Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (30 page)

I frowned. “Lying is a pretty shitty way to get someone to like you.”

He looked momentarily taken aback, like he was really considering that for a second before nodding his head.

“You're right,” he said, chewing on his lip. “I didn't think about it like that, but you're totally right. I'm sorry.”

“Are you even an architecture student?”

“I really am. I just . . . go to Columbia, not NAU,” he admitted.

“Really?” I asked, not bothering to hide my disbelief.

“Promise,” he said. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and dropped it open, flashing his student ID at me.

“Why would you want people to think you go to NAU when you go to freaking Columbia?”

He sighed. “The part of the city I grew up in . . . people treat you differently when they know you're going to a ‘good school.' Doesn't matter they've known me my whole life. Just got into the habit of keeping it to myself, I guess.”

“Are you telling me your parents don't yell it from the rooftops that you're in the Ivy League?” I replied.

“My mom . . . maybe.” He shrugged. “But my dad would probably yell it from the rooftops if I joined the Teamsters. Architecture, Columbia . . . it's just not his world.”

“Well, Columbia's impressive. And pursuing something you care about is never something you should have to keep to yourself.”

He sort of smiled to himself. “Well, I'm sorry I ruined your fake tour of a great school.”

“It's all right, I guess,” I said, my smile a little sadder than his. “There's absolutely no way I'm getting into it, anyway.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Admittance is probably based on, you know, grades.
And I didn't really do well in school. I mean, I did okay, but I never really tried until this past summer. And I only really tried because I finally found something I liked.”

“Psychology,” he said. “So what is it you like about it?”

“I dunno, I guess . . . people interest me. How their brains work. What makes them who they are. What breaks them. How to put them back together. That kind of thing.” At least, that's what I'd thought. It seemed like the more times I said it out loud, the more vague it sounded and the less certain I felt.

But Milo was smiling at me in that way that reminded me of him being upside down last night. I had looked at him in a different way, and maybe he was looking at me in a different way, too.

“That's a better answer than I expected,” he said.

“What did you expect?”

He just shook his head, still smiling. “No clue.”

We stood there for a little while, letting the hot city air pretend to be a summer breeze as we watched the campus. School had started only recently, so half the students were wandering lost, looking at maps. Like me. But there was also noise, and excitement, and this vibe of anticipation. For what comes next.

After a couple of minutes, Milo let out a sigh. “Let's find the psych building.”

*  *  *

“We should
not
be doing this,” I said.

“S'okay,” Milo whispered, ducking his head into the door. “This one's empty, c'mon.”

We didn't need to use Kat's student ID to get into this building, since people were walking in and out, in basically a constant stream. Once inside, it . . . looked like a normal school building. Halls, doors, classrooms with desks, that sort of thing.

But then we stuck our heads into one of the lecture halls . . . and it was
packed
.

“We can slip in the back if you want,” Milo whispered to me. But I shook my head. And even if I didn't really know why I didn't want to stay and listen, Milo seemed to.

“Okay,” he said, narrowing his eyes, thinking. “Come with me.”

He peeked into every classroom, until he found this one. An empty lecture hall.

Three times bigger than Professor Latham's classroom—and even empty, it was intimidating as hell.

“If you're gonna go to school here, you gotta be comfortable here,” he said, dragging me down the steps to the podium at the center. “So, professor, get up there.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Sitting in the back of class is easy after standing up front.” He took a seat in the front row.

I placed my water bottle on the podium, and promptly spilled it on one of the pads of paper resting there. A bunch of scribbles bled into nothingness. Great start.

“Um, how about we talk about . . . impulse control?” I said as I took the sopping-wet pad and put it in my plastic bag. I kept my eyes on Milo. Not the crazy big room.

“Impulse control?”

“Yeah, you know how some people make decisions spur-of-the-moment like idiots and think they'll work out, like idiots? Like . . . giving a tour of a school they don't go to, or giving a psychology lecture totally on the spot. My theory,” I said, sort of getting into it, “is that impulsiveness is really a result of too much awesome.”

“Awesome?”

“Yeah, that awesome feeling you get when something is about to happen. That buzz when you say, ‘Screw it,' and jump in with both feet. Too much awesome just makes you want more awesome, which just leads to more and more impulsiveness.”

“Your theory could use some work.” A voice came from the side
door. There, a skinny man with salt-and-pepper hair was leaning against the doorframe. He didn't look like he'd ever smiled in his life, nor like he was going to start now. “I'm Professor Malikov, and that's my podium you're littering.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, grabbing my water bottle and backing away from the podium. “We're just—”

“The ‘awesome,' as you so aptly put it, is dopamine, and it's been shown to spike during reward-based behavior. You need to prove scientifically that impulsiveness is rewarded.”

He didn't even look at me, but something about the dry way he spoke made me feel less like a kid caught at playing grown-up and more like someone who could debate him.

Stupid idea, I know.

“Isn't that the reward itself?” I asked. “The dopamine, I mean? You do stuff to feel better and—”

“Where's my notepad?” he asked suddenly. “There was a notepad on the top of this pile. It had all my notes on it for my next lecture. Where is it?”

Then
he looked at me, and I knew that trying to engage him in debate was an impulsive decision that I'd regret.

“Sorry, Professor, we were just working on some fear-based issues, but come on, Lydia, time to go!” Milo grabbed my hand and we ran out of there before Mount Malikov could blow.

“That was . . .” I said between breaths once we made it out a side door of the psych building and back to the quad.

“Impulsive?”

“Should we go back?” I asked. “I have his notepad, it's . . . maybe dry now?”

“I think we let this one go,” Milo replied. “C'mon—there's more fake tour to be had.”

I expected him to hold out his hand to me, but he didn't have to—he was still holding mine.

*  *  *

With Milo admitting he didn't know anything about NAU, it became a lot of fun making up what various things on campus were, and helped forget my impulsiveness with Malikov. By the end of the afternoon, our alternate-reality New Amsterdam University was founded by Jesuit priests from Australia, who time-traveled here from the future because the world would end unless they established a school whose mascot was a manatee.

You kinda had to be there.

The sun was a low orange ball by the time we got back to the front gates.

“So, what are you doing now?” he asked.

“Headed back to Brooklyn, I guess.” I rolled up my campus map, shoving it into my bag.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

My eyes came up to meet his.

A date.

My heart started beating double-time. But I made sure I took two breaths before answering. “I . . . I'm not really doing that right now. Dating.”

“Okay,” he said immediately. “No problem.”

“It's just . . . baggage.”

“Lydia, I get it. It's fine.”

“It is?”

He shrugged. “Everyone has baggage. I think it's a requirement for living in New York . . . like you have to provide first and last months' rent and at least one medium-size baggage.” He paused. “But I hope this doesn't mean you won't hang out with me and Kat again—she thought you were really cool.”

I warmed at the compliment, and at the relief of his accepting my decision. “I'd like that.”

“Lemme walk with you to the subway?”

“I thought you said I was a quick study. Throw me in the ocean and all that.”

“I'm sure you can find your way back.” He smiled, as we started walking. “I'm just not sure if I can.”

*  *  *

When I got back to the apartment, I almost regretted saying no to dinner with Milo. But after Cody, it's crystal clear I'm not ready to be dating anyone, and I'm super committed to that. Besides, I'm only going to be in New York for a couple more days. Starting something with a guy that's just going to be hot and quick and then fizzle does not, for once, appeal.

At least not with Milo.

Besides, I should give hanging with Allison and Shea a chance.

Yeah, probably should have cleared that with Allison and Shea, because one was studying and the other had big plans to watch a Ken Burns documentary. Guess which was which.

So I picked up a sandwich at the deli downstairs for dinner and resigned myself to Jane's room and her computer. And once again, I found myself on the NAU website.

And idly clicking on “How to Apply.”

Even if I'll never get in, and even if one professor might want to freeze me with his eyeballs, what's the harm in just seeing what the application looks like, right? No biggie.

Okay . . . it looked like it was all the usual stuff. Transcripts, recommendations, financial aid information, essay ques—

I froze.

Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you? What lessons did you learn? What would you do differently now?

No.

Way.

How the hell is it possible that I'm being freaking stalked by this same stupid essay question?

Is the universe like, “We haven't tortured Lydia in a while, let's have some fun!”

I never really thought about it, but it must be a standard college application question. Which means I'm not meant for
any
college, I guess.

I closed the computer. My eyes fell on the plastic bag from the NAU gift shop, sticking out of my bag. Even if it was never serious, even if my tour included speculation about manatees and time travel, it was a nice dream to have for a day.

Guess that's all it's ever going to be.

The next morning, I was barely awake and looking forward to hiding in Jane's room from my quasi-roommates when my phone buzzed.

“Hello?” I answered, groggy.

“Hey, Lydia!” Bing's soft and cheerful voice echoed in my ear. “What kind of bagel do you like?”

“Um . . . cinnamon raisin?”

“Great!” he said. “I got one of those. And coffee. You ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“I thought you'd like to come with me to the center today.”

The center? But I had a big day of watching Netflix planned.

“Come on, Lydia, you didn't come all the way to New York to stay in and watch Netflix, did you?” Bing said.

Note to self—other people know Jane's account password and
can see when you're watching stuff. But still, the Teen Crisis Center where Bing volunteered did not exactly make for a vacation day.

“You keep saying that you want to help people,” Bing said. “So let's get helping. Coffee and a bagel await you downstairs.”

“O . . . kay,” I said, leaning out Jane's window and peering down. Yup, one town car double-parked out front. One Bing, waving up at me with a bag of bagels in his hand. “I'll be down in ten.”

“Perfect. If you're not down in ten minutes . . . I'll still be here, but I can't promise the bagel will be.”

*  *  *

Nine and half minutes later, I had a bagel in one hand and a cup of coffee in another. Twenty-three minutes after that, we pulled up in front of a super nice brownstone in the nice part of Brooklyn.

“The brownstone was left to the center's founder in the previous owner's will,” Bing said. “The neighbors don't love it, but the kids do—they feel a lot safer in this neighborhood.”

We mounted the steps. The facade was like every other house on the street—except this one had a very discreet
TEEN CRISIS CENTER
painted in gold letters across the window above the door. But as unassuming as it was on the outside, the inside was like a beehive.

There were people in every room—some sitting at desks talking with kids, some sitting in groups and doing crafts. One group of teen girls burst out laughing as we walked past, and Bing stuck his head in.

“Hello, ladies,” Bing said, smiling in that way that says he has absolutely no idea the effect being handsome, nice, and rich has on people. But these were a bunch of girls—teenagers. And yeah, while they were at a crushable age, they also seemed so much wiser than Bing. Not a fragile flower in crisis in the bunch.

“We were just saying you got a thing for redheads or what, Mr. Lee?” one of the girls piped up, causing the rest of them to start snickering.

“Careful, that's my future sister-in-law,” Bing said, grinning,
and angled me forward. “Lydia, the ten a.m. group session—group, Lydia.”

I guess my coffee hadn't kicked in yet, because it took me a second to . . .