Epic Adventures of Lydia Bennet (9781476763248) (22 page)

Because
of course
he wouldn't do those things if he didn't have to. If he didn't need to drain people's blood, everyone would be happy and pumping a full ten pints. But here's the thing: he
doesn't
have to. Really. He doesn't have to exist that way—if he truly felt bad enough about his actions, he could stop doing them. Yes, my theory might be flawed because this would result in Dracula's death, but he's a paranormal creature who shouldn't exist in the first place, so this would simply be the restoration of the natural order. Also, this is fiction. But if he wasn't supernatural, if he wasn't a vampire—if he was just a guy who wouldn't see past his own wants and needs—then you don't need him. People will only do what you let them get away with.

If I could, I'd like to talk to Lucy and Mina for a minute. Ladies: stop looking around for the exciting thing. I get it; I really do. You look around and sometimes wonder,
is this it? There has to be more.
And then this guy shows up and he tells you he's crazy about you but it's driving him mad and making him act the way he is. And it's exciting, and scary, but ultimately, that kind of drama will just leave you drained—and in your case, literally.

You've both got decent men who want to create lives with you. Lucy, you have three! Pick one! Personally, I'd have gone with the cowboy, so much cooler than the fancy British guys. They won't try to control you (beyond the usual “You're my wife, so please do as I ask you in these old-fashioned, non-women-voting times”) and they won't try to use you for their own ends. Don't waste your time with crazy-makers like Dracula. Avoid it completely: just don't invite him in.

Come see me after class! —Natalie

“Excuse me, Natalie?” It was Friday. I hung back while everyone else packed up, taking my time, fidgeting with my pencil case. Back to fidgeting again. Back to caring.

Not a bad thing, of course. But when your teacher writes “Come see me after class!” (exclamation point included) just when you've started caring about your grades again, it does inspire some mild freaking out.

“Lydia?” Natalie blinked at me as she lifted her massive backpack onto her tiny shoulders.

“You wanted to talk to me?” I asked, holding up the paper. When she'd handed back the papers at the beginning of class, everyone was doing the usual showing of their grades to everyone else. Except for me. Not only because my paper didn't
have
a grade, but because I didn't have anyone to show it to anymore. On Monday, Cody had pointedly walked in late, and pointedly sat not next to me but in the empty chair next to Harriet.

Or at least, he tried to sit next to Harriet.

“Sorry, I'm saving this seat for someone,” she'd said, placing her bag there before he could sit.

This left Cody with the option of sitting next to me (and you bet your ass I placed my own bag on the chair immediately) or wedging into the other empty chair in the back next to the broom closet.

As Cody made his way to the broom closet, Harriet flicked her eyes up at me with the tiniest of smiles. She didn't know anything of what happened over the weekend, I'm pretty sure. She just knew he was a jackass.

Cody had been much easier to avoid in psych, as he was three rows in front. I watched him play solitaire on his computer while
the rest of us copied down a flurry of notes, reviewing what was going to be on the final. Not a single text buzzed my phone.

Good riddance to that. I know that the past couple weeks of slacking off had been my own doing, but I have to give Cody some credit—it's a lot easier to give up when there's someone giving up beside you.

But as soon as I smiled back at Harriet, her face went stony again, and she was back to focusing on her manicure.

But that was Monday. Wednesday we turned in our final papers. Today was our last class. Mostly, Natalie had spent it talking about conclusive themes in gothic literature, and what she hoped we'd gotten out of the class. Most everyone else snuck glances at their phones, or doodled.

But me? I got to spend the whole hour worrying about the “See me after class!” on my paper.

“Oh, yes!” Natalie's face lit up as I came forward. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, before rushing into the speech I'd been preparing all class. “Listen, I know that my work hasn't been really focused lately or up to certain standards, but I worked really hard on this essay, I read the book and the study guide. If you need me to rewrite it to get a passing grade, or to do extra credit work, I absolutely can—”

“Lydia, what are you talking about?” Natalie said. “I just wanted to tell you in person how much I enjoyed your final paper.”

“You . . . enjoyed it?” I said, feeling the rushing tingles of relief all through my body. Or maybe it was disbelief. I'd been afraid the last hour that I hadn't gotten a passing grade on the final paper—which meant I wouldn't have gotten a passing grade in the class. Which would mean that I don't graduate. Which would mean that not only am I a non-Central-Bay-College-attending failure, but I am a spectacular mondo-failure of epic suckiness.

In order to avoid that fate, hell yes, I'd do extra credit. But it looked like I might not have to.

“Of course I enjoyed it! Why do you think I gave you an A?” Natalie replied.

“You did?” I flipped the paper over, looking for my grade. Nope, not there.

“Oh! Did I not write it on the paper?” she said, taking it from me and, very quickly pulling out a pen, planted a big, fat “A” at the top of the page. “I'm so sorry. Can I tell you a secret?” She leaned in. “This was the first class I ever taught.”

“You're kidding,” I said, trying to keep my face as stoic as possible.

“Yeah.” Natalie giggled. “But that's probably why I enjoyed your paper so much. I don't know any better. You straight-up gave me your opinion, and laid out your argument. It was so refreshing after ten papers on how Dracula embodies nineteenth-century fears about colonialism.”

“It was?” I'd have thought that anyone who taught gothic lit would have been all about boring stuff like colonialism, but what do I know?

“Yes, and I love that you wanted to give the characters advice. And not bad advice, I may add.” She started to head for the door, and I followed her out into the hall. “Having been one of those girls myself, I could have used a good talking-to at that time.”

My head snapped up at that. Little Natalie had a wild past with a bad boy? I just hope he wasn't a vampire (although it would explain her teaching gothic lit).

“Well, I'm glad you liked it,” I said. “It's funny, in my psych class essays, the professor never liked it when I gave my honest opinion.”

“Who'd you have?” Natalie asked as we walked out the front doors and got blinded by sunlight. “Professor Latham?”

I nodded.

“Oh, yeah. Word around the faculty lounge is that he's a stickler for the textbook, and that's all. Makes grading tests and papers easier.”

“Yeah, I figured that out in time for the final. We just took it this morning.”

I'd spent the whole week studying like crazy. I made flash cards—and I didn't even use a glitter pen. When I sat down to take the test, I knew pretty much every question—or if I didn't, I knew enough to guess well. I think I might have even broken my streak of C's with a B.

“Good. But it's too bad Latham wasn't testing you on your analysis skills. Because I think you could have saved Lucy and Mina some serious heartache. And beheading.”

I said good-bye to Natalie and headed for the parking lot. A big red “A” on my paper added a little skip to my step. And so did what she'd said. About my being good at analysis. What had Ms. W called it? Intuition?

It made me feel just a little bit more like maybe psych wasn't
not
the path for me.

I'd been so down on psychology since learning how long it would take me to get my degree(s). And since realizing I had missed the deadline. Giving up had meant giving
that
up, and I hadn't cared, because it wasn't like the class was epically awesome. But now . . .

Maybe it's something I wouldn't be that bad at, after all.

Too bad I screwed up my chance.

*  *  *

Community college graduation isn't like regular college graduation. At least, mine wasn't. There are no caps and gowns, no speech, no ceremony. Not for the summer session, anyway. What we got instead was a letter in the mail with our final grades (A for Gothic Lit . . . and a B- in Psych!) and an offer to order a copy of my associate degree on a real fake-leather backing for only $59.99.

I should probably order it. It's the only degree I'm likely to get, and Ms. W told me to celebrate my graduation. Although I'm not sure real fake leather qualifies as celebratory.

But even given my colossal screw-up, my mom wasn't about to let the occasion go unmarked. So, we got all dressed up and went out to dinner.

My mom, my dad, me, and Lizzie, who'd come down for graduation.

Just Lizzie. No one else.

“You must be so relieved,” Lizzie said after the waiters had placed a piece of cake with “Congrats!” scrawled in chocolate sauce on the plate in front of me. I admit, I was a little disappointed. I expected some singing from the waiters. “To finally be done. I know I was.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, plastering on a fake smile. “Super relieved.”

“Lizzie, next time you drive down all the way from San Francisco, tell that
gorgeous
William Darcy of yours that I expect him as well,” Mom said, casually swiping a bite of my congrats cake. “I don't like you on the road that long by yourself.”

“I will,” Lizzie replied. She was way more at ease with Mom's prying into her love life now that she had a love life to pry into. “He wanted to come, but something happened with his Domino project that he needed to fix.”

“Besides, it's not like this is a big deal,” I said under my breath. I knew if my mom heard me she'd be hurt. Granted, she didn't plan a big, elaborate meal and spend the entire day in the kitchen, but she's way more into the celebratory thing than I am right now. She's on her third glass of wine. And for Mom, that's like swilling a fifth of whiskey.

“Of course it's a big deal,” Lizzie said to me, equally low. “Do you . . . do you have any idea what you want to do now? You can still apply at Central Bay College for the spring semester, you know. Darcy would be happy to call again—”

“Hmm,” I said, not wanting to say anything. The truth was, I didn't know if I wanted to go to CBC. In my mind, it would always be the place I failed at. But it's also the only school where the Darcys have a building named after them (I think it's a pagoda), so my getting into any other college without the help of my sister's super-rich boyfriend is not exactly probable. Secretly, I was really glad Darcy had AI issues with his latest app and had to miss dinner, because
how do you apologize to someone for not making good on the help they gave you?

But Lizzie was currently staring at me, so I took a sip of water and changed the conversation to the only thing I could think of. Which wasn't much better than what we'd been talking about before. “How's Mary doing?”

“Great!” Lizzie said, but then tempered her enthusiasm. “I mean, good. She's streamlined a lot of my work—the financing stuff I have no idea how to do. She's got me applying for small-business licenses and finding office space.”

“Office space? Darce couldn't lend you a cubicle at Pemberley Digital?”

“Well, he could, but we are a separate company. So far we've been working out of my apartment. Which isn't even really mine. Plus, Mary's crashing there, so it can't be much fun for her, working where she sleeps.”

“And where you sleep,” I said.

“I think . . . you should give Mary a call. She'd probably really like to hear from you,” Lizzie said, hopeful.

“Hmm,” I said again.

“I'm very glad you're here, Lizzie,” my father said, thankfully drawing my sister's attention to him. “Even though it's only for a short time. I'm hoping you can talk some sense into—”

Maybe I did want to call Mary. But if she couldn't come down for my graduation non-ceremony, then she pretty obviously doesn't want to hear from me. Which is fine. She's got her big new life, and I . . . I have congrats cake.

Although, not so much.

“Oh, honey,” Mom interrupted whatever Dad was whispering to Lizzie, slurring slightly. “Can you find the waiter? I think we should have another slice of cake brought out for Lydia.”

I looked down at my plate. The chocolate “Congrats!” was smeared into oblivion. And the cake? The cake was completely gone.

Mom wiped away a bit of frosting from the corner of her mouth. “You must be hungrier than you let on, sweetie.”

*  *  *

We got home late enough that it kept Lizzie from asking me any more probing questions. Once we walked in the house, Dad put our cake-and-wine-filled mom to bed, and then went to sit in his den and . . . do den things, I guess. Lizzie had woken up super early to drive here today, so she pretty much crashed immediately in her old room/Mom's meditation room/aquarium/whatever. And that just left me.

I'd spent a lot of time alone this summer—but this is the first time it had felt like a void.

There's nothing on my calendar anymore. No Sunday sessions with Ms. Winters. No classes Monday, Wednesday, Friday. No date set to drive up to the city with Mary, or to register for classes. I might have a dentist appointment sometime in October, but that's it.

Lizzie had asked it, I'd ignored it, but in reality, it was the only thing I was thinking.
What am I going to do now?