Chapter 2
1643words
Walking down the hallways of Mountain View High, I was a walking miracle. Eyes followed me like spotlights, and whispers were no longer mockery but admiration and curiosity. I'd become "that girl"—mysterious, beautiful, transformed overnight.
The feeling was like mainlining the purest drug—euphoric, yet with a bone-chilling coldness deep in my marrow. With every smile, every hair flip, I felt the thick layer of disguise on my face slowly cracking. Sweat became my greatest enemy; a hug might leave foundation marks on someone's white shirt, and even drinking water required extreme caution to avoid smudging my lipstick.
I became a queen wearing a false crown, ruling over a kingdom built on sand.
The first crack in my false glory appeared at Savannah Pierce's party.
The party was at a mansion overlooking the entire LA skyline, with music blasting and giant flamingo inflatables bobbing in the pool. I navigated through the crowd with a glass of mystery cocktail, collecting stares both obvious and subtle.
"So, you're Jules."
A voice interrupted my performance. I turned to meet Ryder Kang's eyes. He leaned against the bar, silver-gray hair catching the dreamy lights, that playful smile at the corner of his mouth making me uneasy.
"I've heard your band," I replied politely, maintaining my carefully crafted persona of friendly-but-distant.
"Really?" He stepped closer, the scent of leather and cologne hitting me like a punch. "What'd you think?"
"Very... energetic," I chose the safest word.
He chuckled softly, like I'd told some hilarious joke. "Energetic? People usually call it 'wild' or 'fucking insane.'" He stretched out his hand, fingertips almost touching my cheek. "Your face is interesting. Flawless. I wonder what it would look like if it shattered."
His words carried an undisguised threat, like he could see right through my skin. I felt exposed, vulnerable.
"I suggest you don't entertain such dangerous thoughts," I said coldly, gripping my glass tighter.
Just then, some drunk guy squeezed between us, slamming into me. Caught off guard, I spilled my entire cocktail on Ryder's black T-shirt.
The smile vanished from his face. "Fuck," he cursed under his breath.
"I'm so sorry," I apologized instantly, even though it wasn't my fault.
"Do you know where this shirt is from?" He looked me up and down, like he was assessing if I could afford to replace it. "Never mind, a girl like you probably only knows Chanel."
His words dripped with class-based disdain, stinging my raw nerves. I wasn't some rich girl; I was just a broke student good at pretending.
"Perhaps," I straightened my back and responded in my iciest tone, "At least I don't mistake being an asshole for having a personality."
Without another glance, I turned and pushed my way onto the dance floor. Behind me, I felt his burning gaze drilling into my back. This little clash, like a stone thrown into still water, sent ripples through my already frayed nerves.
I needed somewhere to breathe.
On the weekend, I shed all my disguises. No foundation, no eyeliner, not even contacts. My face—covered in red acne marks and blemishes—was exposed to the air again, feeling both shameful and liberating. I put on my heavy black-framed glasses, wore my oldest hoodie, and slipped into a vintage comic book store tucked in an alley downtown.
This was my sanctuary. The air smelled of musty paper and ink. The light between shelves was dim, and nobody noticed a girl curled up in the corner, devouring comics.
I was lost in a copy of "Watchmen," deeply connecting with Rorschach's obsessive yet pure monologues. We both wore masks, except mine was to please the world, while his was to defy it.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over me.
I thought it was the store owner coming to remind me not to read without buying, so I looked up irritably.
But standing in front of me was Leo Vance.
My heart stopped. He wore a simple white T-shirt, holding a thick art book, apparently looking for reference material. His gaze fell on my face—pure scrutiny without emotion, like examining a still life.
Panic wrapped around my throat like vines. He saw me—saw my most authentic, ugliest self. That radiant Jules at school and this girl with acne and nerdy glasses would soon merge in his mind. This was apocalyptic.
Like a startled rabbit, I jumped up, sending comics and keychains clattering to the floor. I frantically tried to gather them, desperate to escape.
"Don't move."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable command. I froze, kneeling on the floor, not daring to look up.
He bent down and picked up not a comic, but my keychain. His fingers pinched the chipped Tajik horse charm, raising it before my eyes.
"The girl from the bridge." He stated it as fact, not question.
In that moment, I felt completely exposed. He remembered. He actually remembered. That desperate night on the bridge when he'd mocked me so coldly. Now he knew that the disheveled bridge girl and the perfect Jules from school were the same person.
I'm finished.
He didn't say anything more, just stood straight, looking down at me, those unfathomable deep eyes revealing nothing I could read. No mockery, no surprise, just a cold, empty void.
"Tell me your secret, or I'll tell everyone your secret." The unspoken threat hung in his gaze.
"What do you want?" My voice trembled with hopeless defeat.
"I don't want anything," he tossed the key back to me, which I hurriedly caught. "I just discovered an interesting phenomenon. A person can exist in two completely different realities at the same time."
"What exactly are you trying to say?" I was nearly at my breaking point.
He finally showed a hint of expression, something close to annoyance. "I'm failing my literature class. Faulkner, Fitzgerald... these dead guys' nonsense gives me headaches."
I was stunned, completely unable to follow his train of thought.
"You look like someone who's good at reading," he pointed at the copy of 'Watchmen' at my feet, "especially stuff that needs over-interpretation."
I slowly understood his intention, and a ridiculous sense of humiliation washed over me.
"So?" I practically squeezed the word through my teeth.
"Become my academic advisor," he proposed, his tone casual like discussing some trivial business deal. "Help me pass this damn course, and in exchange, I won't mention to anyone that I saw an interesting 'bare face' on the bridge or here."
He deliberately emphasized "bare face," like a surgical knife cutting through my disguise.
This was a fatal deal. Trading my dignity and time for the safety of my secret. I had no choice.
"Fine," I heard myself say.
Our "tutoring" began in the library.
We sat in the most secluded corner, with huge windows overlooking perfectly trimmed lawns. The library was so quiet you could hear pages turning, and the suffocating silence between us.
I pushed my notes for "The Great Gatsby" in front of him. "These are the key points of the first chapter, character relationships, symbolism..."
He barely glanced at them before starting to draw in his sketchbook. The pencil scratching against paper became the only sound I could hear.
"Are you even listening?" I couldn't help asking.
"I'm listening," he didn't look up. "You're talking about a poor boy who fakes his identity to pursue a shallow rich girl. Sounds familiar."
His words hit like a needle straight to my heart. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.
"Gatsby's tragedy lies in his obsession with the past, and his attempt to construct a false identity through material wealth to win back what he lost," I forced myself to analyze professionally, as if we were actually discussing literature.
"Everyone's fake," he finally put down his pencil and looked up at me. "Including you. You spend hours painting that face of yours every day—aren't you also constructing a false identity? What are you trying to win back?"
His question was too direct, too cruel, leaving me nowhere to hide.
"I don't want to discuss this with you." I turned toward the window.
"Why not? This is interesting." The corner of his mouth curved into that familiar, sarcastic smile. "Your mask is far more real than Daisy's love."
The air between us seemed to freeze with tension. Every argument was like a small war. I attacked his nihilism with literary theory, while he deconstructed my life's lies with cruel reality.
Yet through these forced encounters, I began to discover something different. Though he sneered at the course content, he could precisely pinpoint the author's core intentions. I glimpsed the lines in his sketchbook—those shadows and structures, full of incredible talent and an indescribable loneliness.
Once in a café, to explain symbolism, I leaned in close to him, pointing at a passage in the book. Our shoulders touched, and I caught the faint scent of pine and paint that clung to him.
After I finished explaining, I looked up and found he wasn't looking at the book, but at me. Not at my perfect fake face, but into my eyes.
"You're actually very clever," he suddenly said, his voice low. "Why do you hide it?"
In that moment, my heart skipped a beat. In the depths of his usually cold, distant eyes, I saw for the first time a hint of... curiosity. Not for that dazzling IT Girl, but for the real me who wore thick glasses and would argue with him about Faulkner.
"Aren't you the same?" I heard myself blurt out. "Your paintings are amazing, why do you always act like you don't care about anything?"
He didn't answer, just looked away.
Then, he tore that page from his sketchbook and threw it precisely into the trash can.
I caught a glimpse of it; he had drawn me.
