Chapter Eight
Too Pretty to Trust
Ben
Damn. How could he despise Blake one minute, break her fall from a tree the next, and then fight the impulse to run his hands up her…well, all over? It was just a natural physical reaction, he told himself. She was an attractive girl. She was on top of him. It was only natural. His inner monologue was going full-blown Ms. Shapiro, the uncomfortably-open-about-everything sex ed teacher who passed out condoms by the bagful. God, he hated nothing more than talking to middle-aged women about sex. It was disturbing that his sworn enemy could reduce him to a horny idiot by simply falling on him.
He scooped up another armful of TP streamers and put them in the waste bin. Now that he’d been roped into cleanup, the TP prank had lost some of its luster.
“Ben and Blake,” Fozzie called out, as if they might dart. Ben had to admit, Fozzie only stopped to talk to him if he had a job in mind.
As they stood waiting for his orders, Fozzie slowed down and did his name justice with a big stretch and a belly scratch. He looked like he’d just emerged from hibernation. “I was hoping to round up two senior campers and here you are.”
Fozzie gave them their marching orders. The only benefit to scavenger duty—they were momentarily excused from toilet-paper duty. “If I remember right, there’s a box of orange flags in that storage shed somewhere.” He gestured to a shed behind the mess hall. “Grab them and plant them in spots around the area, places the younger campers can find. Don’t stray too far. We don’t want to send them out into the woods by themselves.” As if he just remembered, he said, “And don’t forget to write down where you leave them. I always forget that part.”
“I’ll grab the flags,” said Ben. He’d seen them last night when he was snooping around in the shed. In addition to a basket of flags and sports equipment, the shed in question contained twenty or so years of unclaimed lost and found items. It was a clown car of an outbuilding. Last night he’d made a few discoveries, including one bottle of sherbet hair dye, obviously Cook Betsy’s. It must’ve fallen out of her bag and been placed in the shed-shaped black hole that passed for lost and found. When he’d combed through the pile, Ben had felt himself getting the garage sale high his mom got. One promising sale and she was all dilated pupils, low impulse control, and euphoria. It usually ended in a cat-shaped cookie jar or a broken sewing machine.
After grabbing the flags, he found Blake at the edge of the woods. Instead of checking her phone obsessively like normal, she was staring into the trees, almost like she was interested in nature, but there was no way. With her cut-offs, T-shirt, and ball cap, she looked as down-to-earth as she did pretty. He knew that Blake wasn’t down-to-earth. His mind was just messing with him. He needed to scrub that memory of her pressed against him from his mind. Condoms taped to car. Fetal pig rumor. Strip-o-gram—that’s what he needed to focus on. Thinking about Blake in any other way totally weirded him out. The less time they spent together, the less time he’d have to get confused. Gruffly, he barked, “Let’s hurry up this scavenger hunt.”
“Aren’t you cranky all of a sudden.”
If only she knew. Ben shrugged and followed the beacon of Blake’s Day-Glo orange head to the wooded area. Technically, the color was sherbet, but it did have a Day-Glo look about it.
Blake, still focused on the task at hand, said, “Let’s stick a flag here.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll take pictures so we remember where we put them. Dammit,” she said, looking at her screen. “My phone died. Can I borrow yours?”
“No.”
“Seriously? I just want to take a picture.”
He shook his head. “I’ll do it. Last time I loaned my phone to a Bellevue brat, they cracked the screen and laughed.” It felt weird to be so argumentative, but he absolutely couldn’t let his guard down around her. Kissable lips or no, she was not trustworthy.
With an icy stare, she said, “That’s probably because you were a jerk first.”
He held up his phone. “Do you know how much this cost?”
“Enlighten me, Oh Wise One.”
“This is like a month’s worth of bussing tables for me.” He looked at her pointedly. “My daddy doesn’t foot all my bills, unlike some people I know.”
“You talk about ‘Bellevue kids’ like we are one person. I think you’re prejudiced.”
Ben threw back his head and laughed. “That is funny.”
“Look up the definition of prejudice in the dictionary. Someone broke your iPhone and now you hate the whole school.”
It was more than that, though. It was the fact that nobody at Bellevue had to earn anything. They just expected to be taken care of. Ben started at the school a year ago. His mom worked two jobs just to pay for stuff like the electricity and food. The kids at Bellevue used iThings like they were paper plates and paid for everything on someone else’s credit. Blake had spent more on that strip-o-gram than his family spent on monthly rent.
In the beginning, he had legit tried to fit in. He paid to get his phone fixed and spent the rest of his limited cash on burritos with the guys after football practice, but it wasn’t sustainable. There was no way he could earn enough money with after-school jobs to keep up with the Bellevue crowd. Every day it was something new. It would start with burritos—$10. Next, they might all want to play paintball—$20. Then, they’d be like, “let’s see a movie”—$15. Then, it was “Want to go to Aspen with me over break?”—a bajillion dollars. It was better not to even try.
His mom saved extra ketchup packets from McDonalds to use at home, and most of the furniture was vintage, a.k.a. stuff from the side of the road or the thrift store.
Blake scrunched her nose like she was thinking. “Well, if we can’t take pictures, how are we going to remember everything? I don’t have any paper. Is it worth walking back?”
Blake had a point. He’d take pictures. As he pulled his phone out and was swiping over to get the camera, Blake grabbed it. “Wha—?”
Before he knew what had happened, the phone slipped through her fingers and landed on a big rock. What the hell had she been thinking?
Blake was frozen, her eyes silver-dollar big as she waited for him to react.
“I told you I didn’t want to—” he started to say.
“Did it break?” she cut him off in a soft voice as if talking any louder would make it worse.
It had broken. There was a big old crack going through the center of the screen. He shook his head. “Dammit.”
Her hand went to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was my fault.”
They’d been alone five times since camp started. The first time, she’d stabbed him. The second time, she’d tackled him. Now, his phone was broken. If he was keeping score, which he was, it was 4:1, with Blake in the lead. The question: was she playing or was she truly the biggest klutz in the world?
Blake held out her hand. “Let me see.” After a quick inspection, she said, “I’ll pay to fix it.”
His mouth sagged open. First she broke the damn phone. Then she offered to pay to fix it. There was something weird going on. Maybe it was opposite day and he was the only one who didn’t get the memo. This girl had him so confused.
A few hours later, Ben and George were enjoying “Quiet Time” on the front porch. The heat was baking the smell right out of all the dirty laundry hanging over the railing. Ben figured they probably wouldn’t even have to wash the old clothes after they let UV rays bake all the bacteria out.
Ben cracked open Spite, Malice, and Revenge. The authors advised that he create a file on his target. After today, he felt like that wasn’t a bad idea. He was clearly missing part of the picture. He couldn’t decide whether it was very international spy of him or grade school-ish, but either way, he was taking notes. “George, I’m going to start a file on her.”
“You mean Blake?”
“Obviously.”
Ben wrote down some facts and showed the paper to George. “Whadya think?”
Biographical Data
Name: Blake Jones
Age: 16
Siblings: none
Jerk father: lawyer. Family tobacco money
Mother: a trophy wife who flaked out and skipped town. Possible mental breakdown. Rumored to be a Vegas showgirl now
Boyfriend: Luke Culpepper, possibly
Totally superficial
The best at everything: sports, cheerleading, school
George glanced at the paper. “I bet she’s suffering from attachment disorder. Abandoned by her mother and a disinterested father—unless she had an alternate caregiver, she probably suffered feelings of abandonment as a child. Most likely, she needs counseling.” In a more casual tone, he said, “Not that that excuses her being a jerk to you or anything.”
“I meant, what should we do next?” Ben flipped through the revenge manual. It advised him to “Trust no one, especially the mark.” That advice resonated, at least when she wasn’t straddling him. It’s too bad there wasn’t a section on what to do when you started having inappropriate thoughts about the mark’s perfectly rounded assets. “You’re the only person I can trust, George.” In a faux serious voice, he added, “And that’s because I have dirt on you. You’re an accomplice.”
George laughed. “Whatever. More like a witness.”
Ben arched an eyebrow. “No, dude. You launched some toilet paper last night. Your hands are dirty.” He drummed his fingers on the porch railing.
Ignoring Ben’s inflammatory comments per usual, George looked at him curiously and said, “I have a theory. You could be striking out at her because your feelings for her make you feel vulnerable?” With a piercing stare, George said, “Like, maybe you like her?”
“Nah. This has nothing to do with my psychology.” Although after today, Ben had to admit—maybe there was something to George’s observation. But he needed to set those feelings aside. Blake had been awful for a whole year and sort of nice one or two times. And she wasn’t even that nice. It just seemed like she’d lost her edge. Her insults weren’t as fast or biting as normal. She was still the same Blake, though.
George scowled at him. “It’d be a lot easier if you just asked her out. I mean this is a lot of work. It’s basically foreplay.” He sighed heavily and said, “You’re such a stereotype, Ben. My parents were hoping I’d make more friends like you at camp.”
“Likewise, George. What’s your parents’ problem with you anyway?”
“Who knows.”
Ben’s thoughts drifted to the party, the one Derek invited Blake to. “Did you hear about Derek’s party, a bonfire out in the woods or somewhere?” asked Ben.
George put on a thinking face for just a second. “No. Nothing. I thought there was a sing-along or scary stories tonight. I don’t remember.”
“Hmm. Well, there’s some sort of thing happening in the woods, too. Do you want to go?”
“Not really,” George said. “I want to turn in early. All this subterfuge is making me tired.”
With or without George, Ben wasn’t going to miss the party. He hated to admit it, but if Blake was going, he wanted to be there, too. In a party environment, she’d probably morph back into her normal mean girl self and put all of his confusion to rest. He wasn’t too excited about a party with Derek, but the peace of mind would be worth it.