Just a Mask

I sit here in the silence of a thousand working minds. No, on second thought, they probably aren’t working, and there are far fewer than a thousand of them. More like four. Does it matter? Do I care? Desiree catches my attention and I submit, allowing her to lead the walk around the small grass plot our school deigns to call a ‘field’.
“Why did I ever love him?”
The ritualistic first words come forth from her mouth and I give what is by now an automatic reply. “Because you did.”
“He just dotes on HER, and can’t see that she is just using him.”
“Or perhaps he doesn’t care.”
She gives me a ‘look’ and I am forced to recall that my role here is just as a patient ear with occasional words of compassion and agreement. “How could he not care? How can he keep going back to her, just keep following her like some puppy even as she kicks him away?”
This time I hold back the retort. ‘But why,’ my mind asks ruthlessly ‘are you still bothering with him if you don’t care?’
“He is a friend, and I don’t want to loose that, but with HER…”
‘There is something that you aren’t even telling me, isn’t there?’ I ask silently.
“But with her he is completely different.” I finish.
“Exactly. She even keeps telling me to go out with him, to ask him out.”
‘Because you still like him.’
“Why? So she can just throw her claws back into him at the first opportunity that he gets to get out from under her thumb?”
“It’s like she’s a puppeteer.” I throw in. The words no longer register, I have heard it and said it too many times to really listen.
“And a master.” Desiree agrees. “She plays all of us. Even against each other. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Believe yourself.” God, I sound like a psychiatrist. Bad news bears.
She smiles ruefully. “But with my current taste, I mean, first it was Andre, then Cory, then Nate. It just keeps getting worse.”
“Relax, Des. Just calm down.” The bell rings and we walk back into school, back to the one labeled in our chat only as ‘HER’.
SHE is Sabrine. The very bane of our existence for the past few months. And yet, not. Somehow we keep up a flawless show of being friends. None of us know how it is managed. It is an ‘on-again-off-again’ relationship if I ever knew one. Sabrine is prone to displays: displays of anger, displays of sadness, displays of exhaustion; I’m sure you can understand. But that is all that they are. Displays. Maybe there is some truth behind it, but we have yet to find it, after all, any and almost ALL of the things she complains about are her own fault. She didn’t HAVE to do History Day. She didn’t HAVE to stay up all night to work on it. And yet, somehow, she still feels justified to complain to us about it. She does nothing else outside of school, no extracurricular activities whatsoever. None. And we are supposed to feel sorry for her why? We all work hard and stay up late too. Desiree commonly gets five hours of sleep each night because she is cooking or cleaning for her family. And yet, I have yet to see Des miss a day of school because, and I quote from Sabrine: “I was tired.” Yeah. Right. My sympathies, Sabrine. I don’t care.
Wow. Nice rant. I really should stop those before I get that far. Oh well. It’s funny sometimes, you know, being the resident ‘ear’. I hear all sorts of stuff, sometimes they tell me, other times they just forget that I am there. I guess I tend to fade into the background. Not that I mind it so much, I’m never really there. In a group of us, I’ll drift to the outside and into anonymity. I don’t think they care. I’m there as a convenience, the girl who wears a mask. Not really, figuratively. So many layers. So many faces.
Sarcasm is my shield; it keeps them from really guessing. And it is somewhat entertaining to watch it go right over some of their heads. Example: one girl in the choir, Elizabeth, is probably one of the most annoying people I know. She, however, has taken it into her head that I am her friend and that I care. In some warped way I suppose I might, but the subtle hints I keep leaving to tell her when I’m liable to bite her head off for even opening her mouth are completely ignored. And, before you ask, no, they aren’t that subtle; I very nearly give her an outright glare and heave a longsuffering sigh. Not that she ever notices. None of my friends ever take it seriously either. They figure that it is just the sarcasm. It is, I suppose, but for once it would be nice for someone to ask me what I thought and really care. Not just ask out of habit.
They do care. Probably. They probably think that they know me. I’ve told them that I wear a mask. Yet they never bother to try and find out what is underneath it. At least Christine had the nerve to try to take off Erik’s mask. He may have yelled at her, but she tried to see the Phantom behind the mask. None of them even seem to be remotely curious. None of them think to wonder how the ear feels. Or if it does feel. Sure, Des has asked more than once if I mind that she tells me things or asks me questions. I always say that I don’t mind, because, in truth, it doesn’t matter. If it isn’t me, then it is someone else, and since I’m already acquainted with the position of residence, I might as well keep it. Especially since I know that either way I answer I’ll get told. A word might go a long way, but I doubt that they ever REALLY listen.
Words. Here we go again. They call me a: “Walking Thesaurus”. It is entertaining at times, I suppose, being pelted with small slips of paper during an in-class write that ask for synonyms of this word or of that. I’ll answer and not even get a thank you. How nice. And yes, I know that it is during class, but you would think that afterwards they would have the decency, yes? No. This is them, remember?
Them. Desiree, Arianne, Sabrine, Olivia. There are others, but the four of them can be the worst. They don’t even realize it. Part of the problem is me, that much I realize; in a way, I have ostracized myself, but then again, why do none of them ever think to call me on it, or wonder when I will be allowed back into the Greek centre. They seem perfectly content to let me lead my reclusive little life on the outskirts of the city, not banished technically, but removed from the public, not condemned, but shunned all the same, not stripped of the rights and privileges, but not having them recognized.
Let’s see, I’ve ranted on Sabrine and Desiree. I might as well keep going and finish off the other two. Let me think…Arianne. Why not. I’ve known Anne since around fourth grade, and believe me, it can get aggravating. After all, we don’t refer to her as energetic for nothing. It’s sometimes like she never left elementary school, really. Even though she is older than me (by twenty-one days) it still seems like I have years on her. Years. I’ll request that she kindly desist in doing something, and, just because I asked, she’ll do the opposite. Just because. It’s not spite, after all, the spite and annoyance is my end of the game that we all play so well. She doesn’t ever seem to realize that there are times to play and times to back off. Maybe I just need to emphasize myself better when I tell her to leave me alone for a bit to think. Or maybe I should just give up already. I don’t want her to change, per say, although it sounds like I do. But, perhaps some respect of a simple request? Nah. Not from her. Nor many of them.
Definitely not Olivia. We all have moments of bratty-ness and bragging, I admit to the second with slight amounts of trepidation, but complete honesty, and yet, Olivia seems not to realize that we don’t always want to hear it. There are times to speak, and times when it is best to just shut up. I don’t think she realizes that yet. Truly. We tell little stories back and forth, and yet they always end the same way: without an ending. We finish by forgetting where we were or we’ll just declare it lost and restart. There have been some good ideas in the cacophony of crap that we call a story. More often than not, it is just me coming up with plot and characters and trying to develop it believably. My efforts are more often than not in vain. I understand that some are better at stories than others, but if she wants to write, she must follow the simple rules that she keeps spouting off to me. Example: “Movement equals growth, growth equals change; without change, nothing happens.” Plot isn’t the only thing that keeps a story going. It must have some dynamic to it. Granted, some stories get away with no dynamic from the main character (Example: Beowulf) but even in that there is a conflict that involves motion to be resolved.
Resolution. Yeah right. Between the five of us? Maybe in some other lifetime. The relationships are just too hard to follow. Desiree keeps going in and out with boys, claiming love and getting hurt. Love? What can a Junior High student know of love? I certainly don’t pretend to know anything. There’s another reason why me being her ear is amusing. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a crush, at least none that aren’t fleeting, and she, the one of us with the most experience, quote unquote, asks me for advice and help. Entertaining, yes? Yeah. That’s what I thought.
Just a mask. We all wear one I suppose, but what if someone were to take it away? What if someone actually bothered to care? What would they find underneath? Am I just the mask, or is there someone worth getting to know under the layers of veneer? I’m not so sure even I know the answer to that. I hope that someone will say yes, but does it really matter? Even if they do realize that the mask is never gone, I doubt that it will trouble them. Their reclusive, slightly introverted friend just turns a little further in. But then again, this is the same friend that does competition dance team and loves to perform, either acting or dancing. And yet I’m introverted. THEY seem to find me outgoing.
I suppose I can be both: outgoing in personality, but introverted when it comes to problems. I like to deal with things on my own rather than leaning on someone. Des likes to tell someone everything. I like to tell no one. They never guess when something is wrong. I hide it well, I guess. That’s what practice does for you. Why continues to elude me. These friends of mine live by different rules it appears. Sabrine is like Des. She tells people her problems and doesn’t seem to notice that only the males care. But then again, she probably does realize that she has both Kyle and George wrapped around her little finger. Whoop-dee-doo and good for her. They listen to her. Or they are too busy trying to feel her up. Either way, it probably amounts to the same thing for her. Attention. It’s what she wants. When we have a fight, she gets attention paid to her. It doesn’t seem to matter that it is negative. If that’s my other option, I’ll keep the masks, thank you.
Masks. It’s strange; I’m more me in my writing than anything else. I can live through my characters, let them do the things that I wish I could, and give them the interactions I sometimes wish I were involved in. Just a wish. They can’t always come true, eh? I wish they could, but there is that word again. Wish. To hope beyond hope that something happens. So maybe I don’t wish. Characters can wish. They have enough hope. I’ve given up on hope for this. I play the part too well; I almost don’t want to let it go. They say that every good actor knows their limit and quits once it is surpassed. With the lack of action on their part, I’m guessing that my limit is a long way off.
Do I even want them to push me there? Do I really want the masks gone? Do I want to let someone in underneath them? What will they find if I do? Someone worth knowing? I think I’m starting to repeat myself. Can’t have that. A repetitive argument is a boring one. Or so they tell me. I’m glad for the solitude, the calm quiet that envelopes the anonymity that I seem to live in despite the circle of friends. I wonder if they would notice if I decided not to smile for a day. Probably not. If they asked I’d be amazed. But then again, I’d be likely to smile at the lack of humour of it all. But that is just the way I am I suppose. A simple person. Well, fine. Maybe not. But even a complex person, as most people are, must have a basis upon which they are built or else they would collapse. Right?
Based upon that (notice the neat wordplay; THEY would completely miss that.) What am I built upon? A need for solitude? The thought of being able to really just go for it? Maybe go for a day when I do nothing BUT smile. That would throw them off. No, they’d just say it was a maniacal grin and decide that I had some pathetically stupid attempt to be evil up my sleeve again. Truly, the crap is just that. Crap. I’m not evil, nor do I deign to take over the world. That would be WAY too much responsibility that I would rather neatly destroy. And that would be bad. Who am I kidding, no one thinks anything of me. I’m just little Lotte. The one that no one ever has to worry about because she never falls apart. Their rock when all else is falling, their one refuge in a storm. What would they think if they knew that their rock is lost herself? Or that she needs a shelter? Do they think that I can weather all of the storms myself, always caught in the crossfire, always the one in the middle?
Lotte the peacemaker, Lotte the ear, Lotte the walking thesaurus. Never something substantial. They seem to think that I am impervious. Yeah right. I’m only human. I have a limit. There is only so much tension I can take before I snap. Simple physics tells us that. But how much weight goes down with me? The bigger they are the harder they fall, right? With all of the stuff they pile on me, it’s a miracle I’m not a giant. Won’t the fall be lovely? I can see it now, Lotte finally cracks. And the crowd goes wild.
In my dreams. They would probably not notice any difference and keep piling it on. Joy. Sabrine once tried to apologize for putting me in the middle. I wanted to know why she was bothering this time when it was by no means the worst. Some time spent sitting quietly on the stage while they all forgot I was there gave me an answer. She was weaving her web of lies again, and was trying to spin us ALL in this year. Yay. I just go with it now. I don’t really care.
I do every once in a while, but I’m never really vehement about anything. I don’t think they’ve ever really seen me truly mad. Not just pissed or ticked off, but really truly furious. They think they have, especially Arianne, but she hasn’t. They haven’t. I don’t think they ever will at this rate. Oh sure, I can put on a face and rant, but it is silent and morose. At least, inwardly. And now I make an effort to keep my snide commentary to myself. After all, why do they want to hear anything from a mask? I’m just the unfeeling ear that they can unburden themselves to, the one that is supposed to have all the answers. NEWSFLASH PEOPLE: I don’t have the answers. Nor will I ever, I don’t think. Why do they think I do? Why does it seem like I do? What keeps them from really finding out what is going on here in my head?
Easy. I keep them from knowing. I don’t think that they’d appreciate the commentary. They’re skin isn’t thick enough to handle it. I know mine is; I’ve dealt with enough being thrown at it over the years. Darts, well placed swords, they slash and pick at my wall, but what is the slight metal against the sturdy stone of the masks. Mortar prevents it from slipping and there is no question as to whether or not it will hold. It will. The only question is what happens when I decide to take it down? What happens if I let it falter and crack. Will a single stroke pulverize it into nothing? Will they realize what happens or will life go on as normal? Normalcy over obscurity, always. Never any question there. Ever.
Why should it matter? Why should they care? Have I given them reason? Will I give them reason? No. I’m just a mask. A convenient cover for something they don’t realize is there. A shadow of sorts that drifts from place to place. A vision that floats in and out of reality. A maze, if you will, that has no beginning. But then, to each end, there must be a beginning. I sit here in the silence of a thousand working minds and I see they are my own.
I’ve been thinking. What do we look for in friends? You can give the standard answers: kindness, sense of humour, outlook on life, but is that really it? Seriously, it normally isn’t one of those things that attracts you to other people. Or other people to you. Example: when I was in third grade, I had another girl walk up to me and ask if she could play with me. I said sure and we became fast friends. In sixth grade she told me that she had come over to talk because she had liked my hair so much. (At that point my hair was still white-blond and reached past my waist.) Superficial things.
We tend to judge people before we get to know them; we base everything we then think about them on that very first impression. But you can influence people’s first impression of you. We played a game in improv. class called first impressions. You walked about two yards, turned walked back partway and said your name. Depending on how you walk and stand, people get different things from you, whether it be that you are a leader and not a follower, even to the point of knowing, or thinking, that you come from the west coast not the east coast. To what extent do we have the right to judge people in this fashion? We know that it is unfair, but does that stop us? No, because we know that everyone else is going to do the same exact thing whether or not we stop. Our actions mean nothing, no matter how well intentioned they are. The very root of the problem is that none of us have any intentions to change. Oh, we might say that we do, but really, think about it. WOULD you change for someone? So completely? No. You wouldn’t. Because then you wouldn’t be you, and, no matter how much you may hide behind a façade, there is always some way that you express who you truly are.
Example: I, Lotte the Thesaurus, love to write. It is what I do. It is one of the reasons why I am CALLED a thesaurus. Yes, I put on a happy face, and I can bluff and smile my way through just about anything and everything, but at the end of the day the only thing that really matters is me. I know it sounds selfish and egotistical, but hey, tell me I’m wrong. No, scratch that. SHOW me. I don’t trust words. ‘Why?’ you ask. That should be obvious I spew enough bullshit to know when it is coming from someone else. Let loose enough lies and eventually you KNOW when someone is telling the truth. It is a talent I have acquire somewhat unwillingly I must confess. Now, I know I have my faults, one of them is a specific talent for knowing exactly what NOT to say and promptly saying it, the other being a rather despicable habit of bragging and wanting to be included and, occasionally, the centre of attention.
But I am the ghost, the invisible one. I bet if you put me in a room, I could easily tell you what all of the conversations were about and all of my reflections thereupon, but none of the others would really have noticed me. I can see it now:
“Wait, Lotte was there?” closely followed by: “Yeah, she was over by the far wall, looked really tired too.”
Now note that I tend to stay away from walls. Ah well. I don’t care. No, that’s not true. I do care. Why else am I bothering to write about it. Honestly, you think I could be truthful at least to myself some of the time. REALLY. But no, alas, it is not meant to be. This reminds me of a quote I read somewhere, I don’t exactly remember where, but be assured, if I did remember I would give that person full credit. The quote reads: “If there is anything more important than my ego running around, I want it caught and shot.” A true quote if I ever heard one. I think it goes back a few paragraphs when I was talking about selfishness. You know that you have that little version of you in your head that jumps around screaming: “But what about MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!?????!!!!” You KNOW you have one, don’t even TRY to deny it. I don’t. I know damn well that I have one, and I let it loose every onceinawhile just to see what happens. Normally it results in rather entertaining looks from my friends, closely followed by head shakes and a clear dismissal of anything I say for the rest of the day. It brings a whole new level to my goal of invisibility.
I know, I know, if I want to be there so bad, why don’t I just go do it, stop playing the games, stop wearing the masks, stop my own little web of bull. But I know better. I know better than to think that they would like the real me. I’m a lying little shit, but I know who I am, and I know what I’m like. It doesn’t matter what I may prefer, I know that I’ll loose them. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my little self-imposed solitude, but even so, having the friends is actually worth something sometimes.
But to have someone to unburden myself to, that would be weird. I wouldn’t know what to do. They would expect the truth, but what would they think if they really knew what I thought, what I think, what I know goes on. What would they think if I stepped back from the catfight that is our friendship and tried to see it clearly. It would be a mess, but would no one other than me try to untangle the strands? Is no one other than me able to see the fact that part of this is ripping Des up from the inside, that she is slowly crumbling. Am I the only one she has to hold onto for all she’s worth? If I’m her only rock, I can’t let go of the walls I have so carefully built. I need them for her.
She’s probably the only one I’d even consider telling any of this to. Honestly. I might complain, I might rant, I might rave, but I know that she’s the one I would turn to. But I can’t. I can’t lay that n her. Not when she has so many other things that bog her down. It is my job to lift her up, to make her smile, to keep her laughing, to keep her mind off of that which tears her up, off of the problems that I know I have no chance in hell to solve, not that it’ll stop me from trying. She’s the closest person outside of my brother to me, but I can’t tell her, and I won’t tell him. What’s a girl to do?
Me, I hide away in a land of magic and mayhem, where anything and everything that con go wrong does, but there is always a happy ending, and the girl ends up with Mr. Right. That is my little hideaway. Another layer of my protective coating revealed to unsuspecting people who have no idea that what I say is true. You have one, don’t you? A safe place, a place to go in your mind where no one can hurt you, where no one can find you, where you can hide away from the troubles of the world that plague you. There’s another little place I can go. I call it the Grove. It is both a real place and a mental one. The real one is small and a fair ways away. I don’t see it often, but I know where it is. The little creek that I know will ALWAYS be ice-cold, the old pine trees. The mental one differs: It has red Japanese maples and a quite little pond that seems to change temperatures. I never quite recall how warm or cool it is, only that it always seems to be just what I need. A Happy Place.
Does it scare you that I bare my soul to you? An empty paper? Rather than a real person, or just think, mull over life rather than leaving it somewhere where someone will read it. They would probably laugh. Besides, like I know I’ve said, writing is what I DO. It provides me with an escape, whether or not I am writing about friends or about that DragonLord and the fact that I STILL can’t describe him just so. I should know better than to put dragons in my stories. I can NEVER get the right imagery. Oh well. Not like anyone cares. Not like anyone would bother to go find me if I was lost.
Then again, I am lost. Who am I kidding. No one has yet to come looking for me here, safe behind my walls, safe behind my masks, safe in my own little mind. I sound crazy don’t I? Not that I care really, it would only be reiterating something that people have been telling me for years. The little rock has finally been swamped and is happily drowning in the sea. Ladies and gentlemen, Lottle has finally flipped her lid, gone off the deep end and gone COMPLETELY off her rocker. And the crowd goes wild. Excuse me as I start to scrape myself off of rock-bottom with a spatula and proceed to dig myself in deeper.
Elusive genius. Let that be me for once. As the old one cracks, let me begin to craft a new one. A new mask that will let me keep going. One that will let me free.
*****

Please tell me what you think of Lotte's character. I would appreciate it.
~Tinydancer