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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.
