THE PRETENDER: Black Mountain Academy

by Brent, Cora

  He hands the girls their change and they giggle their way outside, as giddy as if they’ve just encountered a celebrity. Ben shrugs out of his vest and then hops right over the counter like it’s nothing. He stops short when he sees me standing in the doorway of the stockroom.

  “Watch the front counter for a minute.”

  “What am I supposed to do if someone walks in?”

  “I guess you’ll have to use that enormous brain of yours to figure it out.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “Christ, you’re nosy. Got to take a piss.” He knocks on the restroom door to make sure it’s empty and then pushes the door open. Before disappearing inside he gives me a once over while his hand brushes the front of his pants. “Did you want to watch or something?”

  I swallow hard. “You’re disgusting.”

  He’s not offended. He simply shrugs. “Some people are into that. Anyway, keep an eye on the register.”

  Ben disappears. I’m irritated. And weirdly turned on. The combination is confusing.

  It’s also left me with a very determined thought.

  Ben’s backstory is strange. No one in their right mind would choose to move from Chicago to far flung, struggling, tiny Devil Valley. Not unless they were hiding from something.

  And if there’s anything phony about Ben Beltran then I plan to discover exactly what it is.

  Ben

  “Please. We’re family.”

  “Not anymore.”

  It’s just a fragment of a conversation. An old one, overheard years ago.

  Yet it creeps into my mind at random times and has the power to tear my soul in half.

  The echoes of voices in the weight room have receded and I’m somewhere else entirely when Kent snaps his fingers in my face.

  I swat his hand away. “What?”

  “What?” he mimics, then crosses his thick arms. “You’ve been dragging ass all week. Now you’re squatting in a corner and daydreaming like a fucking weirdo.”

  “Not daydreaming for fuck’s sake,” I grumble and bend down to tie my left shoe. Daydreaming is definitely not a good description for the flares of violent memories that decide to take my brain for a spin with no warning.

  Kent jerks his head. “Get your ass over there to spot me on the bench.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to agree. He heads for the bench and strips off his shirt. He doesn’t really need me to spot him but if the coach catches anyone not following safety measures there’s all kinds of hell to pay and it’s just not worth the drama.

  I stand by while Kent begins pumping out a set, lifting over three hundred pounds worth of weight with so little effort he might as well have been lifting cardboard.

  He’s hardly broken a sweat by the time he’s done and he wipes down the bench with his shirt. “Hold on, Beltran. I’ll take off some of that weight so you don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Fuck you,” I grumble and get positioned.

  I can handle the weight, although my arms feel like gelatin by the time I finish the set and sit up. Meanwhile, Kent stands beside me and blabs on and on about all the creative ways he plans to screw his pretty girlfriend tonight.

  He pauses when I stand and snatch my backpack off the floor. “You taking off already?”

  “Yeah, I’m working tonight so I’ve got to go catch the bus back to paradise.”

  He yawns. “So what’s going on in Devil Valley this weekend?”

  I shrug. “Nothing good. Just as well. I’ll be on the clock tonight, tomorrow and Sunday.”

  He twirls his sweaty shirt into a rope and snaps it in my direction. “Your dick is gonna shrivel up if you don’t find it a playmate soon.”

  “Don’t worry so much about my dick.” I flip him off. “See ya Monday.”

  “Later, asshole.”

  On my way into the locker room I nearly collide with Landon Blackwood. He gives me a nod of acknowledgement before throwing out an invitation to a party tomorrow night. Blackwood has always been cool with me but I don’t feel like explaining to the celebrity god of Black Mountain that I need to work so I tell him I’ll try to make it.

  After a quick shower I check my phone, which is operational again now that I’ve scraped together the money to pay the overdue bill. A curse hisses out of my mouth when I realize I have about thirty seconds to grab my shit and dash to the bus stop. If I don’t make it I’ll miss work and be stuck in Black Mountain until the next bus shows up in two hours.

  My hair is wet and I don’t have time to yank on my jacket. The bus pulls up to the corner just as I exit the front doors of the main building and I wave my hand in the air before accelerating to a sprint across the grass.

  When I get closer I notice that Camden is there, just inside the open bus doors, paused with one foot on the first step. She says something to the driver and turns around just as I catch up.

  “You almost didn’t make it,” she informs me in her starchy Queen Of All Knowledge tone. Now that we work together I get to listen to it a lot more than I’d like to.

  My favorite response is to stare at her and say nothing while picturing her on her knees with a mouthful of my dick.

  I do this now. I do not feel even slightly guilty.

  Camden tosses her curtain of almost-blonde hair and ascends the steps. She does have insanely sexy legs. Jerking off to dirty mental pictures of Camden Galway has become a steady habit of mine over the past two weeks but that’s because she’s now all over my life. She’s on the bus, she’s in the classroom and she’s a fixture at my job. I can’t get away from her if I try.

  She always chooses a seat near the front and I always choose a seat near the back. We don’t talk on the bus and we don’t talk at school. That hasn’t changed since we started working together.

  I throw my bag on the seat and plunk right down. Then I realize that my jacket, which had been in my hand when I left the locker room, is now nowhere in sight. I must have dropped it somewhere.

  Awesome.

  It’s my only warm jacket and the bus is already on the move. With a sigh I stuff my hands into the front pockets of my hoodie and glare at the diminishing silhouette of Black Mountain Academy. I feel like Oliver fucking Twist.

  There are only three other people on the bus and one of them is Camden. While we’re always on the same bus in the morning we often leave at different times after school. This time of year I don’t have baseball practice so I usually catch the first bus after school ends. I figure she probably takes a later bus after she’s finished ordering everyone around at the Bulletin. I’ve never asked and I don’t really care.

  She’s got her head down at the moment and it looks as if she’s writing something. All of a sudden, as if she can sense my attention, she turns around and gives me a frank stare. I stare right back at her.

  We’re going to be working together tonight, which tends to be both interesting and irritating. Interesting because she’s fun to look at and irritating because she’s bossy as shit. Friday nights are typically busy. Diane Cushing has been filling in for her husband while he recuperates. She had asked me if I could handle the place until closing tonight with only Camden around to help.

  Of course I can.

  Even if working with Camden makes me want to tear my hair out occasionally I would never let the Cushings down. They’ve been good to me; giving me the job, working around my schedule, handing out extra hours because they know I really need the cash. They are great people. For them I’ll even put up with Camden’s overbearing attitude and act happy about it.

  Camden stares at me for another few seconds and there’s something calculating about the look on her face. It’s not a sex-me-up kind of look. I can spot those from half a block a way. No, it’s more like she’s considering scooping my brains out and examining the contents under a microscope.

  I give her a wink, just to fuck with her a little, which is enough to make her swivel around and face front again. She fluffs her hair and returns to her notebook.
This brief exchange has rushed enough blood to my dick to make me wish I had time to stop at home and jerk off before reporting to work.

  The bus rumbles along the road down to Devil Valley. The driver sings along with the radio.

  “Come on, guys, join in!” she shouts to us before breaking into the chorus of Frosty the Snowman. Camden is the only one who cooperates and even though she sings softly it sounds as if she might have a decent voice.

  I should use this time to do my homework but I don’t feel like it so I stare out the window. A light dusting of snow fell last night and I guess it makes everything look all nice and festive but I never get excited about the holidays anymore.

  Last night my mom asked what I want for Christmas and I told her I didn’t want a thing. I don’t know why she asked. She can’t even make rent these days without help from my paycheck. But then her face became sad and I wondered if she was remembering the old days when this time of year meant a ten foot professionally decorated tree lighting up the foyer of the house and knowing that the vast collection of presents underneath it would take forever to open. I can remember more than one Christmas morning when my dad surprised her with keys to a new car or a new boat, which would be waiting in the driveway with a giant red ribbon. Later in the day, after I’d finished tearing the paper from dozens of expensive gifts, the three of us would go out on the bay or take a drive up the coast. Those golden days seem like they happened to someone else on a distant planet and I wish I’d appreciated them more.

  Without warning the bus skids on a curve and my forehead smacks into the cold window glass.

  “Fuck.” I rub my head and wonder what the hell else can go wrong today.

  Moments later the bus rolls through the center of Devil Valley and pulls up to the corner stop.

  Camden is already standing and chatting with the driver. Something about a church potluck and two hundred handmade napkin holders. They laugh together as if they are best friends. I’ve got to admit, while Camden is not fantastically popular among people our age, she does seem to have everyone over the age of thirty wrapped around her little finger. The Black Mountain teachers worship her, the Cushings adore her, and even the bus driver loves her to pieces.

  “You have a great weekend, Rita,” Camden calls out when the doors open.

  Rita waves a mitten-covered hand. She wears a hat in the shape of raggedy felt reindeer ears. “You too, honey. Oh, and Happy Birthday!”

  Camden departs and Rita turns to me. “You have a good weekend too, Mr. Scrooge.” She thinks she’s told a terrific joke and she laughs hysterically.

  Reindeer Rita may be kind of goofy but she means well so I raise a hand in farewell and hustle off the bus.

  Camden hasn’t gone far. She lingers on the corner with her notebook clutched to her chest and watches me climb down the steps. She’s got that look on her face again, like the gears in her brain are turning a mile a minute. I don’t like games so if she has something in mind I wish she’d just spit it out.

  “You waiting for me?” I ask her.

  The bus rolls away from the curb with a groan of its old gears and Camden gives me a broad smile.

  “Hey, Ben. I was just thinking about how it’ll just be the two of us at work today.”

  She’s acting like this is an exciting development. I don’t know what the hell this girl is so cheerful about. The gas station isn’t exactly a hotbed of good times and usually when we’re there at the same time we kind of stay out of each other’s way as much as possible.

  A harsh gust of wind slices through the fabric of my sweatshirt. It sucks to be without a jacket all weekend and I don’t even have a guarantee that mine will turn up on Monday.

  “Great,” I tell her. “We can sip hot cocoa and share a peppermint stick.”

  Her smile fades. “Your sarcasm is not required.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Camden.”

  “Nothing.” She blushes and tightens her arms around her notebook. “I was just thinking it would be nice if we stopped acting as if we’re enemies.”

  “Okay. We can fuck in the stockroom if you want.”

  Her mouth falls open and her cheeks redden. “Oh my god. Screw you, Ben.”

  There are plenty of things I could say but they would all make the situation go from bad to worse. I can’t explain my perverse urge to cut her down to size by making filthy remarks. Maybe it’s because being attracted to her is annoying. In any case, I turn and start walking across the street toward Dee’s. Camden has no choice but to follow along in the next few minutes or else she’ll be late for work.

  Diane Cushing is behind the counter and even though she smiles when I walk in she then rubs her eyes, issues a loud sigh and shouts, “BRIAN!”

  There’s a loud clatter from the back and her nephew trudges to the front. “Yeah?” He wipes his red nose with the sleeve of his grubby flannel shirt and runs skinny fingers through his wild hair.

  His aunt frowns at him. “Ben is here. You can take off for the day.”

  Without comment, Brian shuffles out the door, nearly colliding with Camden as she arrives. He’s kind of a charity case; in and out of trouble with the law, not trustworthy enough to handle the register and useless when it comes to neatly stocking the shelves. There’s only so much the Cushings can do to help him straighten out his life but family means something real to them. I can’t say the same thing. I love my mom but the rest of my family can smother in a sand trap for all I care.

  Now that her wayward nephew is gone, Diane is more upbeat, fussing over both me and Camden. She asks us about school and reminds us that we’re allowed to choose snacks for free during our shifts. Anything we want, no arguments. Diane Cushing is probably one of the top five nicest people in the state.

  Diane doesn’t stay long. She says Dee is waiting for his dinner at home and she doesn’t want him trying to get out of bed more than necessary. Before leaving she hugs Camden.

  “Happy birthday, sweet girl,” Diane croons as I pull on my work vest and wonder if I’m the only person in Devil Valley who does not have Camden Galway’s birthday marked on the calendar.

  When Diane finally leaves there’s an immediate void filled with awkwardness amid the overhead bleat of Christmas music from the speakers.

  Camden’s lips press together and she looks toward the back. “I guess I should go see what kind of a disaster Brian left.”

  “I’ll do it,” I say because I know Brian probably really did leave a disaster behind and because sometimes I’m not an asshole.

  She shakes her head. “No, I’d rather do it. I have a method of organizing the stock. First I count all the existing inventory and record it on a spreadsheet and then I compare this to the sales record in case there’s any discrepancies and then-“

  “Fine, you do it.”

  She looks miffed and stalks away but if I hadn’t interrupted her then she probably would have kept going on about spreadsheets for twenty minutes.

  After Camden disappears into the stockroom there’s a flurry of activity. A couple of guys from Korbell’s Garage stop by for gas and to load up on hot dog dinners. Some kids roll up on their bicycles, carefully browse the candy aisle and then slowly count out their change to pay for their goods. Two tenth graders try to get away with buying a forty ounce bottle of liquor. The six gas pumps are active as everyone fills up for the weekend. Diane mentioned that the tanks were just filled last night so I don’t need to worry about any of the pumps running out. Customers drop in to buy gum and beer and corn nuts and chocolate bars. A few of them search through the racks of cheap Christmas gifts in case anyone on their list needs a rhinestone keychain or a pleather bible case or a Devil Valley t-shirt. The brisk business makes the time fly by and the only time I see Camden is when she visits the hot food counter to add more hot dogs on the rolling heater. The next time I look up she’s nowhere in sight.

  And then the evening takes a rotten turn because Dirtbag walks in.

  “Ben,”
he says and tries to give me a fist bump, which I ignore.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  There’s no reason to pretend we’re buddies just because my mom is lonely enough to cling to him. His name isn’t Dirtbag, of course. It’s Darren. He’s been hanging around for about four months and even though he bobs between temp jobs that never last longer than two weeks and lives in a basement room in his sister’s house, my mother seems to be crazy about him.

  Dirtbag points to the wall behind me. “Two Outlaw Dip.”

  That’s another gross thing about Dirtbag. He always has a wad of tobacco in his cheek and often doesn’t bother to use a trashcan when he spits.

  I slide the cans across the counter. Dirtbag paws through his wallet. “Shit, I thought I had a twenty in here.”

  My arms cross over my chest and I know there’s a scowl on my face. I’ve seen this act before. He pulls it with my mom all the time.

  His eyes are the color of swamp mud and there’s no friendliness in their depths even though he smiles. “Hey kid, you think you can spot me?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Come on, Ben. I’ll get you the cash tomorrow.”

  I take the dip and toss it back on the shelf. “Come back when you can pay.”

  The swamp eyes narrow. “Your mom’s working over at Imogen’s tonight. I can just walk over and get the cash from her.”

  It kills me to know that he’s right. My mother’s probably been on her feet at the diner for eight hours and she’s got a few more hours left. But Dirtbag knows all he has to do is wrap his arms around her waist and whisper in her ear and she’ll hand over her hard earned tip money.

  I don’t have enough cash on me for both tobacco tins but I can repay the register for one. I practically throw it at him.

  “Take it. Just don’t come around the house tonight.”

  Dirtbag pockets the tobacco and grins. “Hate to break it to you, but your mom’s expecting me to pick her up after work. Then I know she’s gonna want me to rock her sweet ass until she passes out. If you won’t want to listen to the soundtrack then don’t fucking come home.”