Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (11 page)

“Just because I don't want to sound like crap when we play
I'm
unprofessional?” Duke said. “You know what, princess? Screw you.”

And with that, Duke stormed out, shouldering me on his way to the back door.

“Hey!” I cried. “Uncool, Duke!”

And then everyone was looking at us. The two randos standing by the spiced chicken parts.

“Hey, Mary, Lydia,” Violet said, distracted. “Sorry, um, things are a little . . . dodgy right now.”

“Totally get it,” Mary said, backing away from the buffalo wings. “Come on, Lydia.” But as we backed out of the supply room, the drummer, who I remembered being introduced onstage as Genevieve, came up to Violet.

“That jackass. What are we gonna do now?” she said.

“Duke will be back,” Violet replied. “He's just being a prima donna. As per usual.”

“Before we have to go back out there?” Genevieve pointed her thumb toward the hall to the stage. Behind Mary and me, we could hear the beginnings of a low rumble. One that grew into a chant.

“Me-chan-ics . . . Me-chan-ics . . .”

“Whoa,” Violet said. “Shit. Gen, go out back and grab Duke—once he hears that, he'll chill out. I've gotta fix my G string.”

Mary tugged at me. “Lydia,
let's go
. We shouldn't be here.”

But just that second, Gen zoomed past us again.

“He's not there.”

“He's not out back smoking one of his stupid cigarillos?” Violet's head came up.

“No. And neither is the car.”

Her eyes went crazy wide. “He took the car?
My
car? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” She began to pace in time to the chanting, which was growing louder and louder. “What are we going to do? We can't go out without a bassist.”

“Mary can do it.”

Every single eye flew to me—and the fastest was Mary's.

“Mary?” Violet asked.

“She plays bass guitar.”

“Not, like, onstage!” Mary said, going pale. Well, paler.

“She's really good, though. And she knows all your songs. She's listened to your CD.”

“That's right, you would have!” Violet replied, swooping over toward us and grabbing Mary by the elbow.

“But . . . I'm not . . . No, this isn't a good idea,” Mary protested, her voice shaking a little.

“We only have three songs in our encore,” Violet was saying, her eyes glued to Mary's. “And all the chords are super easy and on a four/four. It's nothing crazy—you'd totally be able to follow along. It's just for tonight. To save our asses.”

“I . . . well, I . . . guess?” Mary squeaked.

Violet grabbed Mary into a rib-crushing hug, as the rest of the band swooped around her. “Gen, show her the set list. Jones, grab Duke's bass, make sure it's in tune, and give it to Mary. Come on, guys, we've got ninety seconds before that crowd loses it.”

I jumped up and down, clapping with glee. Mary sent me a look of sheer terror, but I gave her the world's biggest thumbs-up. “I'm gonna go get a good spot. Break a leg, Mary!”

“I don't want to break a—” I heard her say before she got swallowed up by the rest of the Mechanics, and I squeezed my way back into the barroom.

As suspected, the miracle table had been taken over by a couple of frat bros high-fiving over their good luck. But that was cool; I wanted to be standing in the crowd for this. I wanted a good spot from which to witness Mary's debut.

Less than a minute later, Violet and her bandmates reemerged from the back . . . including Mary. Who, to her credit, did not look like a deer in headlights. She looked like a deer that had actually gotten hit by the car and was walking away, stunned.

The crowd roared as they came out. But there was no way they could drown out my screams.

“WOOOOOOOOO, MAAAAAAAARRRRRYYYYYYY!!!!!!!”

From her expression, I'm pretty sure Mary heard me.

“Y'all want more?” Violet said into the mic. “Careful what you wish for—one, two, three, four!”

And they launched into their song. For the first minute or so, Mary looked like she was playing catch-up, watching Violet and Jones (the other guitarist) for her cues, but soon enough, she relaxed into the gig. Started listening to the music she was playing.

Ten seconds later, Mary had a crazy smile on her face.

It was like seeing the yeti.

I whipped out my phone. Why hadn't I been videoing this from the beginning? I held it up, turned it on, and . . . nothing.

“Crap!” I swore to myself. “Battery's dead.”

Then, I spied another phone in the audience. Harriet's. She was standing next to Cody, and annoyingly taking a selfie with him in the middle of Mary's moment.

But it gave me an idea.

I wedged my way through the crowd over to them. Harriet just looked at me, dismissed me, and turned back to watch the band. But whatevs, she wasn't my object.

“Hey, Cody—let me borrow your phone. Mine's dead.”

He turned to me, blinked twice, then handed it over.

“What do you need it for?” he whisper-yelled into my ear.

“My cousin—” I said, pointing. “Look!”

He found Mary in the back of the band, jamming away. “Awesome!” he said. “You have to get that.”

I held up his phone and hit record. Holding a phone steady above the waving hands of other partygoers while moving along to the music yourself is not easy, but I have skills.

“Oh, look at Mary!” Harriet said from Cody's other side, suddenly remembering my cousin existed and also trying to bring his attention back to her. “Are you going to put her online again, Lydia? It was always sooooo funny when she didn't want to be on camera—”

“No,” I said, shutting her up. “This is just for me. And her.”

Harriet's jaw clamped shut. Then, her voice turned all sickly sweet. “Hey, Cody—I'd love another beer.”

“Oh, great. Me, too.” He fished a bill out of his pocket. “Thanks.”

Harriet had no choice but to stomp over to the bar, leaving us in the crowd, swaying to the music as the band transitioned into a slower, more mellow song.

“You're being kind of an ass to her,” I said.

“She's been kind of an ass to you,” he replied. “I know she left you in Vegas and everything.”

I tried not to let the cold dread slide into my stomach. Vegas. Yeah, last New Year's, Harriet and I went to Vegas. We were supposed to hang out, but she and some other people abandoned me. And I ended up running into George Wickham.

Among other happenings.

But the only way Cody could know that is if he watched my
videos from last year. Those pesky things that keep retelling their history to everyone who wants to listen.

“Maybe you shouldn't have brought her out here tonight then.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “She's okay. But I chickened out on asking the person I wanted to.”

“That's a shame,” I replied.

“What do you think that person would have said?”

“That person would have told you to take a hike.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him break into a grin.

He leaned into my ear. “I like you, Lydia.”

I felt his hand on the small of my back, just a light touch.

“I'm not sure if I like you yet,” I replied. “But you're growing on me.”

*  *  *

After the band finished their encore, they swept offstage like they were just declared the winners in the Battle of Being Awesome. I let Cody email me the video I took, but then I slipped backstage to hang with Mary before he could do or say anything else.

It's okay. He had to take Harriet home. Besides, I didn't know how I felt about what he said to me. All I know is that the night was awesome, with this buzzy energy that made everything better. So I'd think about that stuff later.

“That was amazing!” I said, grabbing Mary into a bear hug. “Ewww, you're all sweaty. I don't care, though.” And I hugged her again.

“Yeah, Mary, you really saved our butts,” Violet said, grinning wide. “Didn't she, guys?”

Genevieve and Jones nodded, shaking Mary's hand. “You did good, Bennet,” Gen said, while Jones winked at her. Which made me grin like an idiot at a blushing Mary.

“Yeah, yeah, guys, give her some air,” Violet said, shooing them away. “Now, um, I hate to ask this, but . . . those guys are going to take the equipment in the van back to their place, but it's a pretty
tight squeeze. Would you mind saving my ass one more time and giving me a ride home?”

We crammed into Mary's car about an hour later, after playing roadie and helping Jones and Genevieve load all the band's equipment into their van. Actually, it was a minivan. Midnineties model. Never let it be said the life of a rock band isn't the height of cool.

We waved to them as they drove off, then loaded into Mary's car.

We were all super amped after the show. Even Violet, who said she'd been up since four to open the coffee shop that morning, was riding an adrenaline high. We chattered on about nothing and everything, until we pulled up in front of an apartment complex near the community college.

“Thank you so much for the ride,” Violet said, opening the door in the backseat, one leg out of the car. “And Mary, thanks again for tonight. I didn't expect someone who could actually play—you kept up with the changes, and on a minute's notice, too.”

“Thanks,” Mary mumbled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I . . . had a not entirely unawesome time.”

“Awesome.” Violet grinned. “I'm so glad you guys came out.”

And with that, Violet lurched forward and quasi-strangled Mary in a hug around the driver's seat. “See you Monday at work!”

We waited in the car until Violet waved to us from the door of the apartment complex, slipping inside. “Awww . . .” I said. “You made a friend out of your boss. Not bad for a Friday night, two beers, and a pretty decent band.”

“Shut up,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“And you totally rocked it out onstage.”

“Whatever,” she mumbled, totally trying to hide her smile by putting the car into gear.

“I have video, I'll prove it to you.”

I pulled out my phone and plugged it into Mary's car charger. I waited impatiently for the poor, tired thing to light up and download Cody's email of the video.

Finally it opened to my home screen, and dinged.

But it wasn't the video. It was something else.

Reminder: Central Bay College application due! Midnight.

I froze. Every drop of liquid in my body crystallized and started to crack. It was due. My application was due. No, not due—
past
due. I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was way after midnight. My phone had been dead and I missed the alarm.

“What is it?” Mary asked, as she turned onto to the main street of our little town. “Is the video terrible? Am I gross-sweaty?”

“No,” I said quickly. “It hasn't downloaded yet. I'll . . . I'll just show you tomorrow.”

Mary shrugged and kept on driving, humming one of the Mechanics' songs under her breath.

Shit.

I've never been able to get my hair to hold a curl. It's always just straight. Sometimes I can tease it out with entire bottles of mousse, get it to look semi-tousled, but there's no curl there. Ever.

I have chosen this topic to fixate on because the alternative is FREAKING OUT.

And I've already done that. All weekend.

When Mary and I got home on Friday after the show, we snuck in the front door—shh, parents sleeping!—and straight up to our rooms. Mary crashed immediately, coming down off her adrenaline high.

I didn't. Because, duh.

Instead, I spent the hours before dawn frantically checking to make sure this wasn't some horrific cosmic joke.

Nope. Today's date was circled in my two-year-old day planner.

And the Post-it on my computer had today's date on it, too.

And the date listed on the application was today. Although, since it was past midnight, it's more correct to say “yesterday,” right?

Not that it matters.

I only managed to fall asleep once I made a plan. I would call Central Bay College's admissions office in the morning. I'd just explain that my Post-its failed me and my phone died and ask for an extension. Of my extension. No biggie, right?

Kind of a biggie. Because, turns out, the admissions office wasn't open on Saturdays.

Or Sundays.

So what the hell else was I supposed to do all weekend? Cue obsessing over my hair.

And when I ran out of mousse, I obsessed over whether I should get Kitty those claw covers that look like nail polish, and then I hopped back on Twitter just to read every tweet from Ke$ha over the past year.

Maybe I should redye my hair. It's way faded.

Seriously, how can the admissions office be closed on Saturdays? Colleges don't close on the weekends. I've been to more than a couple college parties, and that's when the best ones always are. If I worked in an admissions office, being there on the weekends would be a perk.

Even my school—my
community college
—is open on the weekends. I know, because I had to go there on Sunday. For my counseling session.

I could have skipped. Maybe I should have skipped. But if I did, Ms. W would have totally known something was up. And yeah, her insightful tendencies could also lead her to figure out that something's up, but here her therapy training failed her.

Because she didn't have a clue.

I must be a really outstanding actress. I mean, I didn't get cast
as the lead munchkin in my fifth-grade staging of
The Wizard of Oz
without having
some
talent—I was the tallest girl in my grade.