Page 47 of Naked Coffee Guy
“And they let you out of the house? Wow, times have changed.” I wave down one of the waitresses. “Hey, can I get a soda water with a splash of tonic and some lime?” I look at Lydia, then back at the waitress. “One for her, too.”
“They haven’t changed,” Lydia says once the waitress is gone, “If anything, they’re worse. They’re on my back about everything. My grades. My friends. What colleges I’m signed up for. How I spend my free time. They won’t even let me quit the track team. They say it will be good for my college application, but I think it’s because it takes up so much of my time. They monitor me constantly. It’s as if they think they can prevent me from getting in trouble by filling up my day and keeping tabs on me at all times.”
“And yet, they had no idea where you were that night, and would probably flip their lids if they knew you were here with me right now. How’d you escape their surveillance?”
“I leave my phone at home,” she admits, “As of right now, they think I’m still in bed because that’s what my phone says. But if they looked closer at my bed, they’d find a mountain of clothes under my blankets, and my phone under my pillow on a snore loop.” She offers a sheepish grin.
“A modern-day Ferris Bueller,” I say and can’t help but laugh.
“Who?” Lydia’s face is twisted in confusion.
“Movie reference,” I say, “Never mind. So, you snuck out the window. Do they still have the spiny cactus garden planted there?”
“Yup, but I know where to step and how to hide the evidence.”
This time I belly laugh. When it was my room, I’d perfected the art of knowing exactly where to place my foot so I wouldn’t get speared by the thorny plants, and then how to drown my prints clean.
“A glass of water?” I ask, which is exactly what I used to use. The waitress hands us our drinks, and I push Lydia’s toward her. She takes a sip, then picks it up and mimics pouring it over imaginary footprints.
“Works like a charm.”
She bites her lip and looks down at the table for a moment. When she glances at me again, it’s with utter seriousness.
“I’m really sorry. I don’t remember a lot from that night, but enough to know that you kept it secret from Mom and Dad. They would have killed me.”
“Lydia, if I hadn’t stepped in, you’d have a whole hell of a lot more to regret. Do you remember the guys you were hanging out with?”
She shrugs. “It was just Austin and a few of his friends. They’re harmless.”
“Harmless?” I laugh, “Hardly. Those guys were getting you drunk on purpose. If you were paying attention, you’d have noticed none of them were drinking.”
Lydia stares at me, blinking slow. Then she shakes her head. “You don’t know that; they were just being nice.”
I’m trying so hard to keep my cool, reminding myself that she’s still just a kid. But I’m also seeing red at how naïve she is.
“You know what I saw, Lydia? I saw a bunch of predators getting a minor drunk. I saw the looks they were giving each other as you got more and more wasted, and I saw what would have happened if I hadn’t stepped in. You know why?”
The look of annoyance stays on her face, but she waits for me to answer.
“Because it happened to me.”
“I’m not you,” Lydia says, but she shifts her eyes to the table.
“Right. Because only a drug addict deserves to get raped, right?” I push up from the table. Kid or no kid, Lydia’s elitist attitude is going to make me punch something.
“No, Maren. That’s not what I meant.” She reaches across the table for my hand, but I yank it away. I also sit back down, because even though I’m pissed, I have a shred of resistance to cutting off ties with her completely.
“Here’s the thing,” I hiss at Lydia, “getting raped could happen to anyone, whether you’re sober or drunk. But the best thing you can do when you’re with people you don’t know very well is to keep your wits about you, and always bring a friend. I’m not telling you that you can’t drink, but just be smart about it.”
Lydia lifts her soda water and studies it. Then she nods her head at mine.
“Do you still drink?” she asks.
“I’ve been sober for seven years and counting.” I clink my glass with hers, then take a sip. “And I’m not one of those sober pushers either. I don’t care if you drink. I just learned from experience that I don’t have limits, so it’s better if I don’t mess with any of it.”
“I had no idea.” Lydia is quiet for a moment, then she shakes her head. “The things they’ve said about you…”
She trails off without giving specifics, and I can only imagine what she’s been told. Part of me wants to push for more information, but I also know that anything she tells me will hurt even more than it already does. Besides, it won’t change anything. Our parents hate me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.