by Brent, Cora
Black Mountain’s snowy peak looms closer. There were no mountains in sight where I grew up. Instead we had endless miles of pristine beaches lined with multi million dollar homes. We had surfing and yacht clubs and ocean breezes. We had girls in bikinis and sunshine and decadence.
But scratch that glittering surface and you’ll find depravity and violence. At least in my family. Those are the things I choose to think of when nostalgia for my old life threatens to make me bitter about this one.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever admit the truth to anyone or if I’ll live my whole life as Ben Beltran. I also wonder if there’s anyone on earth who asks what the hell happened to Bennet Drexler. I had plenty of friends in Coral Beach. I had lots of girls who liked me. I had teachers and neighbors. I also had relatives. But where blood relations are concerned I try to have faith that out of sight means out of mind. Most of the time I hope to never see those bastards again. And sometimes I hope I do see them again so I can beat the living shit out of them. It’s a foolish wish. They aren’t the types to fight fair.
While I’m brooding, the dull gray winter sky lightens just a little. The town of Black Mountain is just ahead in the shadow of the real mountain that gave it a name. Hardly any of the Academy kids are bussed in and most of them live in the surrounding gated neighborhoods because the school isn’t cheap. BMA is full of the spawn of the upper crust. A few of them are genuine celebrity stock but most are just plain super rich. They’d be shocked to hear that I was one of them for most of my life. Now my participation in their world is a technicality. I’m just on the periphery, an extra that adds to the noise of their lives.
Even without access to a clock I know the late bell has already rung. The first bus stop in town is at the south end of campus and I can see that the grassy quad is already clear except for a few lingering slackers. The bus hasn’t even stopped yet and Camden is already standing up and waiting for the doors to open. Waves of uptight angst roll off her as she clutches her book bag and agonizes over every precious second that the classroom misses out on her presence. I take my time making my way up from the back and when the driver hits the brakes a little too hard the bus pitches to a halt. I could have stopped myself from lurching forward but I don’t. I pretend like it’s an accident when I roll right against Camden’s back and get my hands around her waist to keep us both steady. Camden is one of the taller girls in our class, maybe only four or five inches below my six foot two height. That means when she turns to give me the stink eye she doesn’t have to crane her neck. Her hair smells like strawberries and bubble gum. I have a weird urge to bury my face in it.
Instead I take my hands off her waist and try out a polite act. “Gosh, so sorry about that.”
She clears her throat and whips her hair around so that a chunk of it smacks me on the cheek. I want that hair fanned out in my lap. I want to do appalling things to it even though I would guess that the very thought of a guy’s dick sliding into Camden’s neurotic rosebud mouth would probably make her pass the fuck out.
The door opens, Camden huffs out the word “Jackass” and then hurries moodily down the steps.
The driver only has one voice volume. “HAVE A MIRACULOUS DAY!” She waves a purple gloved hand at us.
Camden is already taking long strides toward the quad. If she’s trying to escape me then she’ll have to try harder. I deliberately keep pace two feet behind her. We’re halfway to the imposing double door entrance when she stops, spins and scowls.
“What the hell, Ben?”
She thinks I’m screwing with her on purpose.
Of course I am.
But we also have the same first class so I have every reason to travel in the exact same direction.
We’re now in the middle of the quad and highly visible to all the unseen eyes behind the many windows of the main building. I don’t know what it says about me that I enjoy pissing her off but I remain silent, smile my best Fuck You grin, and wait for her to turn around and keep walking. A few tense seconds pass while Camden tries to decide if I’m worth the effort of more shouting.
She finally sighs, flips her silly hair again and walks more slowly while I stay right in her shadow.
She’s mad that I’m following her.
She’s mad that she failed to hide her delight when she caught me checking her out.
She’s mad that I fucking exist.
Tough shit.
There are plenty of things that I’m mad about too.
Camden
My first inkling that the day is destined for trouble is when I drop my toast (butter side down) on my only clean skirt.
Adela instantly tries to rise from the table, already advising that a sprinkle of baking soda will help, but I order her to sit back down. My stepmother falls back into her chair, too worn out to argue, while I scan the shallow pantry shelves.
She nibbles at a dry cracker. “Frankie needs to wake up. He’ll be late again.”
Her voice is always gentle, forever layered with musical hints of a Spanish accent that she hasn’t lost after nearly fifteen years in the states. The only time I ever hear her yell is while cheering for my stepbrother Francisco at his wrestling matches.
I locate the bright yellow box I’ve been searching for. “He’s awake. I hear the shower running. Before I leave I’ll make sure he’s keeping an eye on the clock.”
Holding the edge of my skirt over the sink is awkward. The greasy butter stain fades after being peppered with baking soda and dabbed with a wet paper towel. I’ve created a wet patch but it’ll dry. I smooth my skirt down and notice Adela is frowning at me. The soft blue head wrap she wears much of the time has slipped an inch and my heart squeezes at the sight of her bare scalp.
“You need new skirts, Cam.”
I know that. Most girls on the cusp of eighteen have long finished growing but puberty found me late. I’ve gained two inches since last spring when my dad shelled out more cash for school uniforms. That was before Adela’s diagnosis, before the permanent hollow rings appeared beneath my father’s eyes, before the woman who has been a beloved mother to me in every way became too sick to work her job at the Devil Valley Market.
I pull the skirt down as far as it will go. I really need to get a part time job. “These are fine. It makes no sense to buy more now when I’ll be graduating in June.”
Adela is still distressed. “I will see what I can do with the hem on my sewing machine.”
“That would be great.” I kiss my stepmother on the cheek to make her smile.
Before braving the chilly gray morning I dash down the hall to the only bathroom in the house and rap twice on the door.
“You’ve got twenty minutes, Frankie.”
A deep voice grumbles back at me. “I know.”
I’m still not used to the fact that he no longer sounds like a kid. He may be the only sophomore on the varsity wrestling team but to me he’s still the shy little boy who shared a giant piece of cake with me at our parents’ small backyard wedding eight years ago. These last five months have been hard on all of us but on him most of all.
“Good luck on your match today,” I tell him and regret that there will be no one there cheering him on. Adela has become too frail, my dad works double shifts nowadays and I’m expecting to be stuck in the Black Mountain Bulletin newsroom until at least five.
There’s no reply, only the sound of the water running. He doesn’t want to talk. I have to get going anyway. If I miss the bus it won’t circle back to Devil Valley for two and a half hours.
I’m halfway there when I realize I should have layered even more clothes under my jacket. The bite in the air is positively glacial. My legs are freezing. I’m cursing myself for failing to throw in a load of laundry last night. I could be wearing a clean skirt and wool tights. The wet patch resulting from the butter incident causes the fabric to slap against my bare thigh. The feeling is unpleasant.
The next unpleasant thing happens when I arrive at the bus stop and discover
I’m all alone with Ben Beltran. Usually I can count on old Mrs. Copella to serve as a cheerful buffer but she’s nowhere in sight. There’s a bench beneath a canopy of grated metal and usually I take a seat until the bus shows up but I’m trying to get the dampness on my skirt to dry so I remain standing and haul out a notebook to jot down ideas for the Bulletin’s next issue.
I avoid looking at Ben while the minutes pass in silence. He moved to Devil Valley the year I started going to Black Mountain Academy so we never shared a class until he transferred to BMA in the middle of junior year. Yet Devil Valley isn’t large enough to avoid being aware of someone in the same age bracket. Unfortunately, Ben’s name is cemented to his insufferable party boy reputation and that’s obviously the way he likes it.
Holding Ben Beltran in contempt would be far easier if he wasn’t so hot. He has a shock of thick, nearly black hair, a generous mouth that always looks pouty and a muscular, athletic build that earns a double take. It would also be nice if he was stupid but that’s not the case either. Ben has kind of a lazy attitude about school but I’ve shared enough classes with him to realize he’s intelligent. We should be friends but we are not. Ben Beltran is a smart jock with looks worth drooling over and he understands what it’s like to be a Devil Valley kid in a Black Mountain world. It’s too bad he’s also a bad tempered asshole who would gladly roll on a condom for any girl that smiled at him.
Or so I’ve heard.
I don’t intend to find out for myself.
My notes are useless because my mind is all over the place. I click the pen in annoyance. The bus is late, piling onto the morning’s woes. When I glance up to see if the bus is anywhere in sight I don’t expect to find Ben staring at me. He doesn’t flinch when our eyes meet and I feel a swift rush. I hope I’m not smiling. Ben might be a creep of the first order but I recognize the heated look in his eyes. No matter who you are, if you like boys and you see a smoking hot one checking you out, you’ll feel a little smug.
I feel less smug when a gust of frigid wind lifts the hem of my skirt and shows off my plain panties. Ben smirks, my face becomes fiery hot, and now I need to spend all my energy keeping my skirt battened down. Just because I enjoy being noticed by a guy doesn’t mean I like flashing the neighborhood.
When the bus finally arrives I take my typical seat at the front and try not to feel disturbed by the fact that Ben Beltran is somewhere behind me. If I turn around for any reason he’ll notice for sure. And he’ll be amused to see me looking at him.
I settle into my seat and try to get interested in my paperback copy of Great Expectations. We are supposed to have it finished by next week but I’m barely a third of the way in. My English teacher, Ms. Carmody, is intensely fixated on Charles Dickens and all we’ve read this year are Dickens titles, although in October she did assign Hemingway’s The Old Man And the Sea for some variety. The words swim in front of my eyes and I think non-Dickensian thoughts.
Specifically, I think about the sight of a shirtless Ben Beltran.
This is a thought that has crossed my mind more than a few times lately.
Last week I was minding my own business en route to the Bulletin office when a commotion echoed from the weight room, along with a lot of ‘MOTHERFUCKER!’-type yelling. As the editor-in-chief of Black Mountain Academy’s only newspaper I am always on the hunt for newsworthy pieces so I crept over to the door and peeked through the window.
There were about a dozen guys in there, all seniors, all engaged in various workout activities with pieces of heavy equipment. One of them, Todd Bellinger, is on the football team. We kissed at a party last year, the only Black Mountain party I’ve ever been to, and he became annoyed when I refused to do anything with the rubbery penis he tried to shove into my hand. Todd was propped up against the weight bench and laughing when he should have been spotting the guy who was lifting on the bench. That guy set the barbell back into place and sat up. He was sweaty and gorgeous and wearing only a pair of gym shorts.
He was Ben.
And God help me, I drooled.
Then I ran down the hall before anyone looked up and saw me gawking at the guy who was rumored to receive assembly line blow jobs at some of the more raucous Black Mountain parties. No matter how hard my hormones convulsed, I was not willing to be one of those girls.
But I can still fantasize.
Yup, I’m damn good about fantasies.
Thinking about sex is my hobby. It’s a hobby I never ever discuss. When my classmates squeal about getting the shakes over the sight of a guy’s bare chest I don’t chime in. I act like I’m not listening. I act like I’m immune to such thoughts.
But right now, while my fellow passengers yawn and the driver hums Jingle Bell Rock, I’m free to daydream in peace and pretend to read Dickens while the bus staggers over the winding road to Black Mountain. No one would ever guess that I’m really thinking about Ben. Ben’s hands on my body, Ben’s tongue in my mouth. It’s a much needed break from all the worries about Adela and money and college plans. It’s just a way to pass the time. I would never think about Ben Beltran in any serious way. Once I overheard some of the BMA high end girls having a conversation about him.
“Yeah, I know he’s a trashy Devil Valley reject but he’s hot as shit and believe me, he’s got his uses where it counts.”
And the word on the street is that Ben doesn’t mind being used. A lot.
The drive passes quickly and I don’t look up until I feel the bus slowing down as the stately campus of Black Mountain Academy looms into view. I’m not happy about arriving at school after the first bell but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’m already standing and waiting for the doors to open when Ben bumps into me from behind. His hands land on my waist, creating a moment that’s just a little too close to my recent fantasies. This is something I resent and so I turn around to glare.
Ben smirks and spits out an insincere apology. He’s inches away and he smells like soap and peppermint. I have to wonder if he possesses some kind of ‘She Wants Me’ radar that can sense the way my thighs press together at his touch. If Ben was a nicer person then I’d be excited about being this close to him but as far as I can tell he’s not a nice person. He ignores the teachers, he parties with the most obnoxious players in school and he treats the opportunity of an elite education like one big cosmic joke.
Unfortunately, he also shares most of my classes and this morning he has decided it’s a cute idea to trail half a step behind me. I’m a little off balance after treating myself to some bus ride mental masturbation and I just want him to go away.
I walk faster.
He keeps pace.
I veer to the side.
He does the same.
Ben Beltran is making me look like a race walking fool for no good reason. All of a sudden I stop and breathlessly explode at him.
“What the hell, Ben?”
And he…
Smiles.
The jerk smiles.
He just keeps on smiling while I simmer.
I don’t even know the rules of the game we are playing but apparently he’s proud of himself for winning.
I turn and stroll into the building as if he isn’t shadowing my footsteps.
Ms. Carmody is right in the middle of a sentence when we walk through the classroom door. She frowns, obviously thinking we’ve been off somewhere together and up to no good. But instead of telling us to go to the office and get a pass she sighs and motions that we ought to take our seats.
“And one of the prevailing themes of Great Expectations is of course the timeless class struggle that still resonates today.”
I copy down the words ‘Class Struggle’ in my spiral notebook but I’m not really paying much attention to the content of the lecture.
I’m too busy fighting all my own worst instincts as they beg to turn around and stare at a guy I can’t stand.
Ben
A definite perk of Black Mountain Academy is the lunch menu.
At Devil Valley High it was necessary to sprint down to a grubby cafeteria that always smelled like sweaty feet and snag a wedge of gummy reheated pizza before they ran out. But here at BMA the cafeteria has a salad bar and a stir fry station. There is sushi and charbroiled hamburgers. Instead of hard picnic benches attached to chipped laminate tables we get to sit on decent furniture that isn’t covered with obscene graffiti. If you can’t find anything to your liking there are also some off-campus options but my scholarship includes a daily trip to the cafeteria so cafeteria food it is. Since no one in my house enjoys cooking it’s always the best meal I get every day.
I’m making short work of a plate full of hamburgers while trying to tune out the obnoxious din of people cackling and squealing and yelling and flirting. I hate crowds and generally I try to stay out of the way on the far end of the jock quadrant of the cafeteria where the football bruisers are mixed in with the hockey tough guys and those of us baseball slobs who don’t have much to do in the off season. Mike Huntington stops by long enough to steal one of my burgers. He’s a teammate and buddy but lately he’s all about the new girl, Violet, and I don’t see him around as much.
“Asshole,” I accuse.
His answer is a grin followed by a middle finger.
Two seconds after Mike’s departure Kent Dresher drops into the seat across from mine. He’s got nothing on his plate but a gigantic steak that looks practically bloody.
I bite down on a burnt French fry. “Dresher, where the hell did you get a steak?”
He rips off a hunk of meat. “I can get whatever the fuck I want, Beltran.”
Kent eats, sleeps and breathes hockey, a sport I’ve never had much use for. But we pal around often these days because we both have no appetite for bullshit and because I appreciate that good manners are not required in his presence. Damn if I can explain how he’s involved with classy, high achieving Trina Jackson. At first glance those two seem as compatible as oil and water but they’ve been together for some crazy amount of time. Two years, I think. There are many days when Kent spends lunch with her and the two of them sit at a center table and drool all over each other, one of the few long term happy couples at BMA. Today Trina is nowhere in sight.