Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all soon swallowed up every private care.
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Volume III, Chapter Four
I walked outside after ignoring the keys to the Jeep in the chipped bowl on the front-hall chest. I needed to walk.
No, I needed to run.
Slipping back inside a house that was strangely quiet, I headed upstairs, changed into gym shorts and an old Green Day T-shirt I’d swiped from Liz a million years ago, and grabbed my one pair of running shoes from the back of my closet.
Before reform school, in the absence of a gun to my head wielded by a Gym teacher, I’d never run. Okay, it was pretty much the same scenario at Shangri-La, but the gun to my head was wielded on a daily basis, even in the worst of winter, so I’d gotten in the habit. Even so, I swore I’d never run again if I didn’t have to.
Until this moment.
Outside again, I started walking down the street before speeding up to a slow jog, then eventually to a run.
I soon remembered exactly why I’d always hated it, but I kept running. It chewed into my anger and disappointment.
My disappointment in Cat.
My disappointment in myself.
But I’d rather focus on Cat.
A laugh spurted out of me, exacerbating the sting of the hitch in my side. Ouch. Running was for total morons. I’d have to mention that to Liz the first chance I got.
Laughing again, I had to stop, bend over, and wheeze a little. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have sprinted so fast after a month and a half spent not running.
But like everyone said, Lydia Bennet took chances.
They had no idea.
A horn honked, making me jump. Jerking my head toward the street, I saw a bright-orange VW Beetle I’d last seen a little over an hour ago at DQ. It pulled over to the curb.
Zach rolled down the passenger window. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I didn’t move an inch in his direction. For one thing, I was sweating like a pig.
For another thing, I was sweating like a pig.
“You’re okay, right? Like, not dying?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not dying. Just out for a run.”
So, as they say, only mostly dead.
“You like Green Day? It’s my favorite band.” Zach leaned toward me, almost falling into the passenger seat of his VW. “You know any of their songs on guitar?”
He seriously thought I could play guitar. I couldn’t even nail a solo on “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
I just shook my head.
“We should play together sometime. I love ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams,’ but some people think it’s depressing.”
I stared at him. It used to be my fave Green Day song, but he wouldn’t know that. Had Liz told him? No way. It was something Cat would do.
“You hate it.” He nodded but shifted back into the driver’s seat a little, which was the only reason I took a few steps closer to the curb.
I shrugged. “It’s complicated, but I used to love it.”
Before Shangri-La. Before “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” sounded too much like my life.
“Anyway.” Zach drummed the fingertips of one hand on the steering wheel, looking antsy, especially for a chill guy like him. “Sorry I interrupted your run.”
I’d already stopped to suck wind, which he totally knew, but whatever. Had I gotten too close to him in this sweaty T-shirt? Resisting the urge to sniff it, I offered him a wave. “No prob. See you.”
He glanced out his windshield before turning back to me. “We should play sometime. It doesn’t have to be Green Day.”
Right. Knowing what he played on the radio in his car, it might be Tchaikovsky.
But anything he suggested would be impossible for me, at least in front of a human being other than Jazz, who didn’t count. She got paid to listen to me play.
I nodded, even though he was just being polite and we’d never play anything together. Including, unlike Zach and Lauren, in a wading pool.
He pulled away from the curb.
And slowly, very slowly, I walked back home.
Monday morning, someone must’ve cranked up the air conditioning in school, because the chill in my Speech Communications classroom was subarctic from the moment Chelsea walked in and saw me sitting in the back row next to Drew.
Oh, wait. Our school has no air conditioning.
Without a word, Chelsea launched herself into a desk in the front row, middle. Even though the desk on the other side of Drew was free. And even though a speechless Chelsea had probably never happened in this lifetime.
Drew didn’t say a word, either, but he stared at Chelsea. Kept staring. Stopping just short of drooling.
I can’t believe Cat wasted so much time on him. I can’t believe I wasted even two minutes considering him.
Ms. Ciccarelli walked in just as the final bell rang, a stack of index cards in her hand.
“Good morning.” As the class settled down, she handed several index cards to the kids in the front of the room and told them to take one and pass the rest back. “We’re going to do a little impromptu speaking on topics I thought would be relevant to teenagers today. Thirty seconds, a minute at the most. Whatever is on your card.”
As the cards made their way to the back of the room, some kids rolled their eyes, several laughed, and a few groaned. To me, it meant a class free of actual work. Perfect.
Until I got my card.
Slut-shaming.
Jesus H. Christ.
My gaze whipped to Drew, who was grinning, and then to his card. Legalization of marijuana. The girl on the other side of me: LGBTQ bullying.
I nearly crumpled up my card, shoved it down my throat, and swallowed it. Instead, I straightened my spine and faced forward, grimly awaiting my doom.
That was the one benefit—the only benefit—of Shangri-La: by definition, nothing else in life would ever be harder.
Not even speaking about slut-shaming to a room full of kids who thought I put the “slut” in slut-shaming.
Lost in thought, I finally realized that Chelsea was waving her arm so wildly that if someone harnessed it, the wind power she was generating could power a small village.
“Ms. Ciccarelli? We can trade cards, can’t we? Or ask for a new one?”
Grinning, I slouched back in my chair. Her card must be even worse than mine. Excellent.
“No trading, and no new cards.” Ms. Ciccarelli looked like she was trying not to smirk. And failing. “Sorry, Chelsea. Every topic is relevant in today’s world. I’m sure you can find something to say for thirty seconds.”
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean—”
Ms. Ciccarelli shook her head. “Would you like to go first so you can be done?”
“Um, no, but could I get a hall pass? I just realized I have to go to the nurse. I’m, like, sick.”
“You and half of the class, from what I can see.” Ms. Ciccarelli smiled. Kindly, even. “No hall passes today except in the event of dire necessity.”
On the far side of the room, Travis clutched his chest, moaned, and dropped to the floor.
Ms. Ciccarelli actually laughed. “Nice try, Travis, but unless you want to miss football practice tonight, I suspect you’re not requesting a trip to the nurse’s office.”
Grinning, Travis leaped to his feet. Bowing as half of the class applauded, he took his seat again.
Then the girl behind him, LaShonda, slumped against her chair while pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. All she needed was a fainting couch.
Ms. Ciccarelli rolled her eyes. “Seriously, class. It may be too late to audition for the fall musical, but it looks like we have several budding actors. I believe the drama club meets on Mondays after school.”
I glanced again at Chelsea, who was fidgeting and sitting sideways in her chair as if she contemplated bolting. Hall pass or no hall pass.
“Chelsea? You look like you’d like to go first.” Ms. Ciccarelli pointed at the podium at the front of the room, near the window, on the side opposite the door to freedom. “What’s the topic on your card?”
Chelsea stood up, wobbled a bit as if her body might splatter on the floor any moment, and glanced at the door.
“The podium, Chelsea? By the window?”
The window was open, but we were on the third floor. I also wasn’t sure if Chelsea’s fat head would squeeze through it without help from paramedics or a Sherman tank.
Which was totally mean of me.
But we were talking Chelsea.
Finally, she wobbled over to the podium, her index card gripped so tightly in her hand that she was totally crushing it.
She glanced again at the door. Ms. Ciccarelli casually moved to stand between her and the door, even though Chelsea could probably give Travis a decent fight for his linebacker position on the varsity football team.
Also unkind of me. Oops. My bad.
“Chelsea? You just need to speak for thirty seconds.” Ms. Ciccarelli looked sympathetic now. “We’re just having fun with this. I’m not grading anyone.”
Ha. Knowing Ms. Ciccarelli, she was.
Chelsea stared down at the podium, not at the card still clutched in her fist. “My topic is, um . . .”
“Chelsea? Please speak up so everyone can hear you.”
“Oral sex and STDs.”
Several guys laughed. Several girls turned bright pink.
Drew looked as if he’d just swallowed a pickle, even though his was probably the pickle responsible for Chelsea’s ashen face and trembling lips.
Based on the growing laughter in the room, I wondered if Chelsea hadn’t sat next to Drew today for reasons other than what happened at Russo’s pizzeria on Friday night.
And that was before Chelsea threw up.
As Ms. Ciccarelli rushed to help her, Travis and another football player grabbed Chelsea and half escorted, half carried her out of the room.
I nudged Drew. “If this keeps up, the nurse’s office might get a little crowded today.”
Drew just stared straight ahead, his body rigid.
After not nearly enough time to talk myself out of it, I raised my hand. Spontaneously. Stupidly.
Ms. Ciccarelli shot me a hard look, as if preparing herself for trouble. “Lydia?”
“I’ll go next if you want.”
Another hard look followed by a faint nod. I set my index card face down on my desk and got to my feet. My legs didn’t wobble, but that was all I could say for myself. Obviously, my brains and survival instincts, which I’d honed to the max at Shangri-La, had left the building.
When I reached the podium, Ms. Ciccarelli smiled at me. Cautiously. “Topic?”
I straightened my spine. “Slut-shaming.”
Laughter and wolf whistles erupted.
Ms. Ciccarelli’s smile faltered. I have a feeling she’ll never assign these topics again. Ever. If she’s still employed at the end of the day today.
A little nervous, I ran a hand through my hair. All these months later, it still startled me when my hand flew out of a few inches of short, severely cropped, depressing hair instead of a foot and a half of silky vanity.
I blinked. Slut-shaming. Focus, Lydia.
“Even though she’s not here, I’d like to thank Chelsea for starting my topic for me.”
Someone hissed. Drew looked sick. Ms. Ciccarelli took a step toward me.
I shook my head.
“See, that’s the thing. Like Ms. Ciccarelli said, all of these topics are relevant. If a guy talks about oral sex or STDs or slut-shaming, he’ll get some pats on the back and maybe some laughs, but it’s no big deal. If he has sex? Even more pats on the back. If a girl does it or talks about it, or even if everyone thinks she’s doing it but she’s not?” My gaze swept the room, skewering everyone. “Your basic nightmare scenario. For a girl.”
Ms. Ciccarelli took another step toward me. “Thank you, Lydia. That’s exactly—”
I waved her off.
“Even if a guy—” My voice cracked. Broke. Damn it. “Even if a guy, like, rapes a girl, the whole world calls her a slut, every other guy thinks she’s fair game, and every other girl blames her and calls her things no one would ever want to be called. Especially in this hellhole of a godforsaken school.”
I strode away from the podium, head high but looking at no one, to the sound of dead silence. Yeah, I nearly walked straight out the door. But wasn’t that my point? That girls shouldn’t have to take all the shit?
Like Chelsea just had?
Like I did almost every day of my life?
As I reached my desk and sat down, the murmurs started. Got louder. And continued even when Ms. Ciccarelli shushed the class and clapped her hands and finally ran her fingernails across the whiteboard at the front of the room.
Half of the class had twisted around in their seats to stare at me. And whisper. And finally talk out loud.
Then, to my surprise, they stared at Drew.
Before I could figure out what was going on, Ms. Ciccarelli somehow regained control of the class. As it turned out, slamming her hand on Chelsea’s empty desk was amazingly effective.
“I’d like to thank Lydia for her brave speech today. And I’d like to thank the rest of you, in advance, for thinking about what you may be doing to make this school—” She cleared her throat. “A hellhole, as Lydia might say, for some of you. I might add that I don’t think Lydia is in the minority on this, even if others may not be brave enough to say it.”
Someone clapped, setting off a round of applause from most but definitely not all of the class. Drew just slunk down in his chair, looking like he’d sell his soul for an invisibility cloak.
But I wasn’t brave. At all.
They had no idea.
I walked into the cafeteria after third-period Political Science, trying not to notice the murmurs when I went through the lunch line.
When I reached my old table, I would’ve had to be deaf and blind to miss Amber’s cackle. And the fact that Kirk, next to her, didn’t even try to stop her.
But maybe that was good. Maybe he was showing his respect for her by not trying to stifle her.
Or maybe he was on the verge of cutting her loose. With Kirk, and knowing Amber, I wouldn’t want to place bets.
“I hear Ms. Ciccarelli called in a pro to teach sex-ed this morning.” Amber skewered me when I paused by the chair next to Kirk, daring me to sit there. I sat there. “But aren’t you overqualified?”
I patted Kirk’s shoulder. “Was Amber seriously your only option? No wonder you drink.”
Kirk grinned but didn’t say anything.
“He doesn’t want you, Lydia. Get over it.”
Amber’s snarl wasn’t pretty. But, then, the rest of her wasn’t so hot, either. I really did wonder how Kirk, who’d had gorgeous girls drape themselves all over him since puberty, had ended up with her.
I glanced down at my tray. The orange chicken had seemed like a good idea in the lunch line, but now it reminded me too much of Amber’s face.
“Looks good.” Kirk turned his back completely on Amber and jabbed a finger at my tray, even though his own tray held a half-eaten burger and fries.
Swiping a fry from his tray, I laughed. “Trade you.”
On the other side of Kirk, steam was coming out of Amber’s ears, nostrils, and other orifices. Across from us, Tess—silent and nervous and so unlike the Tess I used to know—just watched the three of us as she nibbled on a carrot.
“Kirk, let’s blow out of here.” Amber. Hyperventilating. Also not attractive, but I repeat myself. “I swear it’s like something reeks.”
Kirk’s lips quirked. “I’m not done eating. And Lydia smells just fine.”
I’d heard way too many guys comment way too personally on me before, and it usually made me want to punch the guy in question, but this time I just laughed.
I elbowed Kirk. “I owe it all to my dad’s Irish Spring soap, which was the only thing I could find in the shower this morning. Nice, huh? Not too manly?”
He laughed. “You could go out for the football team smelling like that, but you’re good.”
With a loud scrape of her chair, Amber shoved to her feet and stalked away, even though she’d barely touched her salad.
I called out. “Amber? You forgot to take your tray. Maybe that was what reeked.”
She stomped out of the cafeteria.
Surprising me, Tess didn’t follow her. Of course, she might be sticking around to take notes—or even shoot a video—to report back to Amber later.
“Sorry.”
Kirk. Just that. A moment before picking up his burger and taking a big bite of it.
“Not your fault.” I stuck my fork into a hunk of goopy orange chicken, wondering how my stomach had ever allowed me to buy it. “Same old.”
“You must be sick of it.”
I shrugged. “I deal.”
“You always did.” Kirk glanced at Tess, probably checking to see if she was recording us, before turning back to me. “Hey, you know, the offer is still open to play with our band. Or sing, if you’d rather do that.”
My eyebrows went up. “My sister already sang with your band. I hear it didn’t go down so well.”
Tess went pale. Lips trembling, she picked up her tray—and Amber’s—and left our table.
I hadn’t even planned it.
Kirk munched on a fry and offered one to me. “You sure know how to clear a room.”
I grinned, wishing I could trade my brown rice for his fries. But gymnastics season was coming, right? If I got up the nerve to try out. I glanced down at myself. Yeah, forget the fries. I should be munching on Tess’s carrots.
“So? Join our band?”
Blinking, I looked at Kirk. In the same moment, I noticed Drew at a table to my left with Jeremy. Cat sat on the far side of the room with the art geeks. I didn’t see Chelsea at all.
Was I responsible for all of this?
I bit into a too-sweet chunk of chicken, accidentally grinding my teeth against my fork.
“I should’ve stayed in reform school.”
I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“No, you shouldn’t. But you should join our band.”
I frowned at Kirk. “Why? You haven’t even heard me play.”
And thank God for that.
“I think you’d be good. Zach says you’d be good, too.”
“Zach hasn’t heard me play, either.” He also thought bands and girlfriends didn’t mix. But, then, I wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend. At the moment, it seemed like a good thing. “I’m still thinking about trying out for gymnastics.”
Kirk frowned. That didn’t happen often. “You said that before, but I thought you were kidding. Aren’t you too big?”
I just stared at him.
He waved a hand, totally lacking any sort of mortification gene. But, then, he was a guy. “I mean, aren’t they all like four-feet-eight?”
Was I too tall? I didn’t think so. At least he didn’t say I was as big as a vault. Or the width of a floor mat.
I swished my fork around in my brown rice, wondering if I was stupid to go out for gymnastics. As a senior. When the closest thing I’d done to gymnastics hadn’t lasted long and had ultimately landed me in reform school.
“I mean, hey. You’d be good at it.” Kirk polished off his burger and fries, while I’d had two bites of chicken and zero brown rice. “But you’d be even better in my band.”
It was probably a tie. I’d suck at both.
When I turned to answer him, I caught him staring at my boobs and looking as if he’d like to take them for a spin.
He grinned. “Can’t blame a guy for thinking you’d be good at that, too.”
Actually? Yeah. I could.
“You must be thrilled. After bragging all about your sex life in one class, you had Kirk Easton practically in your pants at lunch.”
Barely in the door of our house, I sucked in a breath. Cat must’ve spent some serious time with Liz. She could now land a knockout punch and didn’t even need to use her fists.
“Hello to you, too.” I dropped my backpack on the front-hall floor. “And thanks for offering me a ride home today.”
“Oh, did I forget you?” Her fist curled, and her eyes glittered so fiercely that I almost wondered if she was on the verge of tears. “Sucks to be you. Maybe you’ll wanna head back to reform school, where they don’t even have to pretend to give a rip about you.”
I’d handled worse. Never from Cat, though.
Grabbing my backpack, I headed to the kitchen. For a snack or an early dinner or an ice-cold beer, I couldn’t decide.
Unfortunately, Cat followed me. “You still think you’re so cool, even though everyone at school hates—”
She broke off the same moment my steps ground to a halt. Dad waved at both of us from the far end of the kitchen table, where he was in the middle of eating a banana-cream pie.
The whole pie, from the looks of it. Right out of the pie tin.
Dad. Mr. Yoga. Mr. Clean Living, except for his cigars. The guy who sent me up the river to Shangri-La.
I headed to the fridge. Cat just sputtered.
Dad set down his fork. “Problems?”
Nothing I couldn’t handle on my own. I definitely didn’t need Dad’s help, which tended to get me sent to Montana.
I opened the fridge, rummaged around on the bottom shelf for the last can of Coke, and almost grabbed a half-full bag of carrots that had probably been there for a year.
Leaving the carrots in the fridge, I slid the banana-cream pie from under Dad’s nose, then grabbed a fork and hopped up on the counter by the sink.
Best dinner in ages. If Dad let me finish it.
He grinned, surprising me. “You saved me from myself. Thank you.”
Cat crossed her arms. “Now you’ve even got Dad on your side? How did you pull that off?”
“I don’t take sides.” Dad wiped his mouth on a paper towel, totally missing the glob of pie on his chin. “Or I’m on everyone’s side. Including Lydia’s.”
Not in this lifetime.
“Have a seat, girls.”
I patted the counter, nearly losing my fork in the process. “Already there.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “Cat?”
“I’m—” She looked ready to bolt. “I have a ton of homework.”
“That must be why you drove home without waiting to give Lydia a ride.” Dad nodded. “Very industrious of you, but it’ll still relieve you of your driving privileges.”
“No way!” Cat stayed at the edge of the kitchen, her bare toes tapping a frantic beat now that it sucked to be her. “It’s always been about Lydia in this house, and now she comes home from reform school and it’s still all about her.”
“It’s not her fault she spent a year in reform school.” Dad propped his elbows on the kitchen table. His head bent, he didn’t look at either of us. “It was mine. Completely mine.”
Slack-jawed, I forgot all about the pie tin until it did a slow-motion flip off my lap and landed upside-down on the floor.
Time stopped. My heartbeat skidded and stuttered. Then Cat stormed off and, based on the loud thumps, up the stairs.
When Dad finally spoke, his voice was small. Cracked. Choking. “I’ll never forgive myself, Lydia. I took the easy way out. Easy for me, nightmarish for you.” He shook his head. “And I never asked for your side of the story.”
Something lodged in my throat, and it wasn’t banana-cream pie.
“You—” I waved my fork in the air. A dab of banana cream splattered against the wall. “You must’ve talked to Liz.”
Even though he’d never talked to me.
I jumped off the counter, totally sticking my landing. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re not the first guy in my life to fuck me over.”
I walked out of the kitchen, head high.
The rest of me? Not so much.