Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (10 page)

“What about”—I covertly counted my cash—“thirty dollars?”

“Don't insult me.”

“Come on, thirty bucks, for like . . . thirty minutes? We just want to see the first couple of songs from the band. Violet's a friend of Mary's and—”

“Mary . . .” Chris checked his clipboard. “Mary Bennet?”

“Uh . . . yeah?” Mary said.

“You and your guest are on the list.” He unclipped the rope—seriously, who was Carter kidding, getting a velvet rope—and let us past.

“See?” I said as we entered. “Still got it.”

It was just as crowded inside as it was outside, but with the
humid stickiness of lots of people corralled into a tight space. We wedged our way through the crowd toward the back, and miraculously found a high table with two barstools by the wall whose occupants were in the process of putting on their jackets. I can only assume the Karmic God of Bars (Matthew McConaughey) called one in for us, because we swooped in and took it the second the other people stepped away.

“Thank God,” Mary said, practically throwing herself on the table.

“I know, right? I've never seen it like this.” I knew Mary could tell what I was thinking. Violet's band must have been more than pretty decent.

“I don't even think I can cross the room to get to the bar,” Mary said.

“Let me—I have skills.”

“Skills like you had with Chris the bouncer?”

“Exactly,” I said as I slipped away into the crowd. Thing is, I do have excellent crowd-management skills, and it applies well to everyday life.

Last year, I went to visit Jane when she was living in Los Angeles and she took me to all the touristy places I wanted to go—the Walk of Fame (I totally thought I was minutes away from getting my own star), Grauman's Theatre to see if my feet were bigger than Marilyn Monroe's (seriously, everyone's feet are bigger than Marilyn Monroe's). We were walking back to our car when we realized they were having a movie premiere at the ArcLight—which happens every five minutes in LA, Jane told me. But instead of walking four blocks around to get to the parking garage, I just grabbed Jane's hand, and ducked and weaved us through the crowd, getting us to our car in record time.

I credit my Just Dance moves. I can anticipate the change-up. (This skill is also good for malls at Christmastime.)

I quickly charted a path through the crowd, and was halfway to
my goal of Carter and his extensive collection of microbrews when I dodged right instead of left and ended up bumping right into Cody.

“Lydia?” Cody asked, his face breaking out into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

And Harriet.

“OMG, Lydia,” Harriet said, flipping her fat brown waves so hard I think she might have committed assault. She smiled tightly. “I totally never thought you would have come out to Carter's!”

“Really?” I said, my smile just as tight. “Why not?”

“Um . . .” Harriet's smile faltered. “That is a super-cute top, I've always loved it on you.”

“Thanks. Well, I've got to grab some drinks, so . . .” I let that dangle as I weaved my way back into the crowd. I thought I heard Harriet's high-pitched laugh, but I couldn't be sure.

God, it's weird when you used to be friends with someone and then it suddenly becomes clear you never were. Why did Harriet even start hanging out with me last year? Boredom? My videos? So she could get a free ride to Vegas over New Year's?

I made it to the bar and squeezed in between two guys debating local brew types. I ordered my beers, paid, and shot a quick glance over my shoulder at Cody and Harriet. Harriet was saying something, but Cody wasn't paying attention—because he was looking directly at me.

Our eyes met. Oh, crap. I'd just accidentally given him the nonverbal green light to come over and talk to me.

He must have been skilled in the crowd-dodge, too, because he was next to me as soon as he could squeeze in.

“Sorry about Harriet.”

“You don't have to apologize for her.” You don't have to hang out with her, either.

“I was gonna ask you to come out to the show, but you got tied up with Latham. And Harriet said you wouldn't want to come out to Carter's, anyway,” he said.

“Did Harriet tell you why?” I asked. I was done with talking around things—and I hadn't even had my first sip of beer.

“She . . . maybe alluded to stuff. . . .”

“Cody.” That forced him to look at me. “Harriet doesn't know everything.”

His eyes sparkled. “Yeah, I didn't think she did. There's always more to the story. Which I'd love to hear sometime, if you want to talk about it.”

Definitely don't want to have that conversation. At least, not now. “Trying to analyze me?” I gave him my flirty smile instead. “This isn't psych class.”

“Speaking of, how bad was your grade on the paper?”

I froze. “How bad . . . ?”

“It must have been bad to make a girl like you pounce on Latham after class.”

I just shrugged. No need to share my disappointing C with anyone else.

“What do you mean, ‘a girl like me'?”

“Someone who's generally . . . cooler about stuff. Was it at least a passing grade?”

I nodded.

“That's all that matters. It's community college, Lydia. No one's going to care. You can relax about it.”

But what if I don't want to relax about it? What if
I
wanted to care?

Even though that's getting harder by the class. Especially knowing that I'll have to care about it for such a long time.

He must have read how I was feeling on my face because . . .

“Oh, shit, I did it again.” He shook his head. “I stepped in it with you. I apologize. Let me pay for your beers to make up for it.”

My beers arrived, and there was a line of people behind us, waiting for access to the bar.

“They're already paid for,” I replied. “And you can't keep
offering to buy me beverages when you think you've screwed up. It can't be fun, always being in someone's beverage debt.”

“It's an admittedly weak way to try and make up for putting my foot in my mouth, but it's all I have.” He let the side of his hand brush against my arm, resting against the bar. “Wanna come and stand with us? We got a pretty good view of the stage.”

I grabbed the beers and pointed across the way to where Mary was defending my barstool with her death glare and combat boots.

“Thanks, but we got a table.”

“Wow, how'd you swing that?”

“I'm Lydia Bennet. I have natural bar karma. Enjoy the show.”

I left him standing at the bar with his mouth hanging slightly open. The trip back to the table was easier, because all the human traffic flowed toward the bar, not away from it, so I made it to Mary with only minimal spillage.

“Thanks,” she said, moving her feet off my seat and taking a sip of her beer. “Who were you talking to?”

“Who?” I echoed, all casual. “Oh, Cody? He's in my psych class. Both my classes, actually.”

“Uh-huh. And he's friends with Harriet?”

“Friends with her brother, I think.”

I followed Mary's gaze to where Cody and Harriet were in the middle of the crowd. He wasn't looking at me this time, but he was talking in her ear—in that yelling whisper you have to do in crowds. She was giggling at whatever he said.

“They seem pretty tight.”

“Whatever, the band's about to start,” I said, pulling Mary's attention back up to the stage.

Violet and her band members had come out and were tuning their instruments. The murmurs of the crowd immediately shifted from normal, lazy bar chatter to “ohhhh, something's about to happen” chatter.

Violet said something to her drummer and then turned around to face the crowd.

“Violet!” I called out.

We were positioned well enough that she could hear me, and her hand came up to shield her eyes from the stage lights, so she could see out into the crowd.

“Wave,” I whispered to Mary. Mary let her bangs fall in front of her face, but she held up her hand in a small wave. “Jeez, do I have to do everything?” I said, taking Mary's hand again and waving it, and mine—the world's biggest fangirls.

“Hey!” Violet waved back, her face breaking into a wide grin once she spotted us.

Violet looked different onstage. First of all, she wasn't in her barista uniform of black jeans, a ball cap, and an apron. But it wasn't only the rock clothes, or the guitar strapped across her body. It was something about the way she stood. Just completely owning the stage.

“Hello, Carter's!” she battle-cried into the mic. The crowd screamed back in response. “We are the Mechanics—let's get to work!” And they slammed into their first song. Super loud and super fast—just the way I like it—but with this total pop vibe.

Just the way I love it.

“Wow,” I yelled over the music. “They are good!”

“I know, right?” Mary yelled back.

While I rocked out with the rest of the crowd, putting my hands up and moving to the beat (from my chair—there was no way I was moving my butt off the seat), Mary rocked out in her own way . . . which consisted of watching the stage intently and barely moving her head in time to the music. But I could tell she was totally into it. Which is good. Eddie and his roadkill songs don't get to take everything from her.

Violet and her band ran through their opening number and
slid directly into their second. It was slower and deeper, but I still dug it.

The marginally calmer music made the crowd less headbanging, and let someone slip through a little easier.

“These are for you,” said Chris the bouncer.

On a tray he carried two beers. We were only half done with our first round, so this was surprising. Also surprising was the idea of table service at Carter's.

“O . . . kay,” I said, wary. “Um, thanks? Is this to say sorry for trying to block us on our way in?”

Chris had a glare Mary could aspire to. “They're not from me. They're from him.”

He pointed into the crowd, where Cody was watching us out of the corner of his eye. When he saw us looking in his direction, he raised his beer in a toast.

“He grabbed me from the door and paid me an obscene amount of money to deliver these to you. And to say the following.” He cleared his throat and looked like he would rather be doing anything else. “He says he is happy to be in your beverage debt.”

I raised an eyebrow and glanced over Chris's shoulder to Cody again. “Okay. Could you tell him—”

“No.” Chris held up a hand. “I'm not a singing telegram. If you want to tell your boyfriend anything, do it yourself.”

And with that, Chris put his tray under his arm and went back to being miserable at the door.

Mary looked from her half-drunk beer to her new, full one. “Anything I should know about?”

I took a sip of my new beer, even though the old one was right there, and let my eyes slide back toward Cody. “Not yet.”

The band played for the next hour without stopping. And Mary and I rocked out (in our own ways), just drinking our beers and enjoying ourselves.

And God, how long had it been since I'd just enjoyed myself?
Lost the noise of everybody and everything and just existed in the here and now? It was amazing to completely forget about psych class and gothic lit and Ms. W and applications and my sisters and apartments and just . . . breathe, you know?

Mary was right. I needed this.

By the time the Mechanics took a break, Violet's clothes were sticking to her skin and she'd gone through two bottles of water, layers of tank tops, and popped a string off her guitar.

“All right, everyone! We're going to fix our instruments—and dry off—and we'll be back in a few!” Violet announced before the band waved to the crowd and headed off the stage. They were all as in need of a recharge as Violet was, given the way the bassist leaped from the stage and ran to the back. But even though she must have been worn the eff out, Violet still scanned the crowd, found us, and waved to Mary.

“I know you think she's an annoying boss, but she's super cool,” I said.

“I don't think she's annoying,” Mary protested. “But . . .”

“But what . . . ?”

“I dunno. She's my boss. And I've never had a boss before who wanted to hang outside of work. And she's . . . she's just Violet. Like, so nice it's weird. She even invited us backstage.”

A very high-pitched noise vibrated in my ears.

It might have been me.

“We get to go backstage?!?” I squealed.

“Well, we could.” Mary seemed to consider it for a second. But then she just shook her head. “But we'd have to give up our table . . .”

“Mary, I have never ever been backstage at a rock concert and you will not deny me this!” I grabbed Mary's hand and pulled her through the crowd and toward the back.

Turns out, backstage is really just the supply room off Carter's kitchen, next to the walk-in freezer—which must have been running at full blast. I was so, so glad I'd brought my jacket with me,
even though it forced us to abandon our claim on our miracle table.

We slipped into the room and stood next to the boxes of frozen buffalo wings, completely unnoticed.

Unnoticed because Violet and her bassist were having a surprise shouting match.

“That was complete bullshit—you started on the one when I told you to start on the three!” the bassist yelled.

“Duke, we've always started on the one. Always. You can't just tell me to start on the three five seconds before—”

“It always sounds shitty on the one! If you were any kind of musician you'd know that—”

“And if you were any kind of professional you'd play the gig and let us work this out in rehearsals!”