Livin' La Vida Bennet

by Mary Strand

  I glanced out the open window of my room—because it was still my room, dammit—and calculated the drop to the grass below. Liz could probably do it. I’d break my neck, or at least my leg, if I tried.

  My cell phone was in Mary’s room, along with the rest of my stuff, and Cat must’ve taken hers to work, which meant I couldn’t call anyone to rescue me. I wasn’t even sure who I’d call. Kirk would do it, no problem, but he’d laugh when he heard what my dad pulled on me, and I didn’t feel like being laughed at today. I had enough problems.

  With a final wistful glance outside, I slammed the window shut. Returning to Cat’s bed—my bed—I perched on the edge, squeezed my legs together, and tried not to think about how much I needed to pee.

  And it had only been an hour since Dad locked me in.

  Damn.

  The sound of the phone ringing jarred me awake. I rolled over and squinted at the clock on the desk. Almost three. I’d already opened the window, punched out the screen, and peed down the side of the house, but that had been hours ago. My throat felt raw from raging thirst, and my stomach seemed to be gnawing itself to death from the inside.

  Where was Mom? For that matter, where was Cat? Oh, yeah. She worked until four or five on Saturdays. But Mom never worked past noon on Saturdays. Had Dad locked her up, too? Had he finally snapped under the strain of all that yoga? Was our house turning into the setting of a Stephen King novel?

  When someone knocked on my door, I jumped. With a jerk, I brought my trembling under control, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Lydia?”

  Dad called my name as if he wasn’t completely sure I’d be inside. Good.

  “Lydia, your mother wants to talk to you.”

  Right. She was probably bound and gagged in the basement, which was the only possible reason why she hadn’t rescued me yet, and Dad just wanted me to come to the door so he could toss me out of Cat’s—I mean, my—room. No way.

  “Fine. I’ll tell your mother you didn’t feel like talking to her, which probably won’t increase the odds of her buying you a guitar.”

  As Dad paused, I rolled my eyes. Mom was going to buy me a guitar and get all of my stuff back in this room as soon as Jane and Liz released her from her chains in the basement.

  Dad cleared his throat, as if he’d been talking to Mom just now. Ha. He’d probably called our home phone with his own cell phone. “She said she’ll talk to you when she gets home. She hopes you come to your senses by then.”

  That proved it. Definitely not Mom. She didn’t talk that way—except maybe to her clients, who probably needed it—and would spring me the moment she got home. If she wasn’t home already, of course, and locked in chains in the basement.

  All things considered, it wasn’t so bad being locked up in my room. Unlike Mom, at least I could pee out the window.

  “Lydia, darling? Are you okay?”

  That sounded more like Mom. And definitely not Dad.

  I finished the paragraph I was reading of The Catcher in the Rye as the key rattled in the door. Mom, in her usual panic to rescue her darling daughter, couldn’t seem to manage the lock. Either that, or Dad hadn’t given her the right key. I’d put even odds on those two possibilities.

  I finally heard a satisfying click. An instant later, the door flew open and banged against the wall.

  “Lydia! Are you okay? You must be hungry. You look famished. Do you want me to make you something? What would you like, dear?”

  “Something to drink? I’m ungodly thirsty.” And starving to death, too, but not enough to risk Mom’s cooking. “Dad locked me up and probably hoped I’d die in here.”

  She rushed to my side, checking my forehead for fever and peering into my eyes. The only thing my eyes would tell her was that they were brown. And pretty pissed.

  She glanced around the room. “Your bed! Your father really did move it.” Tsking, she glanced out the window, her brow furrowed quizzically. “And your screen! He removed the screen? Why would he do that?”

  On the verge of telling her I punched it out, I bit my tongue. Let her think Dad did it. The deeper he dug his grave, the better I liked it. He was going down.

  I shrugged. “No idea what’s going on with Dad. He went berserk. I sure hope he can afford a shrink on the nickels and dimes he’s making at his yoga center.”

  Mom pursed her lips and looked out the door, but Dad wasn’t hovering. It actually surprised me. I mean, didn’t he want to stop Mom from doing what she did best? Rescue me from Dad’s punishment?

  “I’ll speak to him.” She turned back to me, running her hand over my hair, but her wedding ring got tangled in it, and I yelped. “Oh! I’m so sorry, dear. And I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough day. I had to meet with clients.”

  “That’s okay.” It wasn’t, but yelling at her wouldn’t help. I couldn’t get my day back at this point, and I needed Mom on my side. “I knew you’d come home eventually, and then you’d fix everything. Just like always.”

  I produced a few tears for good measure, even though the lack of liquids all day made it tough to come up with a ton of excess moisture.

  “Oh, you poor sweetie.” Mom frowned, running her hand through my hair again, even though I tensed as I waited for it to snag. “But, well, your father feels quite strongly—”

  “Oh, Mom.” The tears were still fake, but for once something felt different. Like I’d lost my protector. “You won’t believe the things he said. He wished I was back in reform school.”

  Okay, he hadn’t said that, but it felt like he wished I was back at Shangri-La. After all, I’d forced him to get off his yoga mat and actually wield a drill. Hard labor wasn’t Dad’s strong suit.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, dear.”

  “He meant everything, Mom. It was unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievable, indeed.” Dad’s head poked into my room, following his words, and he still wore the snotty grin from this morning. “But your mother and I have talked, and she understands what I’m doing. What we’re doing.”

  I shook my head. “You had it right the first time. It’s what you’re doing. Mom wouldn’t do something like this to me. She likes me.”

  “I love you, dear. Your father does, too.” She squeezed my hand, but the helpless look in her eye worried me. “And I still plan to buy you a guitar.” She glanced nervously at Dad, who rolled his eyes. “But I’m afraid I have to let your father move you to Mary’s room.”

  Stunned, I jerked to a sitting position. “Why? He’s so wrong!”

  She patted my hand. “It’s just until you get a job or find an activity or make honor roll or some such thing. It’s your choice, really, but I have every confidence in you.”

  The look on Dad’s face told me he didn’t share Mom’s confidence.

  Furious, I punched Cat’s pillow. For once, I had to agree with Dad.

  Chapter 6

  “Look here, I have bought this bonnet.

  I do not think it is very pretty; but

  I thought I might as well buy it as not.”

  — Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Volume II, Chapter Sixteen

  “Party at my house this Friday.”

  At lunch on Monday, I eyed Kirk as I bit into my chicken wrap, forgetting the creamy-white dressing I’d drizzled on top of it a minute ago. The dressing dribbled down my V-neck shirt, a few drops scoring a direct hit on my cleavage. Drew, across the table, looked like he wanted to lick it clean for me.

  “Yeah?” I scooped up a dab with my thumb and licked it myself, making Drew practically faint, but Kirk’s eyebrows just danced in amusement. “Who’s gonna be there?”

  He held a hand to his heart. “It’s not enough that I will?”

  I shrugged. It was, actually, unless he was talking him, Amber, and me. Ew. The schoolwide rumors of my sexual escapades were greatly exaggerated—understatement of the century—and usually by me, but they didn’t include three-ways.

  Kirk touched a finger to my chin, coming
away with another dab of creamy-white dressing, and licked it. This time, Drew wasn’t the only one who might have heart failure.

  Kirk grinned at both of us. “The usual crowd.”

  Which meant half of our class and, typically, dozen of kids I’d never even seen before. “Sounds good.”

  “The band is playing.”

  “Yeah?” I sucked in a breath, choking on my wrap until Kirk put his hand on my back. Not thumping it or doing the Heimlich maneuver or anything. Just holding it there. His hand was wildly hot, something I didn’t want to think about any more than I wanted to think about playing on Friday with his band.

  Amber shot me a glare, which meant she knew exactly what I was thinking. At least about Kirk’s hot hand.

  Just to annoy her, I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “Thanks.”

  “No prob. So, you wanna play with us?” He tilted his head, waiting for my answer. “I know you said you wanted to play in a couple of weeks, but we don’t exactly get a lot of gigs, and I managed to swing this one.” Grinning, he winked at me. “I had an inside track with management.”

  Amber started to gag, but no one held a hot hand to her back or even glanced at her.

  I couldn’t afford to pay attention to her, either. I was too busy trying to calm my heart palpitations. “You probably want me to play with you guys first, don’t you? Like, practice the songs you’re doing?”

  “Hey, we’re just playing in front of friends. I play lead, so you’d just be doing rhythm. That works, doesn’t it?”

  Only in concept. In reality, I couldn’t even play a single chord, and I had a feeling I couldn’t change that situation before Friday.

  “It’s just that—”

  “You can come to the party, can’t you? I mean, you don’t have other plans?”

  “Not exactly.” Unless I counted being locked in my room for the weekend, which was always a possibility where Dad was concerned. “But I’m not sure when I can get there.”

  Hopefully, it’d be about ten minutes after the band stopped playing.

  “We can play whenever.” Kirk smiled across the table at Amber, looking way too lovey-dovey for the good of my stomach lining, before turning back to me. “But if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I talked to another girl who might want to play with us. You know Heather MacAndrews?”

  The sugary-sweet girl in my Speech class? No way. If Kirk asked her, he must be asking everyone in the world.

  “If you want her instead of me, that’s cool. Like I said, I can join a different band.”

  The glow dimmed on Kirk’s ever-present neon grin. “Hey, you’re the one who acts like you don’t wanna play with us. If you want to play, bring your guitar on Friday.”

  “Fine.” I shrugged, like it was no big deal, even though I suddenly had a black hole in the pit of my stomach and might as well fling the chicken wrap out the cafeteria window. “I guess I’ll give you guys a try.”

  But first I had to find a guitar. And someone to teach me how to play. And an excuse for why I had to skip school the rest of this week.

  Because that was the only chance in hell I had of pulling this off.

  “Sorry I bolted on you last week.”

  No kidding. I glanced sideways at Lauren in Accounting class, even though I’d rather pretend she didn’t exist.

  I hadn’t seen her in class since the drug-pushing fiasco, if that’s what it was, but I didn’t know if she’d been sick or in detention or maybe at a convention for high school kids who deal drugs.

  Ignoring her, I stared at Ms. Frey, pretending to hang on every word she said, even though—let’s face it—Accounting had even less meaning in my life than English or Political Science. Like, less than zero.

  Lauren hissed at me, like a snake, which probably wasn’t the worst analogy. “I said I was sorry.”

  I shrugged but kept my focus on Ms. Frey. She had her back to us as she wrote on the board, and she looked all sweet and naive in her long flowered skirt, but I wouldn’t put it past her to have secret cameras installed somewhere in this room. All pointed directly at me.

  Just like at Shangri-La.

  “I’m talking to you.”

  Lauren obviously didn’t care if there were secret cameras or snitches sitting nearby. She also must be pretty desperate for a customer—or, more likely, cash—to keep bugging me when I obviously wasn’t interested.

  “Lauren? Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

  Like I said. Ms. Frey must have eyes in the back of her head or amazing hearing. Or, with my luck, both.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Lydia? Do you have an issue with Lauren?”

  I had several issues with her, actually, starting with the long, pointy black fingernails she’d tapped on my desk a moment ago, which was probably why Ms. Frey was going after me now. Add in the goth look I’d seen too much at Shangri-La—black hair and lips and eyeshadow—and the fact that she could’ve gotten me busted last week by slipping drugs under my notebook? Yeah, she annoyed the shit out of me.

  But I just shook my head at Ms. Frey.

  Frowning, she turned back to the blackboard.

  When the bell finally rang what felt like ten hours later, I grabbed my books and bolted out of my seat as fast as I could.

  “Hey, wait up.”

  Black fingernails clutched my sleeve, but I broke loose of Lauren’s grip and shot through an opening in the crush of kids at the door. I didn’t need this. I wasn’t a goody two-shoes, but I’d just spent a year at Shangri-La with girls who reminded me of Lauren, and let’s just say it wasn’t a good time.

  The black fingernails grabbed me again. Unlike Chelsea’s, they didn’t gouge me, but that was the only good news.

  I kept walking fast, shooting right past my locker, as I flicked a glance to my left. “What do you want?”

  “You don’t have to be so rude.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m not the one grabbing people.”

  Her brow furrowed as she glanced down at her hand, still gripping my arm. With a jerk, she let go. “Yeah, well, you were hard to catch.”

  “Maybe I don’t like to be caught.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” With a sharp frown, I picked up my pace, but I couldn’t exactly run in the heels I’d worn to school today. “Seriously. No idea.”

  She chewed gum as we walked, then blew a bubble and popped it with a touch of a fingernail. “I’m talking about parties.”

  So? My idea of a fun party was probably different from Lauren’s. I jerked to a stop. “Hey, I’ve gotta get to class, and I forgot to grab my stuff from my locker.”

  “Maybe catch you after school?”

  To sneak me drugs I didn’t ask for and get me busted? No, thanks. “I’m catching a ride with my sister.”

  “Or at lunch tomorrow?”

  Only if I didn’t see her first.

  “But definitely in Accounting.”

  I headed in the direction of my locker. “Sure. Whatever.”

  Lauren was turning into as big a pain as my dad, but at least Dad gave me an allowance. Lauren offered me a one-way ticket back to hell.

  And I didn’t plan on going.

  Cat dropped me off at home, then peeled out before I realized she wasn’t coming inside, too.

  Perfect. The person I’d missed more than anyone else when I’d been locked up at Shangri-La probably didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror as she zoomed down the street.

  Sighing, I arrived upstairs to find my old bedroom door locked and an arrow pointing in the direction of Mary’s room. Ha ha. I live with the most hilarious family.

  Unfortunately.

  I flopped on my bed in Mary’s room. Mary’s old bed, which Mom had painted neon yellow a few years ago when she thought she’d beaten her bipolar disorder and went off her meds for a week, was nowhere in sight. I wish I could say that for the rest of Mary’s crap.

  Her de
sk was still piled high with novels by writers from Germany, Russia, and Timbuktu. She’d left a few teen magazines, which surprised me. Her huge armoire was blessedly empty, but that was the only blessing about it, since it was chipped, leaning precariously to one side, and scratched all to hell.

  When I shook my head, Boris leaped from the top of the armoire, landing in my arms. Man, he was trusting. Yet another thing we didn’t have in common.

  “Boris, you moron.”

  He purred in my arms, forcing me to stroke the fur on his back, even though we both knew I’d drop him in a heartbeat if anyone else showed up.

  At least Boris and I understood each other. I couldn’t say that about a single person in my life right now. Not Cat, definitely, and not even Kirk. If he understood me at all, he would’ve already kicked Amber’s sorry ass to the curb and backed over her for good measure.

  I looked around this tiny, disgusting room that wasn’t mine, blinking back tears I refused to let fall. I’d been home over two weeks now, and no one in my family or so-called group of friends had even asked me about reform school, let alone the crucial question: had I actually been guilty of what the police claimed and Dad oh-so-blithely believed?

  Not Mom, not Cat, not anyone.

  These days, the only person making any attempt where I was concerned was Lauren, a girl I didn’t even know, which told me exactly how low I’d fallen at Woodbury High School in the year I’d been gone.

  But I could fix this. I would fix this. After I snagged Kirk’s attention with the guitar I wheedled out of Mom tonight, everything would fall into place. It always did.

  Boris twisted in my arms, looking up at me with eyes at half mast, either because he was sleepy or questioned the sanity of my plan for world domination.

  He squeaked as I gently tossed him on the bed, but I had things to do. A guitar to buy and conquer.

  Boris could fend for himself.

  I waited until Dad finished eating Mom’s Spam surprise and headed outside to smoke a cigar on the front steps before I sprang tonight’s shopping trip on Mom.