Battered, With Love

Chapter 12 -- Bentley Westford Remington III

Hiiii! Hey! Merry Christmas Eve and have a WONDERFUL Christmas! I hope your day is full of blessings, joy, family, friends, presents, giving, cupcakes, donuts, and probably every thing in the world that's good. ^__^

"Responsibility makes you question the importance of your own wants and desires." -- Ash

            “Bentley Westford Remington III.” The minute Mrs. Isaac says that name, we all turn to see who in the world could have that big mouthful of a name as a teenager. He’s lanky yet lean. He looks my age, about fourteen. Thick, dark brown hair falls into his eyes, and he keeps reaching up and pushing the strands back. I can’t make out his eye color because his eyes are partially covered by his hair, but they simmer with conflicting emotions.

            “Here,” he responds shortly. “and I go by Ben.”

            I think names always have a story behind them, even if your parents chose your name on the way to the hospital or if they knew what they were going to name you years before you even came into physical existence. And Ben, for sure, had a story behind his name, one he must not have liked. I was curious about who he was immediately, because really, what teenager is named Bentley Westford Remington? That is, in simple terms, craycray.

            The weeks flew by after the first day of the new semester, and it became a comfortable routine for me and Bentley: we only talked when we needed to, which was never. It was Creative Writing class anyway, so it was mostly individual work.

            One time, Harun, Ben, and I all had to work on a project together.

            “What up, home skillet!” Ben grins widely as I sit down. Everything about him is friendly and accommodating, from his smile, to his body language, to his hand gestures. It’s hard to believe that someone like this, someone so carefree, can have a name that’s so pompous and stuck up.

            “Hi.” I respond cautiously.

            “So, the project. I think we should have a flash mob.”

            This suggestion catches me off guard. “W-what?” Is the intelligible response I can muster given how taken aback I am. “A flash mob?” Slightly better.

            “Yeah!” He leaps up out of his chair, the physical manifestation of uncontained energy and creativity. “We could do it during this class, and get the JROTC students in on it when they’re doing their drills. Then we can cut it and put in our marketing pitch.”

            It was a project where we had to market a product. We were supposed to film a commercial. It wasn’t really a project involving creative writing but what the heck? The teacher, Mrs. Isaac, wasn’t exactly what you would call conventional.

            We have a month to film the commercial. Mrs. Isaac gives us class time to work on the project, but it wasn’t enough. Harun is in my group as well, so our parents let us both stay after school to work on the project with Ben and his other friend, William.

            The month flew by, and we all aced the project. After that, Ben and I were always on a hi-bye basis, but never more. It was two weeks after that project was over, freshman year, when he finally approached me.

            I blow out an exhausted breath as I make my way to my locker, relieved because I don’t’ have to hurry like I do every other day. Christian’s mom was going to give us a ride to the Colombian bakery to buy food for a Spanish project we had due tomorrow. Harun was supposed to meet me here at my locker before we both went to meet up with Christian.