her back and glares right back, as if she’s silently telling him she knows what’s on his mind and she’s not amused.
Dirtbag finally looks away. He belches and scratches his stomach. Then he flips me off and stalks out the door. I really hope I don’t run into him again later. If I do then I might decide to give in to some violent urges.
My fist clenches and I hit the counter before I remember that Camden is still standing there. She’s looking at me and now there’s pity in her eyes. Wonderful. She must have heard everything.
After I manage to relax my balled up fist I pull the cash out of my wallet and dump it in the register to pay for Dirtbag’s dip.
Camden has crept close enough to lean her elbows on the counter.
“I’m sorry about that, Ben.”
Diane keeps a swivel chair behind the counter when she works and she left it here. I pull it over and sit down.
“What the hell are you sorry for? Are you related to him?”
The pity remains. “I just meant I’m sorry you have to deal with that. Sounds like things aren’t great at home.”
Things haven’t been ‘great at home’ since my dad took a bullet to the head.
Camden uses my silence as an opening. “Do you want to talk about it? I promise I won’t judge.”
No, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to examine my feelings with Camden or anyone else. If I start to do that I might begin punching the counter again. And I might never stop.
“Ben?”
I look at her. “Is it really your birthday today?”
“It’s actually tomorrow.” She makes a face. “Seriously, I can’t believe I’m eighteen. I remember when age eighteen sounded so old.” Her head cocks. “When do you turn eighteen?”
“June.”
That’s true. And it’s not. I did not specify the year. Chronologically my eighteenth birthday happened six months ago. But in the tumultuous time after my father’s death I lost a lot of months of school. My mom thought it was in my best interest to repeat a year and the family friend who secured a new identity for us agreed that it was a good idea to change my birthdate. So on paper I am three hundred and fifty nine days younger than in reality.
She’s waiting for me to say more. I wish she wasn’t so pretty. Camden has a natural kind of beauty that doesn’t require makeup. I’m wary over the fact that she’s in full reporter mode, asking questions and trying to extract answers. But I really don’t want to be a dick to her.
“Camden, I can handle the store tomorrow night if you don’t want to work on your birthday. You probably have better plans than stocking shelves and cooking hot dogs.”
She’s shaking her head before I finish talking. “No, it’s all right.”
“Diane and Dee won’t mind.”
“I should work.”
That kind of stops me for a second. She must really need the money. I think back to the day she showed up here and Dee ended up offering her a job. We’ve got some things in common. There aren’t too many kids at Black Mountain Academy who worry about paying the bills.
“Who’s Adela?” I ask her because I remember Dee mentioning the name.
A smile tilts her lips but she looks sad. “Adela’s my mom. Well, my stepmom. I think of her as my mom. My real mother died when I was a baby but somehow I don’t think she’d mind knowing how much I love Adela.” She tucks a strand of long hair behind her left ear and swallows. “Adela has breast cancer. Her prognosis is good but the treatment takes a lot out of her and she hasn’t been able to work in months.”
This is a moment where people lower their eyes and mutter, “I’m sorry”. That never made any sense to me. Still, I’d be made of bricks if I didn’t feel bad for her. She’s obviously torn up by her stepmom’s illness and she’s already lost one parent. There are few things more terrible than losing a parent and I’m hovering on the edge of admitting that grief is something I understand too well. The weight of four years of silence presses on me and if Camden were a different girl and if we were in a different place I might choose to tell her about my father. Not everything. That would be impossible no matter who she is. But I might decide to be a little