Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (31 page)

“Wait, I'm what?” I blurted out, but Bing was already halfway down the hall. I waved bye to the group and trotted to catch up to Bing, who was unlocking the door to a broom closet.

Except it wasn't a broom closet.

In it was a desk covered in papers, shelves full of binders, and not much else. Not much room for else, except for a picture of Bing and Jane at some party in the center of the wall.

“You have an office here?” I said. “I thought you just, like, volunteered.”

“That's how I started,” Bing replied, taking off his shoulder bag. “I did the counselor training, was working the crisis phone lines three times a week, and then . . . I just started coming every day. Doing what needed to be done. Dottie—she's the center's founder—saw that I was good at it, and gave me more responsibility. Then, when she found out about my family . . .”

“That you're rich?”

“More like, I have the right connections to put the center on the radar of influential people,” he said, showing more self-awareness than I'd thought him capable of. “It's the first time that's ever really come in handy, so I don't mind using it.”

Wow, self-aware and shrewd. Maybe he and his manipulative sister, Caroline, are related after all.

“But it's good experience, for when I open up a center of my own.”

“You're going to open up a center?” I asked. “When? Where? How?”

“The ‘when' is after I get my master's in social work—I'm planning to apply to schools next fall. My folks aren't exactly happy about replacing med school with social work, but Caroline says they'll come around.”

He pulled a binder off the shelf, flipped it open. “The ‘how' is
trickier. But I have my money. And Darcy's already said that he'd be a primary donor, and could even tie it in to his company's charitable arm.”

There's that Darcy again, I thought. Always coming to the rescue.

“And the ‘where' is . . . wherever Jane's work ends up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “About that . . . you said something about a future sister-in-law?” I blinked at him innocently.

Bing blushed a little. “No questions have been asked, if that's what you're wondering. But I hope . . .”

He let his sentence trail off, because what else needed to be said? He hoped. And considering where they were six months ago—Bing coming to the city with Jane to repair a relationship that he'd almost screwed up permanently—that he had cause to hope was everything.

“Hey, um . . . could you do me a favor?” Bing was saying.

“Oh, I won't tell Jane anything.”

“Jane wasn't my worry. But maybe don't mention it to your mother.”

*  *  *

Once Bing got a bunch of papers and stuff out of his office—and ate his third bagel of the morning; where does that boy put all those carbs?—he gave me a proper tour of the center and what they do there.

Turns out they do a lot.

“We have a hotline for teens in crisis, and it's manned twenty-four/seven, so anytime someone calls, there's someone to talk to,” Bing was saying as he dodged people in the halls. “We also have one-on-one counseling, and group sessions, like you saw.” He pointed to a bulletin board. “We even have career counseling, and job placement services.”

“Jobs? You mean like after school?”

Bing nodded slowly. “Sometimes. But often, these kids aren't in school anymore. Aren't living at home, or anywhere. They need a way to support themselves. Or, sometimes they just need a place to
sleep for the night or a hot meal, and we do what we can to make sure they have that, too.”

A rush of gratitude for my parents flooded through me. They were always, always supportive. Even when I screwed up . . . except maybe Dad when I said I was jetting off to New York for a week.

I shook myself free of that frowny thought, and instead turned a bright smile on Bing. “So, what do you want me to do? Man the phones? Sit in on a group? Oh! I could do crafts with them! Where do you keep the glitter?”

Bing smiled. “No glitter or group sessions for you. And to man the phones you have to go through the training, which takes a lot longer than an afternoon. But we could use extra hands in the kitchen making lunch.”

Lunch? I was here to make
lunch
?

“Seriously?” I frowned. “But I'm really good at giving advice, my teacher said as much.” Granted, it was my Gothic Lit teacher, but still. “I could, like, tell them about me and show that I relate—”

“Lydia,” Bing said, in his firmest tone. Which is kind of like a bunny being firm with you. “Like I said, you have to be trained to do any of that. But if you were going to talk to anyone, it's not about your story and relating to them. What most of the kids need here is someone to just listen to them.”

“Oh.” I looked at my toes, feeling kind of small. Of course it's not about me. I've spent so much time inside my own head the past couple of months, it's kind of hard to remember that. “So, what's for lunch today?”

I spent the rest of the morning preparing, baking, and serving massive trays of macaroni and cheese. Which I'm actually not bad at. I'm not my mom's chosen sous chef for nothing. But usually Mom's making a casserole for five people, so this was . . . different. Plastic sandwich gloves and aprons aren't exactly fashion-forward.

But I didn't mind so much. The other volunteers in the kitchen
were nice, and worked together with a rhythm they'd perfected over time. I tried to do as I was told and not get in their way.

Bing popped his head in a couple of times—each time taking a double helping, seriously, where does he put it?—to make sure I was doing okay, and to talk to one of the fifty or so people who filtered through the dining room as we served lunch. And time flew by—not because carrying those trays from the hot oven to the front and then scooping them out and making sure the condiments and napkin dispensers were full was exhausting (now I know why Mary was always tired when she got home from a day at the coffee shop), but because I did what Bing said.

I listened.

I listened as Malik, the head cook, told his cousin Layna, the other cook, how his mom was doing in rehab. I listened as some of the girls from the 10:00 a.m. group came in for lunch, chattering about an upcoming dance. I listened as one incredibly skinny guy came in and asked if Bing knew how to tie a tie. He was going for an interview for city housing, and, if it went well, he would finally have a place to live.

And it made me realize Bing was right. How could I have ever thought that I could say, “Oh, hi, yeah, I totally get where you're coming from because once my boyfriend filmed us having sex and tried to sell it on the Internet,” or “This one time I missed a deadline for an application, so I totally understand how hard your life is.”

It also gave me a new respect for Bing. He often comes off as too nice and too easygoing, but working at a place like this wasn't for the faint of heart.

But was it for me?

I mean, my version of helping people sort of always involved my own swank office with vases of reeds and calming music in the waiting room. But this . . . this is helping people, too. And if I
did
want to try and go into psych again (which is in no way certain because . . . come on) this could be a part of that.

Although, right now, “this” is just rinsing out metal trays and taking the trash out. Not exactly advanced awesome helpfulness.

The trash bags were heavy, so I was dragging them out the front door. My back was kind of turned and I didn't see the girl at first.

She was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, curled into a ball. Her rounded back and green army jacket made her look like a turtle, turning her head and peeking at me from behind her shell. As I passed her to get to the garbage cans, I said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she mumbled back.

“Are you here for . . . someone?” I asked as I closed the garbage lids.

“No,” she said, bringing her head up, barely. She had her arms wrapped around her stomach, and for the first time I could see that it looked like she was pregnant.

And really young.

“Okay.” I waited for some sign of what I was supposed to do now. “Um . . . we just finished lunch. But there's a bunch left over. I can get you a plate.”

She shrugged, and I took it as a yes.

“Cool. I'll be right back.” I jumped up the steps. “Don't go anywhere, okay? It's . . . really good mac and cheese.”

I found Bing talking with Dottie, and pulled him away.

“There's a girl outside. I don't think she'll come in, but I said I'd bring a plate of mac and cheese out to her?”

Bing immediately moved to the front window and peered out, then nodded to Dottie. “Lydia, grab me that plate.”

I ran to the kitchen, spooned out mac and cheese. By the time I brought it back, though, Bing was already sitting on the steps next to the girl.

“Go on,” Dottie said to me.

I walked down the steps, clutching the plate. Bing turned when I cleared my throat.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the plate from me. “Lydia, this is Vicki. Vicki, Lydia.”

“I said I don't want to see a counselor,” Vicki mumbled.

“Oh, don't worry, Lydia's not a counselor, either. So, we can't really do anything except sit here, eat some mac and cheese, and listen. If you maybe wanted to talk.”

It took a couple of minutes of just sitting there, of Vicki picking at her food, then commenting on the crappy parallel parking job the guy who parked in front of us did, for her to start to talking. About the guy at school who got her pregnant, and how he's not talking to her now, and not having anywhere to go.

Bing was just a warm presence for her, an open space she could say anything to. He never jumped in with other stuff, or pressured her, he just let her tell her story.

By the time she got to why she ended up on the center's doorstep, she'd talked herself into coming inside. When we stood up to go in, Bing leaned over to me and whispered in my ear.

“Good job, Lydia.”

“I didn't do anything,” I whispered back, and he shook his head.

“You did more than you know.”

“Jane!” I called out from the area just past the exit doors of the terminal, waving my sign bearing sparkly unicorn stickers and the name
BENNET
.

Yes, I recycled it. But come on, it's too cool not to be used again.

“You guys!” Jane waved back, rushing over. “It's so good to see you!”

She embraced me only briefly, but I'll allow it. She went starry-eyed when she saw Bing behind me, and I knew they wanted to get a little PDA action in.

I broke them up after an inappropriate amount of time. “Come
on, guys!” I said. “I've been waiting three days to have my sister back in New York, I'm not wasting another minute.”

*  *  *

In the town car on the way back to the apartment, Jane regaled us with tales of Miami, how it's even hotter there than here (impossible), and how she worked with the fabric dyers getting a perfect pattern to be featured in their winter collection. She told us all about everyone she met (wherever Jane goes she comes back with at least fifty new Facebook friends), all the delicious food she ate (she now has tamale recipes on her Pinterest) and about how she truly believes the tropical color scheme they came up with is going to dominate fashion next year.

But by the time we got back to the apartment, and Bing had walked us up the four flights of stairs again and taken some inappropriate PDA time again, Jane turned to me.

“So . . .” she said, plopping on the couch beside me. It was the middle of the day, so Shea was at the library and Allison was at work and we had the place to ourselves. “How have you been? Is there . . . anything you want to talk about?”

Oh no. Was she expecting to have the talk now? The “What are you gonna do with your life” talk?

Although I was a little better prepared than I was three days ago. Kind of. Maybe.

But what popped out of my mouth surprised me. “Not really.”

Jane's smile faltered by a millimeter.

I could have told her. I could have said, “Well, actually, I'm thinking about school—but not in San Francisco. Guess where?!” And I could imagine her response: completely enthusiastic, totally wanting to help out in any way possible, and sharing the joy with Bing and everyone else of Lydia Having a Life Plan.

Which is great . . .

But what if it doesn't happen?

What if I screw up again?

What if that stupid essay on failure is going to be my nemesis forever?

I would let everyone down. Once again. So . . . this has to stay mine. Until I feel more sure about it.

It's different to share it with Milo and Kat. They don't have any expectations. The only thing they see when they see me is . . . possibility.

And when I'm hanging out with them, I can see that possibility in myself, too.

“Okay,” Jane said, covering any feeling she might have with a bright voice and jumping up to head to the kitchen. “Want some tea? I brought back some delicious Cuban cookies called
torticas
.”

Much like Mom, Jane both soothed and avoided via food.

“Sure,” I said.

“Bing said you had a good time at the center,” Jane called out as she put water on the stove.

“I did. They're a great group of people.”

“They are,” Jane agreed. “Bing said they liked you a lot, too.”

Soon enough she came back with a pot of tea and plate of cookies—that were basically snickerdoodles with a little lime, but totally delicious.

“I know Shea's always studying and Allison's always working, but I'd hoped they'd be able to at least . . .” Jane looked a little disappointed, but then she covered it with a smile. “Anyway, I'm so glad you had your friend Casey to hang out with. I was afraid you would end up alone in the city or fall prey to strangers.”