And I also lost my father. No, I couldn’t forget about him. Besides, if THEY had been able to track us down then THEY probably would have found us years ago.
“THEY aren’t even looking,” I assured her, though I had no clue if that was true.
In the end she didn’t try to stop me from going to Black Mountain.
As far as anyone around here knows, I am Ben Beltran, a hard luck working class kid with a good throwing arm who has been living with his mom in a rented two bedroom eyesore ever since moving to Devil Valley nearly four years ago. I never had to invent much of a backstory because no one cared about where I came from. My mom told anyone who asked that we we’d moved from the Chicago area. She was born there and could sound like she knew what she was talking about.
As for me, it’s not hard to avoid giving out details. Guys generally don’t give a flying fuck about my history while girls think it’s hot when I glare at people and don’t say much. Works out for everyone.
Minutes tick past. I don’t know how many because I can’t check my phone. The cell phone service was shut off last week after two months of overdue bill warnings. My mother doesn’t have the cash to pay the outstanding balance. Sometimes her eyes well up with tears just from looking at me so I make an effort to act all cheerful about having no phone, owning three pairs of jeans and eating canned pasta for dinner most nights. Maybe she’s thinking about our old life in a seven thousand square foot estate within sight of the ocean and how there was a maid to clean up after us while half a dozen luxury vehicles languished in the cavernous garage. Or maybe she’s just thinking that the older I get the more I look like my father and the rest of the Drexler men. Either way, she never says what’s on her mind.
To plug the financial holes I’ve been putting in extra shifts at the gas station and I get paid on Friday so I’ll have my phone back soon enough. In the meantime, I just lie and say I lost it because people think it’s inexcusable if you’re not glued to a tiny screen for most of your waking hours.
The air smells of snow today and the cold drills right through my jacket. While growing up, the only time I ever saw snow was on a trip to Aspen. The peak of Black Mountain is already covered with the stuff and down here we’ll get our first seasonal dose any minute now.
A rustling noise catches my attention but it’s just Camden turning the pages of her notebook. I make a bet with myself that she’s either writing awful poetry or making a To Do list. Something like:
Assume I’m superior to the rest of humanity.
Look down my nose at the Devil Valley commoners, especially Ben Beltran.
Act as if I am doing something vitally important instead of doodling random bullshit in a spiral notebook.
A fuzzy pink scarf hangs around her shoulders and it’s the same color as her fingerless gloves. Even with a scarf and gloves and a winter jacket worn over her academy blazer she’s got to be cold with the arctic wind whipping her skirt around her bare legs.
Camden flings her long, honey-colored hair out of her eyes and notices that I’m staring. A peculiar look crosses her face. It’s triumph. She enjoys the idea that I’m looking at her legs and having thoughts.
Then a shadow falls and she becomes annoyed.
She remembers that she hates my guts.
She probably also remembers that rumor about six different shades of lipstick showing up on my dick from all the mouths that supposedly sucked me off at the same party. I don’t know how stories like that start but I’m not going to deny them. What kind of guy would reject the reputation of having an irresistible dick? Sure, I’ve had hookups here and there but there’s never been a blow job orgy involved. I think I would have remembered that.
But I’m fine with Camden believing the worst. If she decided that I was all right then she might think it’s a good idea to talk to me more often. A conversation between Camden and me always veers into a bad place. She’s sure that I’m a low life piece of gutter trash and I’m sure