Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (13 page)

You ok?

I glanced up. Cody, three rows in front, had his computer opened and his back to me. I could see the IM box on his screen open and blinking.

Fine
, I typed.
Why?

I waited. He typed.

You seem a little off. Too much fun this weekend? ;)

I was so surprised, I didn't even care about the winky face. Out of everyone, how is it Cody who noticed something's wrong? Mary certainly didn't. She was her usual unchatty self as we drove in today, her head buried in a Neil Gaiman book. And my parents barely glanced at us as we came through the kitchen. My mom just forced food on us, as per usual, and my dad, who hadn't left for the office yet for some reason, told us we better “hurry along, or else we'll be late” from behind his newspaper.

But Cody was not so oblivious. Weird. And interesting.

Yeah, long weekend. That's all. What was yours like?

I waited. Cody sat up a little straighter, surprised when my message popped up on his screen.

Nothing as fun as Friday night . . .

I smiled. Just a little, and for the first time since the Friday night in question. It felt really, really good to let my brain do something else, even if it was just for a second.

A really short second.

“Miss Bennet, as I have said before . . .” Professor Latham said, breaking through my phone-focus (yeah, that's a phrase now, deal with it) and making me look up.

And making everyone else look up at me, too.

But this time, I just shrugged it off. I didn't care that they were looking. Autopilot was back on.

“Yup, no phones,” I said, putting it away. Whatever. “Got it.”

Wednesday

“Welcome to Books Beans and Buds. Go, Pioneers. We do not sell pot here; can I interest you in a budding beverage?”

Mary stared dead-eyed at the poncho-wearing stoner standing in line in front of me. Even if his glazed eyes and weird lean didn't give him away, his hemp necklace did. Way to be a stereotype, dude.

“Whuh . . . ?”

“We. Do. Not. Sell. Pot. Here,” Mary said, making sure every syllable got into the stoner's brain. I rolled my eyes. Mary caught it and rolled her eyes right back at me. “Can I interest you in a budding beverage?”

“Um . . . I'll need a minute,” the stoner said.

Mary looked around him to me. “Mochaccino?”

“Thanks.”

She stepped away to put together my drink, leaving the stoner standing at the counter. Swaying slightly.

You know what's great about autopilot? You're so busy caring about one big thing, you stop caring about all the other little things.

Like rules.

“Hey,” I said, low to him. “You looking to buy?”

He looked over at me, kinda suspicious, but his drug-fueled paranoia lost to his desire for more drugs.

“Yeah. You got some?”

“Not me, but . . .”

I nodded to Mary, where she was working the frothing machine like she'd been barista-ing for much longer than a month.

“But she said—” The stoner looked so confused. Poor stoner. Maybe some coffee would perk him up.

“You just have to know how to order it.” I leaned in, like a conspirator in a spy movie. “Order a small coffee, black. Then put a twenty in the tip jar.”

“And then . . .”

“And then . . . she'll give you the coffee.”

Stoner's bloodshot eyes went wide. “Ohhh . . . she'll give me the ‘coffee.' Got it.”

Mary came back, my mochaccino in hand. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” I said, and headed to the doctoring station. I didn't need to add any more sugar to my sugary drink, I just wanted a view.

“I'll take a small coffee,
black
,” Stoner said, as he confidently deposited two crumpled ten-dollar bills in the tip jar on the counter.

Mary looked from the stoner, to the tip jar, back to the stoner again. “Okay, then,” she said, wary. “One small coffee.”

She went to go pour it out, and Stoner looked around like he'd just won the lottery. But then she came back with just coffee, and handed it to him.

“That's one twenty-five,” she said.

“I . . . have to pay for that, too?”

“Yes. That's how this works.”

“But it's in here, right? The . . . ‘coffee?' ”

Mary, still as apathetic as ever, took the world's deepest breath before she answered, “Yup. Put it in there myself. One twenty-five.”

“Okay . . .” Stoner, looking a little lost, dug into his pocket again and pulled out what other money he had left. Then he took his coffee and hurried out the door with his contraband as I watched, smirking.

“I saw that,” Violet's voice came from behind me. She was holding a mop, having just finished with a spill under a table.

“Saw what?” I asked innocently. “Oh, did I accidentally give that guy the impression that there was marijuana in his coffee? Oopsie.”

Violet bit back a smile. “He's gonna come back here, demanding to know why he didn't get high.”

“Please,” I replied. “You're assuming he can
find
his way back here.”

At that moment, Stoner guy was still standing outside the coffee
shop, taking two steps one way, then two steps the other, trying to remember where he parked his car, probably.

“Fair point,” Violet said. “But no more tricking the druggies.”

“Hey, maybe he will get a high just because he expects to. Operant conditioning, you know?” I said, as I headed to my usual table. At least I was getting
something
out of psych class. Even though it was pointless otherwise.

“I don't think operant conditioning is the right methodology,” Violet mused, coming over to the table. “Maybe expectancy theory?”

“I guess? We haven't gotten that far in class yet.” Or we might have. But the past two classes, it's been a little hard to give a damn about what Professor Latham was saying. Today, I barely took any notes. I mostly doodled in my notebook.

I drew a lot of ponies. I wonder if that would mean anything to Freud or Jung. It could just mean that once I had a pony.

I miss Mr. Wuffles.

“I'd be happy to tell you all about it,” Violet said, as soon as I sat down. “Mary mentioned you might need some psych tutoring? I can absolutely help—I even still have all my notes from my classes at NAU.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my stomach drop to my shoes. “Um, I think I'm okay.”

Violet's forehead wrinkled. “You sure? She said you had a paper that you worked really hard on but—”

“Yeah. But it's fine, now. I talked to the professor about it.” The bell above the door tinkled as someone new came in. “And I'm totally getting assistance. Cody!”

At the sound of his name, Cody looked around the coffee shop and found me, waving him over.

“Hey, Lydia,” he said, a little surprised.

“Cody and I are study buddies. I've got this psych thing covered.”

“Okay,” Violet said, turning from me to smile at Cody. “Just thought I'd let you know if you needed help—”

“No, I got it. But thanks so much for the offer. Super great of you.”

Violet and her mop went back behind the counter.

“OMG, you just saved me,” I said as he sat down across from me.

He looked over to where Violet was helping Mary make drinks. “Not into hanging out with the baristas?”

“Just . . . my cousin trying to help me. It's too much dabbling, you know?”

“Uh-oh . . .” Cody said. “I know what this is.”

“You do?”

“Halfway through class, and all the gung ho you had at the beginning has gung hoed,” he said, grinning at me. “Now you see it for the slog it is. I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't have to. Would you?”

“I . . . guess not,” I replied. Before, I had been all about my classes, because they were going to be interesting, and they were going to get me to the place I wanted to go. Now . . . I'm not going to that place. And that makes them way less interesting.

“Now is when you start hearing that little voice inside your head saying . . . ‘It's a nice summer day. Why am I going to Gothic Lit and not the beach?' ”

“Well, do you have any advice for how to get that voice to quiet down?” I said. “You know, some extrinsic motivation to counter the intrinsic lack of motivation?”

“In my opinion? Listen to him.”

“Oh, really?” I replied. “Voices in your head have that much sway over you?”

“I just respect the occasional mental health day.” He leaned in to me. “I mean, after everything you've been through this year, don't you deserve a break?”

I considered it. It was a nice day out. A beach-worthy day. Even my paleness seemed, for once, too pale. And I'd bet Cody had a beach-worthy body under that plain T-shirt. But I looked over and
saw Mary behind the counter. She glanced my way. Violet must have told her about the study-buddy comment.

Expectations. She had them. And so did I, sort of. Even though I don't really know what they are anymore.

Guess I still do care. Just enough.

“Nice try,” I said. “But I'm going to class.”

“I had to give it a shot.” Cody stood, grabbing his bag. “Shall we depart?”

Friday

More ponies in psych class. I turned in another paper. This one on motivation. But hell if I have any. I'll get a C on that paper, too. I don't think Professor Latham gives out anything but C's, at least not to me. So why kill myself on it, right? There's no one to impress, I just have to pass. Not do well, not kick ass. Just . . . get through it.

I wished I was doing literally anything else.

Gothic Lit was more interesting. Not because of the subject matter, but because Cody sat next to me. Where his knee could occasionally bump into mine. Or our elbows might bump up against each other.

And Harriet, of course, was stuck across from us.

I know I said that I didn't sign up to be part of some angsty love triangle this summer, but if Harriet still thinks she's part of this geometry, the past couple of Gothic Lit classes must have killed that idea.

It wasn't just that on Wednesday—and today—we entered the class together, sat next to each other, laughing about stuff. She'd seen that before. But when he leaned over and said something to me while Natalie was talking, I might have listened more to him than I did the lecture on Poe.

Yeah, not a fan of Poe, anyway. The writer of dark, twisty stories is weird and pale and depressed in real life. Shocker.

Poe could have really done with some girl-power music and a day at the beach.

So could Mary, come to think of it.

But anyway, after class on Wednesday, Harriet came up to Cody, tried flipping her hair, gossiping about class, and there was nothing. He just said, “Ready to go, Lydia?” and he and I walked out to our cars together, Harriet tagging along behind us, totally hating every step she took. Cody and I loitered by our cars in the parking lot, and Harriet sort of hung out beside us, trying to jump into the
conversation. Eventually, she just hugged her notebook to her chest and said a halfhearted “Bye, guys!” and wandered over to her car.

By the time she drove away, I almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

And today after class, she didn't even try to talk to him. She just slid away in pre-defeat.

I fully expect the rumors about Stupid Whorey Slut Lydia Bennet will be back in action come Monday. But again . . . stopped caring.

However, after class today, Cody and I didn't walk out together—because Natalie pulled me aside and asked to talk to me.

“Want me to wait?” Cody asked.

“No, it's okay. See you Monday,” I said, and turned back to Natalie. I was a little exhausted by Cody, admittedly.

“Is everything okay? You were awfully quiet in class,” Natalie said as soon as the doors shut and we were alone. Actually, I hadn't been that quiet and felt a little guilty about that. I just hadn't been talking about Poe, or to the class at large. “I was hoping you'd weigh in on the reading.”

“The reading?”

“ ‘The Tell-Tale Heart,' ” Natalie said.

“Oh, that,” I said. “I, um, didn't really get around to it yesterday.” I totally intended to read it at Books Beans and Buds in between classes, but I accidentally left my Poe book at home. Besides, Cody was there to distract me, so it's not like I would have gotten a lot of reading done, anyway.

“Well, that's a shame. I always look forward to your insights.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” Natalie said, laughing. “Why is that so surprising?”

I shrugged, unable to come up with a properly insightful answer. But the way Natalie was looking at me, like the class actually
mattered
and I was disappointing her, just made me feel weirdly guilty.

And I didn't really want to feel guilty.

“Well . . . if you do have any insights, you can share them on Monday,” Natalie said.

“Uh-huh, okay, see you Monday!” I said as cheerfully as someone released from school on a Friday afternoon in summer can sound, and headed out the door.

Cody, as instructed, hadn't waited for me. So I threw on my shades, strutted across the campus to the power-anthem soundtrack playing in my head, climbed in my car, and drove home.

By the time I got there, the power anthems had died, and the quiet had settled in.

“Mom? Dad?” I called out. My parents weren't home, it seemed. No idea where they were or what they might be doing (ew, brain, don't go there), but having the house to myself was a rarity. I could pig out on leftovers in the fridge. I could watch soap operas. I could dig out some of Jane's old craft supplies and use her fancy scissors to cut decorative trim into all the papers on my dad's desk.