Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (21 page)

One last voice in my head. Cody's.

Just need to find a story to tell, and boom.

“Oh, so that's what you think of me?” he blustered, totally lying, totally caught. “You think because you got used before that I'm going to use you? God, take some responsibility for your own actions. You're just like my last girlfriend—such a pathetic victim, all the time. Stuff always happened
to
her, it was never her fault.”

“Oh, I absolutely consider it my fault,” I said.

He cocked his head to one side.

“That I hung out with you in the first place.”

His eyes went dark again. But this time he wasn't just scary. He was angry. And I saw it—the second before he did. He was going to reach for me. Try and grab me—and what the hell was I going to do to stop him? I didn't have pepper spray or even my own car here. I could scream, though. I sucked in my breath and—

“Hey!” a voice called from the side door of Carter's.

Chris was standing there, his huge bouncer body blocking the light from the doorway.

“Lydia. Been looking for you. The Just Dance machine is free,” Chris said, his eyes staying on me. “Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine, buddy—” Cody said, but Chris cut him off.

“I don't know you. So I wasn't talking to you.” He kept his eyes on me. “You want to come back in? Dance battle?”

“Yeah,” I said, backing away from Cody. “I think that's a good idea.”

As I moved quickly to Chris, I could hear Cody muttering “Crazy bitch” under his breath as he stalked toward his car, got in, and screeched the tires on his way out of the parking lot. Yep, that's me. The crazy bitch who decided to stand up for herself. The crazy bitch who was over being super lame. The crazy bitch who didn't even consider putting pepper spray in her purse before this farce of a date.

The crazy bitch who was a little more wobbly at the moment than she let on.

“Hey, Chris,” I said, following him inside. “Thanks, but . . . I'm a little too tired to dance battle right now. I think . . . I'm just going to go home.”

Chris nodded. “Want me to call someone for you?”

I shook my head and held up my phone. “No, it's okay. I got it.”

“Okay,” Chris said, leading me into the storage room, aka backstage.

I nodded. “Thanks. For, um . . . all of that.”

Bouncers, in my experience, aren't really big into displays of emotion. So if he felt anything at all about having just saved my ass, it didn't show beyond his blushing a little and mumbling about having to be back at the bar before shuffling out.

I didn't know my hand was shaking until I sat down and started to go through my contacts. I didn't have cash left on me for a cab. Even if I'd had my car here it wasn't drivable—still in the shop. And I didn't have a ton of friends in town. Mary was gone. There wasn't a lot of choice in who to call.

And for a split second—less than a heartbeat—I wanted to call George.

Yes, George. Because at one time, he would have held me until I felt safe. And once I felt safe, he'd make me laugh about it.

But I knew he wouldn't pick up now. I'd dialed that number until it disconnected.

I hated that I was thinking about him now. And I hated the
hollow feeling in my chest whenever I did. I knew better. My head did, at least.

So instead, I called a man—the only man—I knew I could trust.

“Hi, Dad? It's Lydia. . . . Um, I need you to come get me.”

The drive home was quiet. My dad had left the house so quickly, he was still in his blue bathrobe and slippers. He'd pulled up outside of Carter's, and if I hadn't been at the front door waiting for him, I'm sure he'd have rushed inside like that.

It was a long time before he said anything to me.

“We didn't know you'd gone out.”

“I know.”

“When the phone rang it scared your mother.”

“I'm sorry.”

We drove on a little more.

“You know, you don't have to sneak out. You're an adult; we trust you.”

“Yeah,” I said, playing with my hands. “I just didn't want you to think I was being irresponsible.”

“Why would we think that?”

He said it so softly, I barely heard it. And I didn't know how to answer.

“I screwed up,” I said finally, just as softly. “I'm not going to Central Bay College. I missed the application deadline.”

My dad was quiet as he turned onto our street. Then, he sighed. “Well. I thought it might be something like that. Mary leaving and all.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yes,” he said, parking the car in the driveway. “I imagine you are.”

His voice was so quiet, so resigned . . . it just made me feel worse.

“I know you must be unhappy . . .” I began, but another sigh from my dad stopped me.

“I could be,” he said, tired. “But what would the point be of that? Life . . . life is too short.”

He opened his car door, climbed out. I followed him.

“Go get some sleep, Lydia,” he said, letting me in the front door. “I'll tell your mother. We'll talk more in the morning.”

I watched my dad, hunched over as he went back to his and Mom's bedroom. For the first time, my dad looked old to me. Like, grandpa, ear-hair old. Tired-old. And with my latest screw-up, I could see I'd just added more weight to him.

I went upstairs and flopped onto my bed, scaring a sleeping Kitty. She hissed at me. But I understood—I wanted to hiss at myself.

*  *  *

It wasn't just my parents who I had to come clean to. I owed others an explanation.

I sat in Ms. W's office, twisting my fingers, having just spilled my guts, waiting for her shock, her horror, her . . . however therapists tell you they're disappointed in you.

But Ms. W challenged my expectations.

“Oh, Lydia. I knew.”

My eyes flew up. “You knew? How?”

“You started acting somewhat . . . defensively around the time I knew your application was due. Then you missed another session, and . . .” She sighed. “But I'm very glad you told me.”

“Finally,” I added. Then I waited.

And waited.

“Well . . . ?” I said.

She blinked at me. “Well, what?”

“Don't you want to know how this all makes me feel?”

“All right.” She smiled. “I'll play along. How does it make you feel?”

“Like . . .” I searched for the words. “Like I've been wasting your time.”

“My time?”

“All these months, we've been trying to put my life together. But nothing's changed.”

Ms. Winters leaned forward. She didn't even glance at her notepad.

“What hasn't changed?”

“
Me.
I'm still
her
. The screw-up. The asshole-magnet. The traumatized chick with a sex tape.” I sniffled, trying to suck up that sting in my nose that felt suspiciously like I was going to cry. I hadn't cried in months. And I hadn't cried in therapy
ever
. “I just thought she'd be gone by now.”

Ms. Winters took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“First of all, the fact that Cody was . . . less than a gentleman is his fault, not yours.”

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. She'd said the exact same thing about George, a million years ago. I don't know if I believed it—then or now. People will do what you let them get away with, you know?

“Second, you can't erase your past. And I don't think you actually want to.”

I just shot her a look from underneath my bangs.

“If you did,” she continued, “I imagine you would have taken down your videos from the Internet.”

Okay, fair point.

“I wouldn't want you to change completely, either,” Ms. W was saying. “You just have to find a way to reconcile your old self-image with your new objectives. Integrate old Lydia into new Lydia, as it were.”

I just kind of . . . grimaced at that. Does she want me to end up
some weird Lydia hybrid? Two personalities, one body? I mean, split personalities
look
like fun in those made-for-TV movies, but probably a little less awesome in reality.

“But still,” I said, squirming a little. “I had this goal . . . this totally achievable plan, and I had you and Darcy calling in favors for me—and the second things got tough, I just gave up. And I mean, I don't even know if I want to study psychology anymore—which I guess is a good thing because I'm not going to get the chance.”

“Hmm,” Ms. Winters said. “Let's put your transfer and whether you want to study psychology aside for a second. You know what I find interesting? That you
didn't
give up.”

I snorted. It was the only appropriate response.

“You didn't,” she insisted. “You could have stopped going to classes. Stopped turning in your papers. But you kept on doing the work. Maybe a little less enthusiastically than before, but . . . you kept going.”

I thought for a second and . . . yeah—last Friday aside, I did do all my schoolwork and go to all my classes. Even though there were times I
really
didn't want to.

“That's perseverance. And that's not something you can teach. That's something that you have.” She smiled at me. “And you have intuition—which is how you were able to recognize Cody as a negative influence before you got more involved with him. Those two together, I have no doubt you'll succeed at whatever you choose to do.”

“Not if I'm getting C's in psychology.”

Ms. Winters leaned back in her chair, her arms resting open on the armrests. Like a noble something-or-other. The royal, benevolent therapist.

“Lydia, this is our last session. You have finals this week and then you'll be done. So I want to give you one last assignment.”

“Okay . . .” I said, skeptical. “ 'Cause homework is something I'm totally going to be into.”

She laughed a little.

“Be kind to yourself. When you get your associate degree, find a way to celebrate it. I know it feels like a small thing right now, but it deserves recognition.”

Those words stayed with me long after I left Ms. W's office for the last time.

I mean, be “kind” to myself? I was pretty much under the impression I'd spent the last couple of weeks being way too easy on myself. Blowing off life never struck me as the harder path. And how was I supposed to celebrate getting my associate degree when I had no idea what to do with it and no idea what came next?

But then again, it wasn't exactly kind to beat myself up over my failures. And I'd been the one doing that—not my parents, not even Mary.

I'd expected more. I'm the one who let me down.

But an assignment from Ms. W is usually worth giving a try.

Be kind to myself. Celebrate. Never thought anyone would ever have to tell Lydia Bennet when and why to party, but there you go.

I guess some stuff has changed.

But before I do, I have to get through my finals.

(or, Seriously, Victorians Were Lame)

Dracula
isn't a very good book. There, I said it. Even though it didn't “invent” the vampire, it is notable for popularizing vampires in culture and literature. So if we really wanted to, we could blame
Twilight
on Bram Stoker, but really I think we have to blame the late nineties and its fascination with body glitter more. But
Dracula
's biggest problem isn't that it's an epistolary novel, written as a bunch of letters and diary entries, making it hard to follow (and seriously, who writes diary entries that perfectly describe events and conversations in a linear way? No one, that's who), it's that Dracula isn't a
very good villain, because he's not a bad guy. He's just a whiny guy.

When we meet Dracula, Jonathan Harker is going to his castle in Transylvania (which is in Romania now—I looked it up) because he's a London lawyer and Dracula is buying a house somewhere and needs some paperwork filed. Then, Dracula won't let him leave and won't sign the papers, and Jonathan meets “the sisters,” who are this threesome of women who want to consume him, and Dracula just leaves him there to be consumed. Because now that he had the paperwork for his new digs all worked out, and he'd seen a picture of Jonathan's fiancée, Mina, Dracula didn't need him anymore.

Let's discard for a second the morality lesson presented where if one gets bitten by Dracula they turn sexy and lustful. Presenting sexy as a bad thing (women have sex? Shocker! Someone fetch whatever smelling salts are!) is just what Victorian guys had to do because they couldn't handle women being awesome. It's pretty much still in effect, too, so thanks for that, Victorians.

Instead, let's focus on what Dracula does to Jonathan. He imprisons him. Jonathan can't be seduced by Dracula, and can't be driven crazy like Renfield, so Drac locks him away. To be fed to the sisters or to waste away. Kind of passive for a mega-evil vampire, don't you think? Strike one against being a decent villain.

So Dracula goes to London—after eating an entire ship full of sailors on the way (except for that captain, who is tied to the ship's helm and
how
did he write a captain's log while tied to a helm?)—kills a girl named Lucy, and stalks Jonathan's fiancée, Mina (again, behind the scenes—passive evil).

When Mina is being influenced by Dracula, she's in a dreamlike state, and starts to empathize with him. In the movies, this is presented as a seduction, as “love.” And that Dracula can awaken a part of his victim that's missing.

But the thing is, that's not what Dracula is about. Mina and Lucy might think that they want what he has—that he can feed their “hunger”—that he's freeing them from it. But really, they're being enslaved
by it. And it's sad. Because I bet if asked why he did this, Dracula wouldn't be able to answer, other than it's the only thing he can do. At least in the movie they gave him Winona Ryder, a wife who he loved and was searching for and avenging. In the book, he's just something that can never be filled. And he whines about it. Like it's the most terrible thing ever. More terrible than having cancer, or no Wi-Fi.