The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (10 page)

“That works out in my favor—since my name is Elizabeth.”

“Is it really?”

“Lizzie.” I held out my hand for him to shake. And he raised it to his lips.

Oh, yes, that actually happened.

“George Wickham. Pleasure to meet you, Lizzie. May I join you—or is this seat reserved for someone?”

“Not reserved. I’m just here with my sister tonight.”

I pointed to where Lydia was surrounded by a number of swimmers. She waved when she saw me, and seeing George, gave me an only mildly embarrassing thumbs-up.

“I can see the family resemblance,” George replied. “Although I can tell you are the more discerning of the two.”

“Why, because I’m not surrounded by twenty guys?”

“No, because you’re with me.”

I laughed. “No, you don’t think too highly of yourself.”

“Eh, I just think lowly of everyone else. At least when they’re drunk, and bump into beautiful girls and spill their drinks.”

I had to admit, this George Wickham had game.

“So I take it you are among the competitors who are gracing this fair town for a week?” I asked.

He winced. “Do I really look like I’m a college kid? Oh, man—that’s tragic. I’m capable of growing a full beard, you know. It takes three weeks, but still . .
.”

I laughed—I couldn’t help it. Self-deprecation is one of the more charming aspects of the incredibly handsome.

“No, I’m a conditioning coach—brought on when swimmers have technique issues,” George replied.

“So you’re a teacher.”

“Kind of. A traveling, seasonal one. Although I’d love to stay in one place for a little while, so if you need any help with your freestyle or butterfly, just let me know.”

“Sadly, no, I’m not taking any swimming classes this semester.”

“A student!” He leaned into the table. “I knew you had the look of academia about you. So, what do you study, peach?”

And maybe it had something to do with the fact that Jane has been so gooey-eyed-happy with Bing lately, and that she, too, sees no reason that I should be “perpetually single,” as
Lydia likes to call it, but I found myself enjoying my conversation with George Wickham. There was no pressure. And no reason not to enjoy it.

We talked about my studies for a little while, and I told him all about my video project. My hopes for post-school life. He told me all about being a swim coach, shaping young
athletes—and, while growing up in San Francisco, that time he saw a walrus on a boat tour around Alcatraz Island.

“But the walrus didn’t seem to notice he was out of place,” he said.

“Oh, really?”

“Well, he’d spent his whole life behind bars already.”

I snorted into my drink. But in a classy way. “Wow. That is perhaps the worst joke I have ever heard.”

“No, I can think of way worse jokes.”

“Oh, no—don’t strain yourself.”

“Well, give me your number,” he leaned forward and played with a bit of my hair, “in case I think of a worse one later.”

Really, how can anyone refuse the promise of future bad jokes?

After the exchange of numbers, it was pretty much time to go home. (I. Have. Classes.) Lydia was extracted from the bar with minimal whining, and George walked us to our car.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. My sole drink had been finished off over an hour before—which shows you how long George and I had been talking. “But thanks.”

“Then—awesome to meet you, Lizzie Bennet.”

I’m pretty sure at this point I was rendered speechless by his charm.

“And awesome to meet you, too, G-Dubs!” Lydia called after his retreating form, only a little tipsy. “Wow. A hottie
and
he didn’t hit on me tonight but kept his
eyes on you. Lizzie Bennet, you may have broken your perpetually single streak.” She gasped and squealed, grabbing my arm in glee. “Can I be the one to tell Mom that the artificially
inseminated Option C is off the table?”

* * *

I had put my diary away and was climbing into bed when my phone lit up with a new text.

I couldn’t stop grinning as I typed back:

Two seconds later, my phone flashed again.

My heart picked up to double time. Anticipation made my toes wiggle.

Well played, George Wickham. Well played.

Lest one think that with the advent of swimmers to our potential pool of husbands my mother had forgotten all about the sweet budding relationship of Jane and Bing, think
again.

They have been out at least half a dozen times now—in company as well as by themselves—and they are endlessly sweet around each other. Considerate. Jane has already started doing
that thing where activities are reserved for Bing-time. (Not
those
activities. Although Lydia speculates wildly about it.) But there has been more than one occasion where I’ll
mention the idea of going somewhere, and Jane has replied, “Oh, Bing mentioned that he liked that place.” If I ask Jane to see a certain movie, she replies, “I already told Bing
I’d see it with him.”

They are dating. It may not be officially listed as such on social media sites, it may not be the rollicking mad descent into love the books make it out to be, but it is progressing in its own
tentative way.

But things are not progressing fast enough for my mother.

I spent all day yesterday dealing with her Convoluted Plan to have Jane stranded and naked at Bing’s, thus resulting in (one assumes) a torrid afternoon of premarital passion, followed by
a shotgun wedding.

This Convoluted Plan involved:

I’m sure there will come a day that I will laugh over this. But it’s not today.

Why can’t Mom just let things happen on their own? Why must she push and rush and force a skewed view of what’s important on us all?

Case in point: This past week, all my mother has done is ask me whether I’ve heard from “that nice swimmer you met with your sister.” (Yes, Lydia did rush home and tell Mom
about the possible destruction of Option C, right before chugging a Red Bull and passing out on the living room couch for twelve hours after a sugar crash.) Not the fact that I have some of the
biggest finals of my life looming. Not inquiring what I’m going to do for my thesis, and about the inkling of a plan I have for it.

(George and I have texted a bit back and forth, but as the team he’s currently coaching had to flee town after Swim Week, I have not seen him. But he does hope to be back sometime this
summer, having picked up some private coaching clients at the swim center.)

I know I should be used to my mother by now. I know I should be able to just sigh and shake my head at her antics. I know she loves us. But there could be real consequences. What if her pushing
actually causes Bing and Jane to break it off? What if she pushes us all so far she alienates her daughters into a lifetime of chain smoking and resentment?

My latest theory is that all of her hysteria about Bing and Jane is fear-induced. And not fear that we won’t ever get married and provide her with grandchildren to manipulate, but fear
about bigger things, things that can’t be solved by a convoluted plan.

After all, Mom no longer goes to bridge club. Instead she joined an online coupon club, and has begun insisting we bargain shop at a time when no one we know is likely to see us. (Note to self:
Mom seems to have become more proficient at the Internet. Find way to block her search engines from finding the videos.)

And then there’s that fight I overheard yesterday about a second mortgage on the house. I guess the meeting with the bank that I saw on Dad’s calendar didn’t go very well. Mom
and Dad are all smiles in front of us, but their stress manifests in different ways.

Dad trims back his bonsai trees too far.

Mom tries to pair off her daughters.

Maybe it’s because she wants to see something progressing in a positive direction. And I don’t blame her for that. But if Dad and Mom have started having fights about money,
it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.

And the nerves-inducing thing for me is—I included all of this in my next video. Mom’s insanity, the convoluted plan, and the issues about money. I filmed it yesterday; it goes up
tomorrow.

I’ve never talked about my family’s financial issues online before. And honestly, I haven’t been this nervous about posting something since the first video. Is it too real?
People like the fluff—Lydia’s zaniness, the Bing and Jane romance, the Darcy bashing. But if I’m being honest . . . this is what’s going on in my life right now. This is
what creeps into my brain before I fall asleep, when I should be worried about finals and term papers and when George Wickham will come back to town.

So this is what I have to talk about.

No more pencils! No more books! No more teachers’ looks of approval and validation for a job well done!

At least, not until the fall.

Finals are done, and I can breathe a sigh of relief for a few days at least. But not too long . . . because I have a thesis to start work on!

Although, it turns out, I’ve already begun it.

“Dr. Gardiner!” I cornered my professor outside her offices, just as she was closing up for the day—and possibly the rest of summer.

“Lizzie,” she replied. “Great paper on your experiences with your videos and audience interaction. Really top-notch work.”

“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to continue my video project—but as my thesis.”

Dr. Gardiner lifted an eyebrow. I hope one day, when I am ushered into the realms of higher academia, I will be taught the secrets of the supercilious eyebrow.

“What would your focus be?”

“I’ll cover all aspects of the project: the production and distribution models, what works and what doesn’t in terms of engaging an audience and communicating a message, the
process of branding, as well as the character and psychological impact of talking about personal issues in an increasingly popular public forum.”

Dr. Gardiner seemed to think about it for a second. “Your videos do have momentum, but more importantly, they have message. Especially your most recent one, where you were honest about
your family’s financial straits. That had resonance, and depth.”

I could feel myself flushing. First, out of relief knowing I made the right decision to put that last video online, then with the creeping realization that Dr. Gardiner was watching my
videos—long after I turned in my paper on my end-of-term project.