Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (9 page)

“Did I hear my name?” Violet came up to our table. She was bearing carafes of milk and a new bag of fake-sugar packets to refill the condiment station.

Mary looked like she'd just gotten caught doing . . . something, so I was left to answer. “Just talking about moving to the city. Do you know when you're going?”

Violet shrugged. “A couple of weeks, maybe? We want to do as many farewell shows as possible, and I can't leave Mrs. B hanging until she hires someone to replace me. Sure you don't want the assistant manager gig?” She looked at Mary as she said it.

Mary hid her face with half her hair. “I'm sure. I've got a job waiting for me, remember?”

“When are you guys heading up?” Violet asked.

This time, Mary was the one to pipe up when I got a little tongue-tied. “Once Lydia's done with her classes here.”

“Right,” Violet said. “You're going to Central Bay College—that's a great school, congrats on getting in.”

“I . . .” I hesitated. “I'm not exactly ‘in.' I mean, my counselor and Darcy—he's my sister's boyfriend—they called in favors on my behalf, but I still have to do some stuff to qualify.”

“Like these courses?” Violet asked.

“Exactly,” I replied. And fill out an essay application that is sitting on my desktop at home like a particularly judgmental Jiminy Cricket. “And after that, it's a lot of stuff, too. Like, years of school.”

I glanced over and saw that Mary was looking at me funny. But she didn't say anything.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Violet was saying. “I majored in psych at NAU—going down the postgrad path just wasn't for me.”

“NAU?” I asked.

“New Amsterdam University—in New York City. Man, I loved it there—and I'll be paying it off forever. Unless we hit the big time
with the band, of course.” She looked dreamy, probably imagining her rock-star life. “Fingers crossed. But it was worth it. The program is spectacular; I learned so much.”

“Then why'd you stop?” I asked.

“Because one of the main things I learned was that I didn't want to keep doing it. What psychology helped me do was become a better songwriter—get in touch with my emotions, you know? What drives people?”

Made sense, I guess.

“If you weren't already going to Central Bay College, I would say you should check out NAU. But more importantly, you should check out our next farewell show.” She grinned as she reached into her back pocket—no easy feat considering all the stuff she was carrying—and pulled out a flyer.

“Carter's, tonight,” she said proudly. She turned to Mary. “I know you couldn't come to the last one, but this one's going to be awesome.”

It's not that Mary
couldn't
come last time. Last weekend, Mary spent her Friday night on her computer, doing sample budgets for Lizzie's as-of-yet-unnamed company. I know, because
I
spent last Friday night in the next room trying to read
Frankenstein
. Who knew Frankenstein's monster was so talkative? In the movies he barely grunts.

So going to Carter's wouldn't have derailed anything exciting.

I opened my mouth, curious to ask how this farewell show would be different from the
last
farewell show, but Mary cut me off.

“Hey, Violet, I've got like seven minutes left on my break, so . . .”

“My bad.” She shook her head. “Enjoy your coffee.”

She moved off, and the minute she did, Mary's shoulders relaxed. It's weird. Mary is way too good an employee to be afraid of her supervisor. Especially a supervisor as nice and personable and purple-haired as Violet.

But maybe Mary wasn't uptight because of Violet. Because the next thing she said to me was . . .

“What's wrong?”

I dodged it. “What do you mean?”

“You've been a little distracted since you came in here. And when you were talking about school . . . you just sounded a little weird.”

“I'm fine,” I replied, knowing I sounded totally fine. Because I was getting really good at pretending I was.

“You're not. I've never heard you be down on deciding to go to Central Bay before.”

“I wasn't down,” I said. “I was just . . . my professor said something to me that made me think, is all.”

“Think?” Mary asked. “As in
rethink
? You're not backing out, are you? We have a plan, and I need—”

“No!” I replied immediately. “I'm sorry. I got a C on my paper and it's put me in a bummer mood.”

“On your paper on the Milgram Experiment? You worked really hard on that!” Mary said, angry. Which made me smile. Mary was going to defend me to psychology professors worldwide, even if my paper turned out to be a C paper.

“I know. It sucks.”

“Damn straight it sucks.”

I shrugged. “I guess I'll just have to double down on my studying. I've got to do a big paper on the five stages of grief this week.”

“Which stage are you on now for your Milgram paper?” Mary asked, almost smiling again.

“Denial. Obvs.”

Mary snorted into her coffee.

“Maybe I could help you study,” she offered.

“This isn't your major like math was,” I said, shaking my head. “You never took psych.”

“Yeah, but I can read the textbook, quiz you.”

“While you're working here, and working on Lizzie's company from home? Do you plan on giving up sleep?”

“It was just an idea,” she said, a little stiff. I immediately softened, afraid I'd insulted her. For someone normally so steely, she has a surprisingly mushy center.

“I know. I just . . . don't want to do that to you. This is my problem.”

“Okay,” Mary said.

“Maybe Violet could tutor me, though.”

“Violet?” she repeated, surprised. “Why?”

“Um . . .because she majored in psych?” Come on, Mary; keep up here. “Why are you so touchy about her?”

“I'm not,” Mary replied. “She's just basically my boss, so it's weird that she wants to hang out . . . and invites us to her ‘farewell' shows. All forty of them. Not that I want to go, of course. To any.”

“Of course,” I said, as deadpan as Mary. “You know, Violet's only going to be your boss for a couple more weeks, and I'm only going to ask her for some tutoring help. She has a psychology degree. And she seemed to really like getting it, too. I mean, she went to school in New York. That qualifies for a ‘wow.' ”

“Yeah, wow,” Mary said. “She went to school in New York—the most expensive place on the planet—and is using her degree to write songs.”

She paused. Spun her coffee cup on its saucer.

“You know, you're super anti-Violet's band for never having actually heard them,” I pointed out. “I'm willing to bet they're pretty good. Or her lyrics, at least.”

“Yeah . . . they're not bad,” she mumbled.

“What?” I asked, not convinced I'd heard her right. “You've listened to them?”

“Mrs. B lets Violet sell her CDs at the register. She gave me one—in case someone was interested, so I could help sell them.”

“And they're good?”

“They're really good,” Mary relented. “Except their bassist, who could use some clues on rhythm. But, I have to admit, Violet's really pretty . . . good.”

“Even though she's only using her degree to write songs?”

“Talk a little louder, why don't you, so Violet can hear you,” Mary said to me, then lowered her voice. “I hesitate to suggest this, but . . . what if we went to the show tonight?”

My head whipped up. “What?”

Mary? Suggesting attending a social event? Violet's band must be much more than “not bad” for it to have come to this.

“Hear me out,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You've been working so hard. Maybe you need a night of not psych to help you clear your head so you can work on all the other nights of psych.”

I looked at Mary. I looked around the coffee shop. I did not find any hidden cameras within my view.

“Is this a
Freaky Friday
situation?” I asked. “Did we switch bodies and I missed it?”

“I'm talking about one night—not every night. One Friday night, two drinks and one pretty decent band. And . . . you saw, she's being pretty insistent, for some reason, so if I have to go eventually, I'd rather get it over with, and have you come with me. And it would probably go a long way with Violet, if you do want her to tutor you, if you would go to one of her shows.”

I stared down into the foamy remains at the bottom of my mug. I was still a little crushed by my grade—and by what Professor Latham had said to me about how long I'd be in school. Because that's a lot of school—and while I had budgeted for my credits, I hadn't budgeted for my major. That scares me. I mean, I thought I was gonna be done by the time I was twenty-five. I didn't envision spending all of my twenties in school. I barely made it through my teens.

And how am I supposed to be a serious student for the next six to eight
years
if I can't manage to not party three weeks into the semester?

And yes, there's a part of me—large and looming—that's sort of scared about the idea of going out. People I know will be there . . .
and people I don't. But the one thing they'd have in common is that they know about me. Thanks to my social-media-star sister. And my own online activities.

I just don't feel like being judged anymore.

“My break's almost up,” Mary said to me, finishing off her coffee in one giant gulp. “So . . . I can't believe I'm saying this, but . . . tonight? Carter's?”

For some reason, Mary really wanted to go—even though she seemed to be having such a hard time admitting it. Which is proof enough of her need for a non-awkward wingman.

That must have been the tipping point, because somehow words I'd never intended to say again (at least not for the six weeks I was in school this summer) popped freely from my mouth.

“Tonight. Carter's.”

“Woo-hoo! Carter's!” I yelled as we pulled into the lot behind the bar. Mary put the parking brake on and turned to glare at me. “What? I'm out of practice and just trying to get into the spirit.”

The glare continued.

“Woo . . . ?” I tried, this time with a small Books Beans and Buds–style fist pump. That got her to crack a smile.

When we told my parents we would be going out that evening, they didn't even really blink an eye. I totally expected more along the lines of concerned furrowing of the brows. Instead, my mom and dad were just sitting, holding hands in my dad's den.

“That's nice, dear,” Mom said.

She must have been a little distracted, because she didn't seem
to even be looking at me. If she had been, she absolutely would have noticed that I looked different.

I'd dug out my purple sparkly eyeliner and my leopard-print top, which I wore under a black leather jacket. I debated for a whole thirty-seven minutes about wearing it, but it's the only rock-band-worthy outfit I could pull together. I mean, Mary's got the black-and-gray aesthetic covered. One of us has to be visible to the bartender, and she's basically a shadow.

But when I looked in the mirror, I didn't feel like I was wearing a cotton-spandex weave and drugstore-bright makeup. I was going into battle in Lydia-armor, wearing my old self on the outside to help steady my new, more wobbly self.

And I think it was a good decision, because the minute we pulled into Carter's parking lot, my stomach started flipping over like I'd just done a dozen cartwheels. Hence my “woo-hoo!” as an attempt to cover up said flipping.

We climbed out of the car and rounded the building to the front of Carter's.

“Whoa,” Mary said.

“Whoa” was right. The line was out the door and halfway down the block. I've never seen the place so packed, and I had been a regular at Carter's during Swim Week.

Aaaaand there's another flippy-floppy stomach moment. Thinking about Swim Week. And who I met during Swim Week at Carter's.

Of course, he was into my sister Lizzie then. So he didn't really look at me. And since Lizzie was into him, I didn't really look his way, either. I just remember thinking,
He's hot. And he's nice, being all chivalrous and covering my sister's wet barstool with his swim jacket so she could sit. How did Lizzie get so lucky?

Then, months later, he did look my way. And I started to think,
How did I get so lucky?

The fuzzy memory made me feel stupid standing there, staring
at the line outside of Carter's in my leopard-print top and purple eyeliner.

Dammit, this is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I wasn't here to reminisce. I was here to clear out school-related cobwebs, cut loose for one Friday night, two drinks and a relatively decent band. Nothing more, nothing less.

I grabbed Mary's hand. “Come on,” I said, marching to the bouncer at the door.

“Hey, Mike,” I said breezily as I barreled past him. Or tried to.

“My name's Chris,” he said, barring my path.

“Chris, right. Sorry, you looked like Mike.”

“No one who works here is named Mike.”

“Right, so, Chris,” I said, flipping my hair back and accidentally hitting Mary in the face with it. (Sorry, Mary.) “How much?”

“Cover is ten bucks. Line is back there.”

“How long is the line if I give you twenty?” I asked.

Chris didn't even look at me. “It's ten per person, so the line would be the same.”

Mary just hid her face in her hands. “Lydia . . .”

“I've got good door karma, just wait,” I whispered to her. Or at least I used to. Squaring my shoulders, I fished in my pockets and turned back to Chris.