The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (29 page)

“That’s good! Is that Harriet’s doing?”

“Honestly, I think it’s Lydia’s. And Mary helped her with math tutoring.”

“Well, I’m glad she has some good influences,” I remarked. “What with her penchant to run off to Los Angeles at the drop of a hat and all.”

“They
saw
? Well of course they saw, my videos are online to be seen, bitches!” Lydia was laughing loudly into her phone. “Hells yes, I’ll go out and meet your
friends . . . Are they cute? . . . Tomorrow? Totes! . . . Anything for my
fans
.”

“Although that’s a little more concerning,” I said under my breath. “Jane? Do you think Lydia’s a little . . . rambunctious? Like too much?”

Maybe it was because I was away so long, but now that I’m back in the bosom of my family, I can’t help but be a little concerned. Ever since I got back, my baby sister has resembled
nothing so much as a pinball, ricocheting from one thing to the next, making a lot of noise and flashing lights on the way.

Like Caroline said.

Like Darcy said.

I felt like the worst sister ever for thinking that way, but it just kept popping up in my mind, unbidden. I didn’t know how to stop it.

But Jane simply watched Lydia, considering. “I just think she’s Lydia.”

According to Lydia, George Wickham is back in town. No idea why—swim season is long over; the community pools are covered. If he’s back, one can only assume that
the conditioning job with the Meryton Marines Club team didn’t pan out. As per Lydia’s sources, however (let’s assume he met some of her classmates at the bars he frequents), he
will only be around for a couple of weeks. Let’s hope.

But as George is in town, I’ve got George on the brain. And so does Charlotte. She just blackmailed me into revealing part of the letter to my viewers. Not the part with Gigi, but the part
where George spent $125,000 in one year of college. (How? Did he put a down payment on a house?) Since it was a rebuttal of what George (and okay, I) previously said on the videos, it was only fair
that I give the other side airtime, too.

But still, I feel a little nervous. About betraying Darcy’s confidence. About . . . actually admitting to myself that I 100 percent believe Darcy’s version of events. Or maybe
I’m just still wrestling with how wrong I was about George before. And how wrong I was about Darcy. Because if I was wrong about him for this, I could be wrong about other things, too.
I’m not saying that I think he’s anything less than a stuck-up rich hipster, but . . . stuck-up rich hipsters are people, too, aren’t they?

I think part of this seismic brain shift is that Jane finally caught up on all my videos. Including the ones with a certain hipster. And do you know what she said?

“Poor Darcy.”

“Poor Darcy?” I repeated, in shock. “Not even you could possibly think I should have said yes to him, can you?”

“No, of course not,” Jane replied. “But it must have been a shock that you turned him down.”

“Yes, I would say so,” I said flatly.

“It . . . it took a lot of guts for him to come to you like that and declare his feelings. The fact that he thought they would be returned was probably the only reason he managed to
overcome his natural awkwardness and do it.”

That’s my sister Jane. Determined to find the humanity in even the most unlikely of scenarios. Also, she had no idea what “indiscretion” Darcy was talking about, as
expected.

“But what about what he did . . . regarding you and Bing,” I ventured.

“That’s . . . more troubling,” Jane eventually said. “But it doesn’t matter now.”

“Jane . . .”

“Lizzie, I knew that Bing was under pressure, which is one of the reasons I didn’t tell him about . . . you know. And yes, he trusted his friend’s judgment. But if he trusted
Darcy more than he trusted me, then . . . maybe we weren’t meant to be after all.”

Jane stood, straightened her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Bing made the decision to leave. Not Darcy. Not anyone else. And that’s all there is to it.”

Jane has been different this past week at home. Of course, she’s been her usual crafting, baking, birds-help-her-get-dressed-in-the-morning self, but there’s an extra layer to her
now. She’ll talk about her Los Angeles friends, and how she’s getting along with her new roommate (who apparently has a golden retriever that sheds like crazy, making Jane cheerfully
Swiffer the house three times a day), and how she went to an underground midnight fashion show in West Hollywood.

But I think that extra layer is actually a little bit of a shell. She’d never been hurt before like she was by Bing, so it stands to reason there would be some scar tissue. But I wonder if
she’s ever going to be able to give her heart fully again. Or if she’ll just be too careful to share it.

Just had an interesting meeting with Dr. Gardiner during her office hours. I was . . . what’s the phrase? Oh, yes. Raked over the coals.

But at least Dr. Gardiner does it nicely.

“So, Lizzie,” she said, upon my entering. “Where’s this prospectus on Collins & Collins?”

“I’m working on it,” I replied. “I have until the end of the year . . .”

“Technically you do, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” Dr. Gardiner cautioned. “You have three other companies to shadow, not to mention your thesis; it would be prudent of
you to not put off everything until the last minute. I would also like to read about your experience so I know that these independent studies are a worthwhile reason to skip your final required
courses.”

“I know, and I haven’t put it off, I swear,” I assured her. “I’m 95 percent done with the Collins & Collins prospectus.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing it on Monday.”

Well. Looks like I’m spending the weekend at the library in my study carrel.

“What about your next independent study? Have you found a company to shadow?” Dr. Gardiner asked.

“Yes,” I replied proudly. “I met with the co-founder of a company called Gracechurch Street when I was at VidCon. We’ve been exchanging emails and he’s happy to
have me shadow his company.”

“Gracechurch Street . . .” Dr. Gardiner said thoughtfully, as she typed it into her search engine. “In London? They deal with licensing media to different foreign
markets?”

“Yep. That’s them.”

“So when do you leave for England?” she asked.

“Oh, no!” I laughed. “I’m not going to England. It would be an online shadowing. But don’t worry—their company is relatively small, and I have been promised
full access. I’ll be Skyping into all their business meetings, as well as getting one-on-one time with the co-founder. I’d be watching very closely what they do and how they do
it.”

But Dr. Gardiner looked less than pleased. “Lizzie.” She sighed. “I thought the whole point of these independent studies was to become immersed in the culture of the company.
You can’t do that from afar.”

“Well, if there is a media company close to home, then I’d be happy to approach them . . .”

“What about something not so close?” Dr. Gardiner replied. “I have a contact in San Francisco, who works for—”

“Honestly, Dr. Gardiner?” I said, trying to be polite. “I just got home. I don’t think I’m ready to go back out on my own again.”

But Dr. Gardiner just looked at me funny. “What do you think is going to happen when you graduate?” she asked.

I didn’t have an answer for that.

“Gracechurch Street is a fine company, and adds some nice diversity to the businesses you’re studying. And since the clock is ticking, I’ll sign off on your shadowing them. But
Lizzie . . .” She leaned forward, looking me dead in the eye. “I want you to think about what you’re hoping to get out of this experience. And what you’ll have to do to
achieve it.”

Like I said, raked over the coals.

But for now, I have to lay claim to one of the good study carrels in the library (as my grad school cubicle was given up for the independent studies). I have a Collins & Collins prospectus
to finish, and a new company to get a head start on.

Jane left to go back to Los Angeles yesterday. And I’m sort of at a loss. Not because she left—that was expected. She got to stay for a whole week longer than
anticipated, and will be back for Christmas. According to Jane, the fashion world is pretty quiet between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and everyone goes somewhere fun and exotic (like central
California, yay!) before things kick back up in January, when they have to start prepping for the fall fashion shows. Which take place in the spring, and therefore make no sense.

But that’s not the reason I find myself at a loss and ruminating on my life choices. It’s because Jane pointed out to me the same thing Dr. Gardiner was trying to point out . . .
namely, that I might be too comfortable at home, and a bit afraid to leave it.

She’s so grown up. When did Jane become so grown up? She’s always been older, and responsible, but I think of us as young girls with braids in our hair. Now, Jane is out on her own,
working in her field, paying off her student loans, and branching out. And no matter how much I worry about her newfound shell, and can see that she’s still hurt by the mention of Bing,
she’s resolutely moved passed it. (No matter how much I bring it up on my videos, because the viewers are obsessed with it, almost as much as they are obsessed with Darcy.) It all just makes
me realize how
un–
grown up I am.

I spend all my time being petty, and obsessing over other people’s love lives. I focus on everyone else’s business—Mom’s craziness, Lydia’s antics—so I
don’t have to face reality.

The reality that I’m going to have to leave home soon.

And even though I just spent two months with Charlotte, I was simply visiting the real world, not living in it.

And looking back over these pages, I . . . I have to admit, I’ve been hesitant. I like to think of myself as so put together and ready to take on the world, but in reality . . . I’ve
never really spent that much time outside of my study carrel.

And in six months’ time, I won’t have that carrel any more.

Man, first Darcy and now Jane challenging my worldview? Who’s next, Lydia’s cat?

If I haven’t already been labeled as such, I am the worst sister of all time. Not for not watching Lydia’s videos or not initially being happy about Jane’s
moving to LA (although very happy that she’s doing well now). No, this week’s offense is that I forgot about Lydia’s birthday, which is today. In my defense . . . Okay, I
don’t really have one. I’ve been living at the library in my cubicle doing my shadowing and research (mostly because it’s the only quiet place in the world now that Dad’s
joined the usual Lydia/Mom melee by breaking out his Christmas trains), and I just feel so overwhelmed with everything that I let Lydia’s birthday slip out of my mind.

Lydia didn’t, though, and since our parents will be in Sacramento for a Hanukkah party over her twenty-first (Uncle Phil is our token diverse relative—otherwise, we are incredibly
boring ethnically), she is insisting on throwing a rager. Or, in her words, “The most awesomest party in the history of ever!”

I’m exhausted just thinking about it. Heck, half the time I’m exhausted being around Lydia. I love her, but now that I’m the eldest daughter at home, it’s even harder to
look at her antics without wishing she would calm down. Take a step back before acting impulsively, and
think
.

But I can’t get either of my parents to realize it. Mom just tuts that Lydia’s young and having fun! And my dad . . .

“Dad, I can’t believe you’re letting Lydia have a party while you’re gone!” I told him a few days ago.

“Can’t you? It’s what she asked for, for her birthday, and I saw no reason to say no.”

“No reason to say no? How about that she has no self-control? For Pete’s sake, she invited the entire men’s volleyball team from her school. Or my school. Or, all the
schools!”

“And what would you have her do? Go
out
with the entire volleyball team instead?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“I see no problem with Lydia throwing a party. We won’t hear the end of it until she does, and at least this way she’ll be home, and thankfully you’ll be here to watch
out for her.”

So I’m now on official Lydia duty. You know, I think my parents still owe me money for all that babysitting I did when I was fourteen and she was ten . . . although they may have docked me
for expenses when they had to have the screen door replaced that one time.

All of this aside, I am as prepared as I can be for the party of the century. What I was not prepared for was an unexpected would-be party crasher that I ran into just this morning.

“Hey, Lizzie!” George Wickham’s voice caused a shiver of revulsion to go up my spine. I was in the paper-plate-and-napkin aisle of the grocery store, stocking up on the more
practical aspects of party planning. I already had industrial-strength trash bags and all the paper towels in the world in my basket. “Looks like you’re planning for a party.”

“What are you doing here, George?” I asked.

“Shopping for groceries. As you do.” He held up his little basket, which contained a six-pack of cheap beer and Cheetos. Then he shot me that smile that used to make my stomach
flutter; now it just made it churn. “It’s so awesome to see you, peach.”

I managed to step back before his arms made it all the way around me, dodging his hug. I only knocked over three or four packets of plastic utensils in the effort.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, undeterred. “I’m sorry I never called, it’s just I got so busy, I was like, whoa . . .”

“I’m fine, George. Never better, in fact.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Oh, this and that.” I paused. “I don’t suppose you’ve been watching my videos?”