Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (12 page)

“So, how was your paper?” she asked as we were sitting down.

“Paper?”

“On the Milgram Experiment?”

“Oh. That.” God, my paper seemed like a million years ago. And a C sure as hell didn't seem like the end of the world anymore. Perspective, huh? “It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“I told you, the professor loves me.” I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest.

I thought I saw her squint for a split second, but I must have been imagining it because she immediately continued on: “Well, that's good to hear. But—”

“Ms. W, do we really have to talk about my grades? I don't come to counseling to have you make sure I'm doing my homework.”

“All right,” she said, her voice doing that calm thing that normally actually calms me, but this time it just sort of made me more uncomfortable. “Last time, we were talking a bit about how you are going to transition to Central Bay College—you seemed very positive about it.”

“I am.” Yup, positive. Because it's totally going to happen. Once the stupid freaking admissions office opens in the morning. WHY AREN'T THEY OPEN ON WEEKENDS???

“And are you feeling equally positive about leaving home?”

“Duh.”

“Hmm,” Ms. W said, writing something down on her notepad. Which only made me feel more uncomfortable. “I mention it because sometimes students with as much drive as you have to move on to the next step . . . find the transition more difficult than they expected.”

“It's not going to be a problem. I mean, I'm so ready,” I said. “And shouldn't I be? I've been in community college way too long. I'm not going to miss it. I'm not going to get sentimental for the
campus parking lot, or that weird shade of yellow in the hallways. I'm not even going to miss you.”

Ms. W sat up a little straighter. “Me?” she asked, her voice completely neutral.

“Counseling,” I corrected, although her expression didn't change. “I mean, I'm good. Honestly, I sort of feel like coming here today was kind of a waste of time. My classes are fine; my life is fine; things are so normal now it's boring. We've been over everything, and since we only have like, two sessions left after this, why even bother? Just rip the Band-Aid off already.”

“That's an interesting choice of words,” Ms. W said, placing her notebook aside. “So you feel that you are . . . healed, for lack of a better term?”

“Maybe? But if I am, isn't that a good thing? And you can put a gold star sticker next to my name and be the one who fixed me.”

Ms. W leaned forward, putting her forearms on her knees and lacing her fingers together in front of her. She looked me dead in the eye.

“Lydia, the work we do in here is not about me ‘fixing' you. Nor is it about you fixing yourself. It's about us exploring your feelings, and how those feelings influence your actions. Then, we can create methods that help you find balance between said feelings and actions. Does that make sense?”

I nodded.

“It's a process of learning. And while I know you currently feel that since we have so little time left, any effort we make might be futile, I hope you'll consider keeping your next few appointments. Even if you don't have anything you want to talk about.”

I just nodded again.

I bought a new can of mousse on my way home.

From the school's website, I knew the admissions office opened at 8:00 a.m. I set my alarm for 6:45 a.m., so I could have some coffee, prepare what I wanted to say, know how to pitch my voice
so I sounded super sweet and apologetic and responsible, just completely taken off guard by the due date, considering I only received the form a couple of weeks ago. The admissions lady would totally understand. And everything would be fine.

I was up at 5:00 a.m.

Kitty looked at me like I'd grown a second, slightly less adorable head. Which she usually does, but it seemed particularly judge-y this time. I threw her a catnip-laced squeak toy and watched her flip herself over and around on the floor trying to conquer it.

I know how she feels.

Four cups of coffee, a shower, three outfits, a lot of reading nothing on the Internet, and one last attempt to get my hair to curl (nope) later, the clock on my phone ticked over to eight o'clock.

Three deep breaths. Then dial.

Ring.

Ring.

Answering machine.

Seriously. Answering machine. It's almost like the admissions office doesn't realize they have a potential student with her life falling apart on the line so they just take their sweet-ass time opening up the office for the morning.

It took three more calls before someone finally picked up, at 8:04 a.m.

“Central Bay College Admissions Office,” a tired-sounding admissions lady said.

“Hi, my name is Lydia Bennet, and I'm a fall semester student?”

“Hold on, let me log in to my computer.” I could hear shuffling. This was absolute torture. I could picture her. Middle-aged, wearing a terrible color combo, taking off her coat, throwing it over the back of her chair, and then straightening it out and picking the cat hairs off it. Then, finally, turning on a computer even older than mine and humming to herself as she waited for it to boot up.

Well, that part I didn't have to picture. I could hear the humming.

It didn't help.

“What was your name again?”

I told her. And as she typed it into her computer, I told her my whole story. I made it as sob-tastic as I could. I told her about how they actually
had
most of my transfer application on file. That I could kick myself for missing the original form, but I was
so
very grateful they had emailed it to me. But with so little time to complete it, and the fact I was finishing up my credit requirements, and I was working in a coffee shop—okay, that part I made up, but they'd never check it and desperate times call for the occasional white lie—I hadn't realized I'd missed the deadline to turn it in, and surely they could give me an extension? A small one?

“I'm sorry, but we can't.”

I was pretty sure the floor fell out from under me. It felt like it. I had to look down to make sure it was still there.

“But . . . not even a week? A couple days?”

I heard her sigh. “There are a limited number of transfer spots available every year. And usually applicants have all their paperwork in by the spring. We'd given you the extension to last Friday because of the . . . quality of your recommendations,” she said, and I knew she had gotten to the part of my file that mentioned Darcy. “However, the application process is officially closed as of this past weekend. The fall semester starts in a month. We simply cannot hold up the machine any longer.”

“But . . . can't you squeeze me in?” I dug through my panicking brain for Lizzie-speak. “I guarantee you I will be a vital asset to your campus and an upstanding scholar.”

“If we squeezed you in, we'd have to do it for everyone. And we don't have that much space. Now, if you had contacted us earlier about the delay . . .”

“You weren't open on the weekend!” I could hear the defensiveness in my voice, and I hated it. Admissions Lady hated it, too, because when she spoke next, it was basically like taking an ice bath.

“What I meant was, had you notified us earlier that the application would be delayed, we might have been able to assist you.”

“I didn't know the application was going to be delayed, because I didn't realize the due date was so soon . . .” I took a deep breath. Three. Then, I just let all the crap fall to the side. “I screwed up. I know that. But is there anything I can do to unscrew it? If so, please tell me.”

There was a long pause. I crossed my fingers.

“If you can send me the completed forms we are missing right now, then I can probably go into the system and ‘squeeze you in,' as you put it.”

“Right now?” I asked. “Not even one day . . . ?”

“Right now. Otherwise . . . you are welcome to apply for next semester, although there are far fewer transfer slots available in the spring.”

“No, I . . . I got it. I'll send it right away,” I said, adding, “Thank you,” before I hung up the phone.

I just stared at the phone for a little while. I don't know how long, but I only looked up finally because Kitty was scratching at the door to be let out. I should be rushing to my computer, emailing the admissions office my forms, and breathing a sigh of relief.

But I can't.

Because it's still not done. The essay. And now, it never will be.

Why the hell didn't I do the essay this weekend, instead of obsessing about my stupid hair? I went through three cans of mousse! Why didn't I just sit my ass down at the computer and write? Write anything. You know what would be a good moment when I experienced failure to write about?

That time I missed my deadline for the application to go to college.

And not just college. A
good
college. A college where I wouldn't be a screwup.

Except I am a screwup. All over again.

I wasted this weekend. Hell, I'd wasted the last three weeks. Why didn't I just write the freaking essay?

Why couldn't I write the essay?

All of this throbbed in my brain as I went over to open the door for Kitty, and found Mary standing right there, hand raised to knock.

“What are you doing?”

“Good morning?” Mary said, bringing her hand down.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“No. Were you talking?”

I forced the panic back down into my stomach from where it had risen in my throat. “Just, like, talking to Kitty. Stupid stuff.”

“Right. Well, it would have to be. If you were talking to a cat.”

“Whatevs, did you need something?” I said, leaning against the door. “I'm going to be late for class.”

“I was wondering if you'd want to carpool.”

“Carpool?” I said, crossing to grab my bag, heavy with books and notes. I just wanted to throw it across the room. “You work later than I'm in school.”

“Yeah, but Violet said she could give me a ride after work. She doesn't live too far from us. You take the car home. This way we can save on gas money. Maybe we can afford an apartment with only three roommates instead of four?”

I had to choke down a burst of hysterical laughter.
God, Mary,
I thought,
if you only knew.

What was Mary going to say when I told her? What was she going to do?

I should have just told her then. I should have just blurted it out, and let her know that
Lydia Did It Again
. I'd screwed up not just my life, but hers, too.

But I didn't.

“Fine,” I said instead, throwing my bag over my shoulder. “I'm driving.”

Monday

“When we talk about motivation, outside of the primary drive we have to survive, we are talking basically about two things.”

There's this weird thing that happens when everything falls apart. It's happened to me before, so I know. Your body, the normal one you live in every day, sort of starts to exist apart from you. You're still there, of course. Still hanging out. But it all goes on autopilot, getting you through the days while you . . . contract.

“Intrinsic motivation—which is internal—is the desire to do something because it inherently pleases you.”

For instance, as I drove to school that morning, dropping Mary off at the coffee shop, I have no memory of taking the correct turns, or pulling into the parking lot. My body just did it for me. Because my mind was swollen, trying to process what the hell I was going to do now.

I do remember that I told myself I couldn't cry. Not in front of Mary. So I didn't. I turned it off. Autopilot took care of the rest.

“And extrinsic motivation, which is the desire to take action because of the consequences resulting from it. Either reward or punishment.”

And Professor Latham? I know he was talking. I know he put up slide after slide on his PowerPoint. I couldn't tell you what was on them, though, even though I copied every word down.

If it's not important, it isn't getting in. Autopilot would handle it.

And I need autopilot today. Because everything going on in my head is nothing more than a dull noise.

God, I bought a sweater in Central Bay colors. What the hell
am I going to do with the stupid thing now? Way to jump the gun there, Lydia.

And it's not like I didn't get accepted. That “almost” would have been better, somehow. I'd be able to say,
Oh, well, you tried your best; we'll figure it out later, but for now, enjoy your fro-yo and wallowing.
And what's more, everyone else would say that, too. That this time, I really did try my best. But . . .

This isn't that. Because with my Darcy recommendation, I had basically been guaranteed a spot. It was
mine
. I just . . . hadn't taken it. I had only tried to try. And that wasn't good enough.

Why? I mean, I wanted it. It was the only thing I wanted. To go up to San Francisco with Mary. To have a plan mapped out for myself, helping people. When someone asked, “So, Lydia, what are your plans for the future?”
to have an actual answer
.

. . . but if I wanted it so much, why didn't I just take it?

You know, why do I
need
to fill out a stupid essay application, anyway? Who cares about my failures? You know what would have made a far more interesting essay? My successes. They are cooler and way more rare. Don't colleges
want
people who are successful?

But failure . . . who wants to stare at their failures? Who wants to let other people read them, as a standard for whether you get into a school?

This was the constant loop running through my head when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, temporarily breaking me out of my autopilot.