Pretty When She Cries - Black Mountain Academy

In some ways, coming back to this place feels like another acting gig. I signed up for normal because I thought I wanted that shit, but this school is just another stage. Every day here feels like a giant fucking soap opera, and I’m not mourning the loss of my youth as I prepare for the shitshow that will be senior year.

I came back to Black Mountain two years ago because it was the only place I’d ever really felt at home. But that was when my grandmother was still alive, and someone actually gave a fuck about me. Whatever magic may have lived here is gone now, and all that’s left behind is the memory of ghosts. Some days, I could swear one of them still walks these haunted halls, leaving traces of her perfume and trails of her tears.

The sea and sky.

Those things don’t exist in Black Mountain. Not after Kailani turned tail and ran back to Hawaii. Sometimes, I imagine her sitting on the beach with flowers in her hair, smiling over how easily she toyed with me. Now she has five hundred thousand ways to congratulate herself for fooling me better than anyone else ever did.

I spent an entire summer with her, believing she wasn’t like everyone else. As it turned out, she was even worse. She wasn’t just a liar. She was a fucking atom bomb.

After she threatened to burn my life to the ground, she lit the fuse on her own destruction. My publicist and lawyer got involved and squashed whatever story she wanted to leak to the media. They negotiated a deal with her, and like the soul-sucking demon she was, she took it. She took the money so willingly it left a bitterness in my mouth I still can’t swallow. In the end, I guess she got what she wanted. She disappeared without looking back, taking the sea and sky with her.

Now everything is gray. Everything is shit. And I’d be lying if I said her betrayal didn’t sting worse than all the others.

My phone buzzes with a text from my agent, asking me if I’m going to audition for the part in a new series. He wants me to come back to LA before my shelf life as an actor runs out. Translation: he misses the money that slid right into his pockets when I was on a long-running television series. He’s still trying to salvage the career that I willfully imploded, convinced I’m just going through a phase.

Ignoring him, I check the rest of my messages quickly. There are a few from Audrey, asking where I am. A couple more from some of the guys on the football team, begging to have a party at my place this weekend. And then a stream from the last person I want to hear from. My mother.

The Succubus: Can you send me cash or what?The Succubus: I need it, Landon.The Succubus: Don’t forget everything I did for you. I sacrificed the best years of my life to make you who you are. You wouldn’t have all this money if it weren’t for me.The Succubus: This is bullshit. Don’t make me do something you won’t like.A dark cloud settles over me as I read those words again. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s threatened to sell a story to the media, and it won’t be the last either. Half of the shit that gets published about me could be linked back to her. She’s just the first and most persistent on a long list of parasites who want a piece of me. But the difference is she’s my own fucking flesh and blood.

She’s so wrapped up in herself that she doesn’t even realize it’s the first day of my senior year. Her half-assed efforts at being a mother stopped the day I emancipated myself from her at fifteen. Even the court agreed she wasn’t fit. After she blew through half my lifetime earnings on fuck knows what, I had no choice. I put her up in a nice condo in California and send her a generous check every month, but it’s never enough. It will never be enough. She’s a leech, and I’m never going to be free of her or the vultures that follow me like a bad rash.

A fist rattles my window, and I glare up at Carson. He shrugs and makes a face.

What the fuck are you doing?

Good question. The people who consider themselves my friends are already waiting for me inside. Friends isn’t the term I’d use for the devoted followers who trail me everywhere I go. I don’t claim anybody. If I had it my way, everyone would just leave me the fuck alone, the way I prefer it. But I guess they are good for one thing. Background noise to the constant static in my life.