“Excuse me, Professor Latham?” I said, approaching the front of the room cautiously. Class had been dismissed for the day, and he was packing up his bag. I could feel Cody still in the room, slowly packing up his bag, too, wondering if he should wait for me. Then one of the other guys in class said, “Hey, Cody—did you get the notes from Monday?” And he was gone. Good. I didn’t need an audience for this.
“Yes, Miss . . . Bennet?” Professor Latham said, only glancing up from his bag briefly.
“I wanted to ask you about my grade.”
I never did this. Before last semester, I never really cared about my grades—but that was because I never really tried in school. Then, Mary tutored me in history, and I worked and worked at it, and ended up with an A-minus! But that was history class, where there are definite right and wrong answers. I never needed to have my grade explained to me before.
“I have office hours Tuesday mornings if you want to discuss your grade.”
He zipped up his bag and started for the door. I stepped in his path.
“I’m not here Tuesday, and I just . . . I got a C?” I said, holding out the paper to him. And there it was, in bright red Sharpie with a circle around it. C. Like, Copyright You Screwed Up.
He sighed deeply, but then put his bag down and took my paper from my hand. He glanced at it for three seconds before giving it back to me. “Right. It was a C paper.”
“But . . . I worked really hard on it . . .” My voice trailed off, tiny. I hate it when my voice gets tiny.
But the way Professor Latham was barely looking at me and my paper made me feel even tinier. So I drew myself up straight, and pretended I knew what I was talking about.
Oh, all right. I pretended I was Lizzie.
“Professor Latham, I’m planning on transferring to a four-year college and studying psychology to become a therapist. So if you could tell me where I went wrong, I would really appreciate the guidance.”
Professor Latham stopped and looked up at me—and actually saw me this time.
“Your summary was fine. You tone is a little too conversational for the subject, and you need to include more of the hard data in your analysis rather than trying to tie the concepts of obedience and trust together, but your real problem is your answer to the last question.”
I glanced at it. If you don’t want to hurt another person, don’t. It’s that simple. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s a complete fallacy.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “I totally wouldn’t shock someone for not knowing vocab words!”
“You like to think that. We all like to think that of ourselves, but that’s the point of the experiment. To state definitively that you would defy the authority figure is complete hubris.”
Okay, I would have to look up “hubris” later for the exact definition, but I got the gist. Still, I argued, “But it wasn’t like the lab coat was holding a gun to the person’s head. He just told him to continue.”
“He didn’t need one. Do you think anyone wanted to shock another person? Not recognizing the effect someone with authority has over your actions tells me that you didn’t really understand the experiment.”
“I understood it,” I said. “But you asked what I would do, and that’s what I would do. I don’t like hurting people.”
“No one does,” Professor Latham said, his tone patronizing, like when Lizzie tries to explain something to me that she thinks I don’t know. When Lizzie does it, it pisses me off. When my professor did it . . . it felt different. “Do you honestly think you would invite that kind of confrontation? Or would you just go along—no matter how uncomfortable it made you?”
I paused. Considering the swirling nervousness in my stomach right now when I was only asking my teacher about a grade . . . maybe I wouldn’t? Maybe I would just do what felt easier. More often than not, I do what’s easier.
Because it’s not like I stood up for myself when George challenged me to “prove my love” for him.
“If you’re going to spend the better part of the next decade studying psychology, then you need to not only write more scientifically but learn to think analytically about the subject and how you relate to it.” Professor Latham glanced at his watch. “Now, if that’s all, I have another class to prep for.”
“Yes . . . thank you,” I said, distracted. But then, as Professor Latham headed up the steps . . . “What do you mean, the better part of a decade? I should have enough credits to transfer into my next school as a second-semester junior. That plus a master’s is only, like, four years tops.”
“Yes, but if you are taking Intro to Psych now, you will definitely be behind on your required classes for your undergraduate degree. You’ll probably have to take freshman-level courses. Plus, if you want to study clinical psychology, you might even have to go for your doctorate. That’s a lot of time.” He gave a pained smile. “Trust me.”
He left, and suddenly I was alone in the middle of the lecture hall. Alone with a C paper, and feeling like I got hit by a truck.
* * *
“So how do you feel about living with someone else?” Mary asked, putting a mochaccino down in front of me and a black coffee for herself.
I nearly knocked over my drink. “What?”
“I’ve been looking online, there’s no way we can afford even a one-bedroom on our own in San Francisco. So what do you think about looking for roommates?”
“Oh,” I said, my heartbeat slowing back down to seminormal. “Fine with it, I guess. Though I can’t believe you of all people are suggesting cohabitation with other not-us humans. Who were you thinking about? Violet?”
“No,” Mary said, taken aback. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, you know her and she’s moving to San Francisco, too,” I replied. “Don’t you like Violet?”
“No!” Mary said. “I mean, no, she’s okay, I guess. For someone who’s basically my boss. But she’ll be living with her band, and I don’t want to live with people playing instruments all the time. Do you?”
Ah. The band again.
“Well . . . I sort of will be, assuming your bass makes the trip to the city.”
“That’s different from living with a band. I’m not going to make my living at it. It’s not exactly practical. I still can’t believe Violet’s going to try to live off her music, with no backup plan.”
“Did I hear my name?” Violet came up to our table. She was bearing carafes of milk and a new bag of fake-sugar packets to refill the condiment station.
Mary looked like she’d just gotten caught doing . . . something, so I was left to answer. “Just talking about moving to the city. Do you know when you’re going?”
Violet shrugged. “A couple of weeks, maybe? We want to do as many farewell shows as possible, and I can’t leave Mrs. B hanging until she hires someone to replace me. Sure you don’t want the assistant manager gig?” She looked at Mary as she said it.
Mary hid her face with half her hair. “I’m sure. I’ve got a job waiting for me, remember?”
“When are you guys heading up?” Violet asked.
This time, Mary was the one to pipe up when I got a little tongue-tied. “Once Lydia’s done with her classes here.”
“Right,” Violet said. “You’re going to Central Bay College—that’s a great school, congrats on getting in.”
“I . . .” I hesitated. “I’m not exactly ‘in.’ I mean, my counselor and Darcy—he’s my sister’s boyfriend—they called in favors on my behalf, but I still have to do some stuff to qualify.”
“Like these courses?” Violet asked.
“Exactly,” I replied. And fill out an essay application that is sitting on my desktop at home like a particularly judgmental Jiminy Cricket. “And after that, it’s a lot of stuff, too. Like, years of school.”
I glanced over and saw that Mary was looking at me funny. But she didn’t say anything.
“Oh, trust me, I know,” Violet was saying. “I majored in psych at NAU—going down the postgrad path just wasn’t for me.”
“NAU?” I asked.
“New Amsterdam University—in New York City. Man, I loved it there—and I’ll be paying it off forever. Unless we hit the big time with the band, of course.” She looked dreamy, probably imagining her rock-star life. “Fingers crossed. But it was worth it. The program is spectacular; I learned so much.”
“Then why’d you stop?” I asked.
“Because one of the main things I learned was that I didn’t want to keep doing it. What psychology helped me do was become a better songwriter—get in touch with my emotions, you know? What drives people?”
Made sense, I guess.
“If you weren’t already going to Central Bay College, I would say you should check out NAU. But more importantly, you should check out our next farewell show.” She grinned as she reached into her back pocket—no easy feat considering all the stuff she was carrying—and pulled out a flyer.
“Carter’s, tonight,” she said proudly. She turned to Mary. “I know you couldn’t come to the last one, but this one’s going to be awesome.”
It’s not that Mary couldn’t come last time. Last weekend, Mary spent her Friday night on her computer, doing sample budgets for Lizzie’s as-of-yet-unnamed company. I know, because I spent last Friday night in the next room trying to read Frankenstein. Who knew Frankenstein’s monster was so talkative? In the movies he barely grunts.
So going to Carter’s wouldn’t have derailed anything exciting.
I opened my mouth, curious to ask how this farewell show would be different from the last farewell show, but Mary cut me off.
“Hey, Violet, I’ve got like seven minutes left on my break, so . . .”
“My bad.” She shook her head. “Enjoy your coffee.”
She moved off, and the minute she did, Mary’s shoulders relaxed. It’s weird. Mary is way too good an employee to be afraid of her supervisor. Especially a supervisor as nice and personable and purple-haired as Violet.
But maybe Mary wasn’t uptight because of Violet. Because the next thing she said to me was . . .
I dodged it. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been a little distracted since you came in here. And when you were talking about school . . . you just sounded a little weird.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, knowing I sounded totally fine. Because I was getting really good at pretending I was.
“You’re not. I’ve never heard you be down on deciding to go to Central Bay before.”
“I wasn’t down,” I said. “I was just . . . my professor said something to me that made me think, is all.”
“Think?” Mary asked. “As in rethink? You’re not backing out, are you? We have a plan, and I need—”
“No!” I replied immediately. “I’m sorry. I got a C on my paper and it’s put me in a bummer mood.”
“On your paper on the Milgram Experiment? You worked really hard on that!” Mary said, angry. Which made me smile. Mary was going to defend me to psychology professors worldwide, even if my paper turned out to be a C paper.
“I know. It sucks.”
“Damn straight it sucks.”
I shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to double down on my studying. I’ve got to do a big paper on the five stages of grief this week.”
“Which stage are you on now for your Milgram paper?” Mary asked, almost smiling again.
“Denial. Obvs.”
Mary snorted into her coffee.
“Maybe I could help you study,” she offered.
“This isn’t your major like math was,” I said, shaking my head. “You never took psych.”
“Yeah, but I can read the textbook, quiz you.”
“While you’re working here, and working on Lizzie’s company from home? Do you plan on giving up sleep?”
“It was just an idea,” she said, a little stiff. I immediately softened, afraid I’d insulted her. For someone normally so steely, she has a surprisingly mushy center.
“I know. I just . . . don’t want to do that to you. This is my problem.”
“Okay,” Mary said.
“Maybe Violet could tutor me, though.”
“Violet?” she repeated, surprised. “Why?”
“Um . . .because she majored in psych?” Come on, Mary; keep up here. “Why are you so touchy about her?”
“I’m not,” Mary replied. “She’s just basically my boss, so it’s weird that she wants to hang out . . . and invites us to her ‘farewell’ shows. All forty of them. Not that I want to go, of course. To any.”
“Of course,” I said, as deadpan as Mary. “You know, Violet’s only going to be your boss for a couple more weeks, and I’m only going to ask her for some tutoring help. She has a psychology degree. And she seemed to really like getting it, too. I mean, she went to school in New York. That qualifies for a ‘wow.’ ”
“Yeah, wow,” Mary said. “She went to school in New York—the most expensive place on the planet—and is using her degree to write songs.”
She paused. Spun her coffee cup on its saucer.
“You know, you’re super anti-Violet’s band for never having actually heard them,” I pointed out. “I’m willing to bet they’re pretty good. Or her lyrics, at least.”
“Yeah . . . they’re not bad,” she mumbled.
“What?” I asked, not convinced I’d heard her right. “You’ve listened to them?”
“Mrs. B lets Violet sell her CDs at the register. She gave me one—in case someone was interested, so I could help sell them.”
“And they’re good?”
“They’re really good,” Mary relented. “Except their bassist, who could use some clues on rhythm. But, I have to admit, Violet’s really pretty . . . good.”
“Even though she’s only using her degree to write songs?”
“Talk a little louder, why don’t you, so Violet can hear you,” Mary said to me, then lowered her voice. “I hesitate to suggest this, but . . . what if we went to the show tonight?”
My head whipped up. “What?”
Mary? Suggesting attending a social event? Violet’s band must be much more than “not bad” for it to have come to this.
“Hear me out,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You’ve been working so hard. Maybe you need a night of not psych to help you clear your head so you can work on all the other nights of psych.”
I looked at Mary. I looked around the coffee shop. I did not find any hidden cameras within my view.
“Is this a Freaky Friday situation?” I asked. “Did we switch bodies and I missed it?”
“I’m talking about one night—not every night. One Friday night, two drinks and one pretty decent band. And . . . you saw, she’s being pretty insistent, for some reason, so if I have to go eventually, I’d rather get it over with, and have you come with me. And it would probably go a long way with Violet, if you do want her to tutor you, if you would go to one of her shows.”
I stared down into the foamy remains at the bottom of my mug. I was still a little crushed by my grade—and by what Professor Latham had said to me about how long I’d be in school. Because that’s a lot of school—and while I had budgeted for my credits, I hadn’t budgeted for my major. That scares me. I mean, I thought I was gonna be done by the time I was twenty-five. I didn’t envision spending all of my twenties in school. I barely made it through my teens.
And how am I supposed to be a serious student for the next six to eight years if I can’t manage to not party three weeks into the semester?
And yes, there’s a part of me—large and looming—that’s sort of scared about the idea of going out. People I know will be there . . . and people I don’t. But the one thing they’d have in common is that they know about me. Thanks to my social-media-star sister. And my own online activities.
I just don’t feel like being judged anymore.
“My break’s almost up,” Mary said to me, finishing off her coffee in one giant gulp. “So . . . I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . tonight? Carter’s?”
For some reason, Mary really wanted to go—even though she seemed to be having such a hard time admitting it. Which is proof enough of her need for a non-awkward wingman.
That must have been the tipping point, because somehow words I’d never intended to say again (at least not for the six weeks I was in school this summer) popped freely from my mouth.
“Tonight. Carter’s.”