Livin' La Vida Bennet

by Mary Strand

  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 man
y 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 stick
ing 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.

  Chapter 16

  “I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally very bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity at so early an age.”

  — Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Volume III, Chapter Six

  I spent the rest of the week sleepwalking through my classes, although I kept up and even got ahead on homework and aced a couple of tough pop quizzes, including one in English 12 that took down half of the class.

  Mr. Skamser put a smiley-face sticker on the top of my quiz. I’m pretty sure it was the only smile I got all week.

  Friday, in Accounting class, Lauren leaned toward me during a rare moment when Ms. Frey was too distracted to keep her eagle eye on us. “Going to any parties this weekend? Or do you study all the time these days?”

  I did, pretty much. And let Jazz torture me on guitar. And slipped into the gym to work on gymnastics at odd hours when no one else was around. And tried not to roll my eyes every time Mr. Fogarty said I reminded him of Liz.

  I shook my head. “Just not up on the gossip.”

  Not even the gossip about me.

  “Zach said you keep turning Kirk down.”

  As I whirled on her, I forgot everything, even Ms. Frey. “What the hell? He never—”

  “Lydia? Lauren?” Ms. Frey was on us like a panther on slow prey. “Is there a problem?”

  I closed my eyes. Letting someone get to me was a rookie mistake. Something I’d never let happen at Shangri-La.

  I opened my eyes to find Ms. Frey in my face. “No problem. I just can’t believe that the guy who wrote this textbook never, uh, considered the possibility of using women in his examples. I mean, it’s always Joe this or Sam that.”

  From the look on Ms. Frey’s face, this wasn’t her first rodeo. But she just smiled and went back to the front of the room. “Good point. I’ve just never, er, heard such a passionate objection to it.”