenched around the metal of the scissors.

Do I really want to do this? Break my promise?

I need to cut. Pinching isn't enough for this, I have to. It's been building these past few days and it feels like I might die if I don't.

People break their promises all the time, so, so what if I break mine?

Scissors don't break the skin as easily as a razorblade. I have to press harder, and draw it slower, and the blood hesitates longer before spilling over the split skin. I close my eyes against the pain, the relief, and I want to sob, too, because I broke my promise to Riley. I'm a liar and a promise breaker.

But how can I go to her about this? How can I go to her and expect her to talk me down when it's about her, my feelings for her, and my terror of everything tumbling down around my ears.

I allow myself nine cuts. One for each person I'm scared of losing and, as I stare down at the number of cuts on my leg and the blood running a pale pink off of them, I realize how many more people who care about me are still in my life verses the number who left.

Shakily, I rinse the scissors and put them down on the edge of the tub. Then I finish showering and step out onto the mat.

The cuts still leak a bit, but after pressing toilet paper to them for a while, they are well enough to slip into pajama pants without having to wrap them. Then I return the scissors to where they belong and firmly close the cabinets.

I linger a moment, staring at myself accusingly in the mirror. My eyes are a bit red, my face splotchy, and it's obvious I've been crying.

I make it to Riley and I's room without running into anyone, and flop onto the bed. Riley's pillow finds its way into my arms as I curl around it like it's the girl herself.

Sometime later, I don't know how long, a hand touches my shoulder, drawing me out of my dissociative staring. I turn over to find Riley there on the edge of the bed, brow already furrowed in concern. Her eyes flicker back and forth searchingly over my face, and guilt jolts in my gut.

I immediately lower my gaze, ashamed. Did Farkle tell her?

"Hey," she says quietly. "How are you feeling? Farkle said you left because you weren't feeling well?"

"Fine," I mumble.

There is a long, heavy, pause. "Peaches, look at me, please."

I only manage it a second before I once again have to flick my eyes away, unable to meet her gaze after what I've done- after the promise I broke.

"I'm sorry," I whisper weakly.

The pause is even longer this time, as Riley slowly draws her hand back toward herself. She's a little naïve sometimes, but she's not dim. "…Peaches... Please show me your legs."

I turn my back toward her, burrowing back down into her pillow.

"Maya, take off your pants."

"I don't want to," I slur around the fabric.

"Ring power."

I stiffen. That's not fair. That's really not fair.

Slowly, I sit up. Then, I haltingly shuffle the pants down my thighs. Riley lets out a gusting breath when the new cuts come into view, raw and red and not even scabbed yet (some fuzz from my pajamas are stuck in the wound).

"Maya," she breathes, reaching out, but her hand just hovers. I quickly tug them back up over my hips and turn over again. Her hand drops back to her own lap. "You need to tell my parents."

A sob slips past my lips. I hunch my shoulders up to my ears and hold my breath to try and stop the shaking, but then the sound comes out louder and harsher with each gasp my lungs demand for air.

Riley plasters herself to my back, holding me together as my entire body shudders.

….

I stare at Mr. and Mrs. Mathews where they both sit at the kitchen table, doing paperwork. Dinner was hours ago, and Riley made excuses for me to skip it. Auggie was put to bed not too long ago, and now I linger here, in the doorway to the main room.

Riley hovers just behind me, patiently waiting. I can feel her eyes watching me intently.

I let out one more gusting breath before stepping fully out of the hall and down the step, and then I'm standing right by the table.

Both adults look up as I set the scissors down in the middle of it. Their gazes hesitate on the silver metal before darting up to my face. I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat as I lower my gaze to my fiddling hands.

"I, um. Earlier. I-I…used these. I… cut. I'm sorry." The confession is awkward and stilting and hard, but Riley is watching and I broke my promise. I deserve to face their disappointment. It's a fair punishment, or at least a start.

I don't look up as Mr. Mathews slowly puts down his pen and reaches forward, gently taking the small scissors into his hand. "Thank you for telling us, Maya," he says.

Mrs. Mathews reaches out and places one of her hands on my arm. "We are proud of you," she tells me gently.

"What?" I yank my head up disbelievingly to stare hard at their expressions. They don't look angry or disappointed. Their faces are soft and as Mrs. Mathews claims. Proud. "But- why? You took me in, pay for my therapy, and- and- and I still cut! I threw your kindness back in your faces!"

"And you came to us and told us what you did. We knew slips were likely to happen, and you've been trying. We're proud of you, Maya."

"But-" I look desperately back to Riley who still remains a distance away, in the doorway to the hall. She offers me a small, supportive, smile that I don't deserve. I broke my promise. I don't deserve their faith. "But this wasn't the first time," I tell them. "I did it before, too, and didn't tell you. I made Riley not tell you."

They blink and then exchange looks. Then they look toward Riley and back to me.

"Okay," Mrs. Mathews says. Her voice doesn't change from the calm she's projecting this whole time. "Let's start with where you have been cutting." While they don't check my arms every day anymore, they still check once a week.

Oh.

Oops.

Now what if I really need to do it again? Where could I hide it? I hate myself even more when my brain starts thinking about new places to hide the cuts. What is wrong with me?

I have to force myself to stop because I'm not going to do this again. I'm not.

"My legs," I mumble.

"And when was the last time?" Mrs. Mathews asks.

I hesitate, glancing towards Mr. Mathews whose eyes are intently trained on me.

"Few weeks after you said I could stay here." I can't tell them it was because of that F- because of a bad grade.

"So, only two slips in a year? That's still really good, Maya."

It doesn't feel like it. It doesn't feel like it at all.

"So, here's what we're going to do," Mr. Mathews says. "Topanga and I are going to stop checking, and you are going to tell us if you slip, just like you did today."

No. This can't be happening. I can't have just told them that I broke their trust, and they are giving me more of it. I ruthlessly press my fingers against the fresh cuts.

"I want to cut," I announce abruptly. "Right now, I want to cut, and keep cutting, and not stop."

Riley is suddenly at my back, her warmth and support heating me through our clothes.

Both adults stand up as one and come around the table on either side of me.

"Why?" Mrs. Mathews asks, tucking some of my hair behind my ear with gentle fingers. It's so parental that I want to simultaneously lean into the touch and burst into tears over it. "What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

"Why would you trust me? You shouldn't. It's a mistake- all I'm going to do is let you down."

"Oh, honey, that's not possible."

"Sometimes you don't need to earn trust, it's just given to you. But you earned ours. I know how hard it must have been to come out here and tell us what you did, but you did it. You told us. And we are so proud."

I do burst into tears, then, and I'm enveloped on all sides with arms that simultaneously soothe the hurt in my chest and make it so much worse.

A/N: So, Farkle knows. And Maya had a relapse. Stick around to find out what happens next, I guess. Please review.

~Silver~