Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (14 page)

Instead, I went upstairs and rooted around on the floor until I found my big book o' Poe.

Wow, I really did feel guilty.

How is it that Cody is the only person to notice that I'm “off” and Natalie is the one person to give a damn about it? I cracked the book's spine and flipped through the pages to “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

Oh, hey, a story about someone wracked by guilt and trying to cover it up. I'll have some
great
insights for class.

I threw the story aside before I'd gotten halfway through. It was super short, and I could read it on Sunday. Besides, too nice a summer day for the horror-movie vibe. Unless that horror movie is
I Know What You Did Last Summer
. Oh, I hadn't seen that in a while.

I was watching a bootlegged version of vintage Ryan Phillippe on my phone when a knock on my door made me jump out of my skin.

“Lydia?” Mary's voice came from the hall.

“Yeah,” I called out, not moving from my collapsed position on the bed. Mary stuck her head in. “You're home early.”

She came in and sat on the bed. Folded her hands in front of her. Uh-oh. This was serious Mary. The differences between serious Mary and regular Mary are hard to spot, but I'm trained in this sort of thing.

Serious Mary meant that she wanted to have a serious conversation. Which sent a twist down my spine.

Did she know?

“Violet said you turned her down when she offered to tutor you?” Mary asked.

“Oh, that,” I said, breathing a little easier. “Yeah, it was totally cool of her to offer, but I'm good.”

“You're good?” Mary asked. “Because last week you were freaking out about a C on your paper.”

“Yeah, but the paper I turned in this week is way better,” I lied. But I happen to lie really well. This past week, I've practically become a professional. “It's awesome you were looking out for me, but I got this, cuz.”

Mary eyed me for a while, but then she just shrugged. “So, you don't need help? Because I was gonna offer to help you study, quiz you from the textbook, if you wanted.”

“That's your idea of a fun Friday night?” I asked.

“No. And since you say you don't need it, I won't offer.”

“Good. We should be doing something way better. Oh! Let's go to the movies. I really want to see the one about the a cappella girl-group killing zombies.”

“As . . . deeply horrified as I am at the prospect of a zombie film featuring singing coeds, can we put it off until tomorrow?” Mary asked. “Since you don't need to study, Violet asked if I'd sub in on bass for the Mechanics' practice session.”

“Sub in? OMG, are you joining a band?” I squeaked.

“No, I'm just subbing in,” Mary said, crossing her arms over her chest in that way that means there's no wiggle room—at least not in her mind. “Apparently Duke's ditching rehearsals even though
they have gigs coming up. They haven't decided if they're going to replace him—he's a founding member of the band—but in the meantime . . . still gotta practice.”

“Wow. That's quite the justification for you fetching your bass from your mom's place yesterday.”

“Whatever.” Mary rolled her eyes. “Do you want to come? I'm sure Violet wouldn't mind if you hung out.”

I thought about it, but the idea of sitting in a garage on a couch listening to a band by myself seemed way too . . . Mary for me.

“You know I'm your original groupie, but I think I'll skip it this time.”

“You sure?” Mary asked.

“Yeah. But have fun.”

“Okay. But tomorrow, girls killing singing zombies?”

“Singing girls killing zombies, but close enough.”

Mary gave me a little wave as she headed out the door.

Leaving me alone again. Nobody but me and Kitty. And Poe on the floor. And Ryan Phillippe on my phone. But neither of those two guys really interested me right now.

I'm still not very good at being by myself. This is something Ms. W and I used to talk about a lot. My need for attention mixed up with my desire for independence. So I would try it. I'd go get fro-yo by myself, or I'd drive to the beach alone and just watch the waves. Figuring out what it was like to not have someone else to distract me from me.

I should use this time, I thought. Do some breathing exercises, feng shui my room. Try to focus on what I'm going to do when I graduate—and of course, I've been avoiding telling everyone what has happened. They'll be so disappointed in me, and angry, and I'll—

My phone dinged. Cody.

I didn't get the chance after class to ask you what you're doing this weekend.

I looked around my room. My cat, Poe, and moving furniture while trying to figure out my life were no longer the only options.

You're taking me out. Tonight.

I was totally up for meeting Cody wherever, but he insisted on picking me up, like we were in high school. Luckily, since my parents seemed to have abandoned the building and Mary was off playing bass guitar with her new friends, he didn't have to face family awkwardness.

Besides, this wasn't a date. It was . . . beer and talking. That's all.

“So, what's your pleasure?” he said as I got into the car. He'd dressed up in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his sandy hair was combed into that messy thing guys do when they're trying to look more casual than they actually are. It's cute when they make an effort.

“My pleasure?” I asked.

“Where do you want to go? I don't know the town that well. . . .”

“You've been here almost a month now,” I replied.

“And yet I haven't managed to tap into the zeitgeist. To find the spots that only the locals know about.”

“You've been to Carter's,” I said.

“Yeah . . .”

“Then you're tapped in.” I laughed. “There's not enough town for there to be more than one cool place to go.”

He put his car into gear. “Carter's it is, then.”

Thankfully, Carter's was not hosting another farewell show that night, so we didn't have to deal with a line, a velvet rope, or a cover.
In fact, since it was summer, and school wasn't in its normal session, it was deader than I'd seen it in a while.

Side effect of my recent absences from, you know, life.

We slid past Chris, who was at the door, checking IDs. He eyed me and mine, but ever since I stopped having to use fake IDs, I consider bartender/bouncer suspicions a compliment.

The inside of Carter's was warm and friendly, like coming home. Except better, because this home didn't have a messy room, a bunch of homework waiting for me, and only Kitty for company. Instead, it had people talking, the movie channel playing something from the eighties on TV, and every type of beer brewed within a fifty-mile radius.

Cody went to the bar to order while I found us a place to sit. With no stage set up, Carter had moved all the tables and games back to their normal positions—the pool table that's always occupied by those two guys who think they know trick shots, the Just Dance game, the vintage reproduction of Asteroids.

“Did you know they used to have Whac-A-Mole back here?” Cody said as he joined me at the table, two beers in hand. “Harriet was telling me about it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Thank God they got rid of it.”

“Why?” Cody asked. “Mallets and alcohol don't mix?”

I shrugged. Why not tell him? Who cares, right?

“Well, that. But also, the last time I played Whac-A-Mole here, I was with a guy, we overpartied, and I almost got kicked out of the bar.”

His eyebrow went up. “I didn't know Whac-A-Mole was that dangerous.”

“Oh yeah. Just imagine how terrifying it is for the moles,” I said.

“I bet you've got a million stories like that,” he said, nodding.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Having fun,” he said. “Crazy stuff happening. You know.”

I cocked my head to one side, half-smiling. “Hoping something crazy is going to happen?”

“On a date with you? I have no doubt.”

“Oh,” I said, my face becoming super serious. “Cody, this isn't a date.”

“It's not?” he said. “I'm pretty sure you asked me on a date. I have the text message—exhibit A.”

“It's not a date-date. It's a
study
date. I'm all about my studies, you know.”

“Ah . . . I understand,” Cody said, smiling. “So what are we studying? Psych? Gothic Lit? The Ly-di-ah?”

“Nope,” I said, feeling a little wary for some reason. Maybe I hadn't had enough beer yet to be the topic of scrutiny. I took a sip. A big one.

I mean, I hadn't hung out with a guy since George. Maybe that's what made me nervous.

However, basic Dating 101 is “ask about the other person.” Maybe that was true of study dating, too.

“Today's subject is Cody Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is.”

“Ask me anything, I'm an open book.”

“Well, let's start with your last name and go from there.”

He threw his head back in laughter. And I laughed a little, too.

*  *  *

We drank our beers. We talked. Cody's last name, it turns out, is James.

“Totally boring, right?” he said.

“Not totally boring,” I replied. “Just, marginally boring.”

“But it's not something that's going to stand out on a bookshelf.”

“A bookshelf?”

“Yeah, I'm . . . going to be a writer. Studying composition and fiction writing,” he said shyly, but not really shyly. It was a total humble brag, but I was willing to let it slide. Being a couple of beers in will do that to you.

“I wrote a short story for my fraternity's newsletter—just as a gag,”
Cody was saying. “But it turned out really good, and everyone really liked it. So I thought, I was always good at telling stories, you know? Just need to find a story to tell, and boom—you've got a career.”

So Cody's a brain. Someone like my sister Lizzie. I mean, I always knew he was smarter than your average summer-school student, but my guy experience has mostly been limited to the jocks. The beach volleyball team. Swimmers. Even a figure skater once (it didn't last long). So it was a little intimidating to be hanging out with a guy who wants to have his name on a book's spine someday. Which meant it was weirdly comforting that he was in a fraternity.

“It's why I changed majors. And why I'm having to take summer classes to meet credit requirements.”

“What was it before?” I asked. “Your major, I mean.”

He rubbed his hand over the back of his head and mumbled, “
Fnh.
”

“I'm sorry, what did you say?”

He sighed. “French.”

“
French?
” I repeated. Then I burst out laughing.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, chuckling.

“Who majors in French? Where do you even use French, besides France . . . and Canada?”

“Yeah, I started to figure that out. I took it in high school; I have Google Translate; I'd been to Montreal, watched a lot of sad, artsy French films . . . I figured I was golden.” He stood up from the table. “Another round?”

*  *  *

More beers, more talking. I don't know how it happened, but when I looked up, the bar was emptier than before. And when I looked down, the number of glasses on the table told me I was well over my two-drink limit.

I didn't care. Which was probably a result of all those empty glasses. But it was kind of awesome. Awesome to laugh at stuff I
can't really remember after the fact. Awesome to lose the collar that's been around my neck. Awesome to bop my head to the music coming from the Just Dance game while people played.

Awesome to not worry about what was going on with Lydia Bennet, for once.

“So tell me about you,” Cody was saying. I don't know if he'd had as many beers as me, but my giggle-meter was amped higher than his.

“Like my hopes and dreams?” I said, taking another sip.

“No, more like . . . your best story.” He smiled at me. Cute guy has a cute smile. Awesome. “Everyone has a best story. Something . . . daring, different. Exciting. You probably have twenty.”

I let my eyes drift over the rest of the bar, thinking. “How about . . . when I got the high score on Just Dance?”

He looked over his shoulder to the recently unoccupied Just Dance machine, in all its neon-flashing glory.

“You have the high score? When did that happen?”

“Right now,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him up with me.

I flagged down Chris, now standing behind the bar. Guess when it's late enough bouncers don't have a lot of bouncing to do. “Hey, Chris, can I get some quarters?” I said, holding up a five.

Chris sighed deeply, which I was beginning to think was normal. “Last call's in fifteen, guys.”

“Just enough time to destroy all the records on Just Dance,” I said.

“Just Dance, huh?” he said. “We'll see.”

I scooped up the quarters he put on the bar and danced over to the machine.

“Okay,” I said, plugging my coins into the machine. The scoreboard popped up. “That's the person with the high score—CCH. That's who LBB has to destroy.”

Cody's hand hovered over the start button. “CCH won't know what hit him. Ready?”

I nodded. He hit the button. “Go!”

The music began, the dance steps coming fast and furious. My sister Lizzie thinks she's good at Just Dance. I'm
actually
good at it. Even considering my vow of no-funsies/all-study, I still kept my dance joints limber by using our home game as my brain break when I needed one. So Carter's bar game? No problem. The trick is to be loose. Lizzie is never loose.