Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (15 page)

I danced. I hopped, turned, skipped, hip-thrusted, got low and groovy, and even once got en pointe. I was racking up points almost as fast as the computer could give them. And I was loose. Everything felt lighter, like the only think I had to worry about was the next step.

“You're almost there!” Cody said from behind me.

I moved my feet faster than I ever had. The machine flashed like a strobe light. I only had a couple hundred points to go . . . a couple dozen . . . and then . . .

The machine went dead.

“Wha . . . what?” I said. I hit the start button. All the other buttons. Nothing. “No. No nonononononononnnnooo!!!”

“What happened?” Cody asked.

“I don't know. Did I break it?” It's entirely possible that my awesome dancing was too much for the poor machine, so used as it was to mediocre patrons sloshing their beer on the platform while they tried to two-step.

“Huh,” Chris said, the door to the back swinging behind him. “Breaker must have flipped. It does that sometimes.”

“No . . . you mean I lost my entire game?” I cried. “I was about to win!”

Chris just shrugged. “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

“Wait a minute . . .” I said, my eyes narrowing. The shrug. The raising of stoic eyebrows when I told him I was gonna beat the record. The slight suspicious smile he had on his face at that very moment. “Chris! You're CCH! You had the high score!”

Chris just looked from me, to Cody, back to the machine. “Last call.”

“Cheater!” I called after him as he shuffled back through the door. “I'll get you next time! I challenge you to a dance-off!”

But he was already gone.

“Well . . .” Cody said, coming up behind me. “It makes a good story.”

“Not a
best
story, though. Come on! Did you see me? I was kicking that game's ass, like . . .” I spun around, doing the double step and the kick and then . . .

The room started to spin with me.

“Whoa,” Cody said, coming over to steady me. His hands on my waist.

“Whoa is right.”

“You know what you need?”

“For Chris to admit defeat to my smooth moves?”

“I was thinking some food.”

“Last call. Kitchen's closed,” I said.
Why is the kitchen closed on me?
I thought.
What kind of cruel trick is that to play on the intoxicated?

“Well, I have some leftover pizza at my place . . .” Cody was saying, but then I saw a sign.

A busted, broken sign someone had crashed into long ago.

“OMG, Crash!” I cried, grabbing Cody's arm.

“What? Something crashed?” Cody asked, looking at me like I was a nonsensical drunk.

I guess to the uninitiated, I might have sounded a little crazy.

“Crash,” I said, pointing through the window. “The diner.”

He looked at it, his forehead squishing up.

Heh. Squish. That's a fun word. Squish squishy squish.

“Is it . . . uh . . .”

“Sanitary? Structurally sound?”

“Open, I was going to say.”

“It's always open,” I said, waving aside his objections. “Come
on—you're the one who wanted to tap into the local zeit . . . zetgie . . . the local scene.”

*  *  *

Coffee and a breakfast plate later and the world felt less spinny. Still fuzzy, but less like it was going to throw me off its axis with the force of its velocity.

What? I've read
The Little Prince
. I was always worried that the little boy was going to fall off a planet that small, so I looked some stuff up.

But as my head cleared, not even the fluorescent lighting in Crash bothered me. Nor did the bored waitress, who only had to deal with us and a couple of high school theater kids who made it their mission to drink coffee until dawn.

“I mean, it's summer, guys,” I said to Cody. “Go get a tan. Please.”

He snickered, eyeing the theater kids. “Ah, making fun of the other cliques. Brings me back.”

“What were you in high school?” I asked.

“Pretty popular. Student council during the week, parties in the woods on the weekend. You?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but he held up a hand. “No, let me guess. Partier? Super cute and fun.”

“Well . . . yes, but . . .” There was more to it. More to me. Wasn't there?

“My last girlfriend was a theater chick, though,” Cody said, rubbing his chin. “Moved down to LA after our freshman year. Trying to act.”

The way he rolled his eyes made my stomach start to flip over.

“Do you really want to talk about our exes?” I said. “Kind of a downer.”

“No, you're right,” he said. “Besides, Mindy doesn't have anything on yours.”

I fell silent. I knew by now he'd seen the videos. They were the elephant in the diner.

“He must have been a total asshole,” Cody said, gentle.

I looked down at my plate. Which sadly did not have a crack shaped like Kentucky. “It wasn't like that,” I said, softly.

“You can tell me about it,” he said, matching his pitch to mine.

But I didn't. I couldn't. I just shrugged. “Tonight's been too much fun to be about all that stuff.”

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “But I just want you to know, not all guys . . .”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I shook my shoulders back, smiling big. Back to being Lydia. Back to fun. “You ready to go? We're about to outlast the theater kids and I don't want to bruise their egos.”

“Sure,” Cody said, rolling with it. “Just let me hit the bathroom.”

“Yeah . . . you don't want to do that.”

*  *  *

A quick trip back across the street to Carter's for use of their bathrooms (we made Chris open up for us; whatever, he owed me), and we headed home. Pulling up outside of my house, I could see Mary's car parked behind my parents'. Everyone safe and asleep as the sky gradually got lighter behind the house.

“So . . .” Cody said, leaning over.

“So . . .” I replied, not moving.

“I . . . guess I'll see you Monday,” Cody said, watching me. Specifically, my mouth.

I rolled my eyes. And pulled him to me, tasting beer and coffee and some breath spray he must have snuck in while in Carter's bathroom.

I know I didn't
have
to kiss him. But at some point you gotta put a guy out of his misery.

“Wow,” he said, when I finally let him go.

“Yeah,” I said. “As far as first kisses go, I'd put it above par.”

“Indeed.” He exhaled. Then frowned. “Wait, do you mean it was good or bad, because technically above par in golf—”

“Cody,” I said. “See you Monday.”

I got out of the car and waved good-bye to Cody. He drove off before I'd reached the front door. Which I decided was okay. If either of my parents or Mary were waiting on the other side, I didn't want them to see the evidence of my evening in a silver Toyota Corolla driven by a dude.

But as I stepped back in to the house, I sort of wished he had hung out, for just a second or two more, because then I could look back out and see my awesome night of awesomeness. Instead, as the door swung shut behind me, I was overwhelmed by the silence of the house. One that quickly filled with voices, asking me how I could have screwed up. Telling me exactly what I did wrong. And wondering why I went out with Cody instead of feng shuiing my room.

But I wasn't going to think about that now. Nope, I refuse. Because I still had a little bit of an alcohol glow, and a fabulous kind of adrenaline-tired I hadn't felt in a while that just made me want to collapse.

“Lydia?”

Someone was pounding on my brain. No . . . they were pounding on the door. Either way, not cool.

“What?” I croaked, and immediately put my head under a pillow. I thought that after black coffee and some greasy breakfast food I should have been able to snooze relatively hangover-free. But noooooo . . .

My body was out of practice at having fun and being a normal human being, I guess.

The door creaked open—I need to WD-40 that door—and Mary's voice came from the other side of my pillow.

“Lydia? You okay?”

Okay, breathe. Breathe. Hold it together, and one, two, three . . .

“I'm fine,” I said, throwing the covers back, and trying super hard not to cringe in the sunlight.

“You sure? You don't look fine.”

“I might be coming down with something,” I said, coughing for pity.

“You were already asleep when I got home last night,” Mary said, taking another step back toward the door. For as low-key as Mary is about most things, she's weirdly germaphobic. Hey, it kept her from looking at me too closely. But still, it took me a minute to remember that I had stuffed my bed with pillows the night before, in case anyone came to check on me.

Yes, I know I'm twenty-one and an adult, blah blah blah, but old habits die hard.

“Yeah,” I said, coughing again—this time to clear the fuzz from my throat. “When did you get in, anyway?”

“Late. Like midnight,” Mary said. “But I looked up times for the movie.”

“Movie? Oh, right,” I said. The idea of a dark room appealed, but loud zombie snarls did not. “I don't know if I feel up to a movie today. Maybe I should just . . . sleep a little.”

Mary watched me, and seemed like she was going to say something. But then she just shrugged. “Okay. You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow, though?”

“Don't you have therapy tomorrow?” she asked.

Yes, I did. And my weekly paper for psych, and I probably should read that Poe.
Dracula
is coming up, too. Oh, and figure out my life.

But man, did I not care about any of that.

“It's okay. Ms. W doesn't mind,” I said.

But Mary just kept watching me. “Let's see how you feel tomorrow. I don't suppose you want breakfast. Your mom made eggs over easy.”

My stomach turned over—and not easily. “No, I'm good.”

“Okay,” Mary said, watching me as she went back out the door—using her shirtsleeve to hold the knob. She was definitely going to go disinfect her entire body after this. “I'll check on you later. Or, you know, text you.”

“From downstairs?”

“Uh-huh, okay, feel better.” And the door clicked shut—loudly—behind her.

I pulled my comforter back up over my head—and then put it back down again. The air under the sheets smelled like stale beer—not great for my queasy tummy.

But neither is the weird quiet.

I have nothing to do. No, not true—I have plenty to do. I just don't care about it. It's not that I'm blowing it off, or avoiding it. I just . . . don't care. About anything. Not my homework. Not what happened the night before with Cody. Not whatever's going to happen next.

And that's the weirdest thing.

I always care. Okay, yeah, I didn't always care about my classes—but I always looked forward to going to school. To putting on my latest cutest outfit and hanging with my friends, and seeing what new drama there was to gossip about. When I first got my smartphone, the most exciting part for me was the calendar. Yes, the calendar. Because I could fill it up with parties and half-off fro-yo Fridays and people's birthdays and get excited about what comes next.

I'm Lydia Bennet. I always look forward to tomorrow. Even when I didn't have a plan for my future. Even when George left and I felt like the world was crashing down around me. Half of what got me through that time was knowing that tomorrow couldn't suck any more than today.

But now . . . there's nothing.

I have nothing to look forward to.

. . . Yay.

Texts with Ms. W

Lydia: Hey, Ms. W—I'm super sorry but I'm not going to make it to our session.

Ms. Winter: I'm sorry to hear that. Is everything ok?

Lydia: Oh, yeah. I've just got to drive my mom around again because of her elbow.

Ms. Winter: All right. I think it would be a good idea to schedule a midweek session. I have time Wednesday and Thursday.

Lydia: I'll look at my sched and get back to you. Thanks, Ms. W, you're super sweet to let it slide. Byeee!

Okay, I would never say this out loud, but life is
so much easier
when you just don't care. Stroll in two seconds before class starts? Don't care. Teacher and other students eyeing you like you're the bad Chinese food they forgot was in the back of the fridge? Don't care. Your cousin/bestie watching you hang out with the guy you snuck out/made out with in the coffee shop? Don't care.

Although said cousin/bestie might care a little for you.

“What's the deal with Cody?” Mary asked. “Are you dating him now?”

It was Wednesday, and she'd cornered me the one time of day that my powers of avoidance are in a slightly weakened state—during our morning drive. When I have to pay attention to the turns and signals (autopilot no longer being on, but hey, who cares?) and I don't have the advantage of weirding people out with eye contact, it's hard to not be vulnerable to an attack of Driving Honesty.

Seriously, if I didn't have to carpool with Mary, I might have skipped school today. Or all this week.

“No,” I said. Probably sounded a little too defensive. “Just hanging out. Study buddies. You know.”

“You weren't studying when you guys were in the coffee shop on Monday,” she said. Okay, yeah, there might have been some close-sitting, a little under-the-table flirting, but I thought we were being totally discreet. Guess not.

Whatever. Don't care.