The Pretender - Cora Brent Page 0,3

out the greeting is somewhere around my mom’s age. She’s too irrationally happy about driving a decrepit municipal bus on a frigid morning.

I hustle up the steps, flash my pass and drop my backpack into the last seat on the left. Only a handful of other riders are yawning in their own seats and every one of them is alone. I watch Camden climb on and smile at the driver before sitting up front. I stare at the back of her head. It’s a familiar sight. She’s in most of my classes and always sits in the front row, back straight in the chair, pen at the ready to copy down whatever priceless wisdom rains from the teacher’s mouth.

The drive to Black Mountain takes twenty-four minutes. Sometimes I push my backpack against the window and use it as a pillow while the scenery flies past. But today I don’t feel like napping because I’m thinking of Camden’s skirt flying up. I don’t want to. I just can’t help it. If I thought I could get away with it I might spank one out real quick in my seat.

My hand brushes the rigid bulge in my pants. My mind pictures blinding white panties and the tantalizing V at the center. A groaning hiss escapes me and the old lady sitting two rows up pauses her knitting needles to swivel around and deliver a suspicious glare.

I glare right back. But I also take my hand off my dick and look out the window instead.

The landscape gets prettier as we leave Devil Valley behind. Not everyone in the town of Black Mountain is wealthy or famous. There are plenty of regular folks mixed in. However, Devil Valley is considered a distant poor cousin and some people turn this into a rivalry. The sports teams don’t often play each other, which is a good thing because when they do, Black Mountain always wins. Then there’s a fight because some jackass will inevitably shoot off his mouth and Devil Valley kids don’t take kindly to being crapped on.

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