The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (30 page)

“You’re still doing those things?” George acted surprised. “That’s awesome for you. They’re totally cute.”

Well, that answered
that
question. When I still didn’t say anything else, George gave me the puppy-dog eyes. “Come on, Lizzie, you’re gonna hold a grudge because I
didn’t call when I got back to town?”

“Not at all,” I hastened to assure him, putting on my politest smile. “I didn’t expect you to call. In fact, I thought you were leaving town again.”

“I am soon, but I wouldn’t want to miss the chance to see you.” George smirked. “I’m just glad fate brought us together in the paper products aisle.”

“How so?”

“Well, you were out of town, too, right? I thought someone told me you were doing an internship or something? With your friend Charlene?”

“Charlotte,” I said, trying really hard to not grind my teeth.

“Right, right. Learn anything?”

I considered him for a long moment before replying. Then I thought, what the hell. “Actually, I learned a lot. Ran into some interesting people there, too.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“Like Fitz Williams. And Darcy.”

I had the pleasure of watching George’s permasmile falter. But he recovered quickly. “Darcy. Just the mention of his name gives me chills. What with his having ruined my life and
all. Hypothetically, of course.” He winked at me.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But perhaps he has more virtues than you or I gave him credit for.”

“Virtues?” he laughed. “You think Darcy has virtues?”

“Actually, Darcy’s not so bad,” I said. “He has more than some people I could mention.”

George finally seemed to register the fact that I was giving him my iciest death glare, because his smile fell completely away, and I felt like I got a glimpse of the guy Darcy knows. The one
with such a chip on his shoulder, he would come demand money of a friend the day after his parents’ funeral.

“Well,” he said, “sounds like I have some catching up to do.”

Y
es
, I thought.
You do. Catch up. Watch my videos, and realize that you should probably avoid being in the same hemisphere as me from now on
. But George, for all his
slick charm and street smarts, didn’t know when to stop.

“But you can get me all caught up tonight at your sister’s party.”

“What?” I exclaimed, shocked. “You’re not invited.”

“Not officially. But I know a bunch of the volleyball guys, and it doesn’t sound like it’s invitation only—”

“You’re not invited!” I stated, more forcefully than I would have liked. “You can’t come tonight. And if you’re wondering why, watch my videos. They’ll
explain everything.”

And with that, I abandoned my cart of paper towels and plates and marched out of the store.

Of course, then I had to drive across town to a different grocery store for party supplies, but hey, they actually had napkins on two-for-one sale.

I’m so pissed at myself for having liked George. Whereas before I thought he was completely charming, now I can only see a total sleaze. I’m really glad that our backseat activities
were restricted to groping and making out, and not actual sex, because there aren’t enough showers in the world to scrub that off.

But right now, I’m not focusing on that. Right now, I have to mentally prepare for the onslaught of people about to invade my house. I’ve laid out the food and beverages, moved all
the furniture, locked Dad’s trains and most breakables in the den, and put a sign on my door that says “Not the bathroom.”

All right, people, let’s do this birthday thing. Happy twenty-first to my baby sister!

Oh, my God, I can’t do it. I can’t go out for another night. Between school, online shadowing a company that’s eight time zones away, and Lydia’s
insistence that we celebrate her birthday
week
, I have gotten approximately four hours of sleep in the last three days.

Lydia’s party went pretty well, considering. The police weren’t called, so that’s a plus. I got to hang a little with cousin Mary, introverts that we are. Almost everyone was
gone by dawn, and Lydia enjoyed herself so much, she doesn’t remember most of it. Which is worrying. I’m not wrong to be worried when my sister gets blackout drunk, right?

I hadn’t even had time to get Lydia her birthday present yet. (Although, for some, cleaning up the house and taking the heat from Mom and Dad for the garden gnome carnage should be
birthday present enough.) However, I wandered into the bookstore today on campus and found something I think will be perfect. Jane sent along a present she picked out (and I paid for half of), but
I really think this book will be the icing on the cake.

It’s called
Where Did I Park My Car? A Party Girl’s Guide to Becoming a Successful Adult
.

Honestly, I can’t think of a better birthday gift for my party-girl little sister who I would like to see become a successful adult.

Okay, that did not go as planned. Lydia did not like the book, to put it mildly, and has not spoken to me since I gave it to her.

Here’s the thing. I’m not wrong about Lydia. I am NOT WRONG. I am one of the only people around here who can see her with clear eyes. Mom treats her like the baby and Dad—for
as great as he usually is—has always just sort of thrown up his hands whenever it comes to Lydia. She’s out of control, and no one is bothering to rein her in.

Let’s look at the evidence. She got wasted at the Gibson wedding, throwing up in the bushes. I had to pull my sister out of Carter’s when they were going to call the cops on her for
stripping down with some guy in the back. For God’s sake, she got blackout drunk just last week at her party! She steals Xanax out of Mom’s purse, cuts school to drive to Los Angeles,
and can’t be alone for more than three minutes together. I’m not wrong for wanting her to look at her life and realize she needs to grow up. She’s twenty-one now. She’ll get
charged as an adult. She’s not a kid, no matter what Mom says.

And yes, Mom says that Lydia’s grades are good this semester. And great—good for Lydia for going to class and paying attention for once and learning—because that’s what
she has the potential to do. She’s not dumb, she just acts that way because . . . because it’s fun, I guess. But that doesn’t mean she gets a pass on everything else.

Okay, nobody’s perfect. And Lydia called me out on the fact that I didn’t give Dad a book on how to better manage our money and Mom a book on how to not overly involve herself in her
daughters’ lives, but Mom and Dad . . . I don’t know if they can be fixed. It’s probably too late for them. Lydia is still young.

One month of being eldest sister in the house and I’ve managed to piss Lydia off to the point of complete incommunicado. God, I wish Jane was here. I called her, yesterday, just to get her
perspective.

“Hey, Lizzie,” she said. “Before you say anything, Lydia called me already.”

“What did she say?” I asked.

“She’s hurt. She thinks you hate who she is.”

“She said that?”

“Not in so many words, but . . .”

“I don’t hate her!” I cried. “Not at all. But Jane . . . I just want her to be . . .”

“What?” Jane gently prodded. “Less ‘energetic,’ right? Not an embarrassment?”

“That’s not what I said. And I would never—”

“But that’s what she heard,” Jane replied. Then she sighed. “I understand where you’re coming from, Lizzie. But maybe the method of delivery was a little
unkind.”

Jane, as usual, was right. The way I presented the book couldn’t possibly have been more ham-fisted.

I did accidentally call Lydia “energetic”—which is exactly what Darcy called Lydia when he came on my video and told me he “loved me, but . . .” So, she
didn’t hear “energetic,” she heard embarrassment, I guess. That I think she’s an embarrassment.

Maybe there’s still a way to fix this. Maybe I can cajole my way back into Lydia’s good graces. Hell, maybe another couple of days go by, Christmas fever hits, and she forgets all
about this.

Maybe.

Nope. Not fixable.

Lydia went too far this time. She’s just . . . ARRRRRGGHHH! She’s not listening! And now, she’s just reaching out and slapping back at me and you know what, Lydia? It does
hurt. And now she’s just being a brat, and I . . . I don’t want to deal with it. And honestly, I shouldn’t have to.

I tried to explain to her a thousand times that I didn’t mean the book the way she took it. I entreated, I cajoled, I bought her fro-yo! And how did it go?

“I just wanted to take you out today, to make sure that we’re okay,” I’d said, as we ladened down our double Dutch chocolate yogurt with the appropriate fruit and
sprinkles.

“Hmm,” Lydia replied.

“Like I said, I didn’t intend for the gift to be mean. And I’m so sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“Hmm.”

We wandered up to the cashier to pay.

“I’m just looking out for you. You’re twenty-one now. Jane’s gone to LA, and I’m going to be graduating soon. We won’t be around to look out for you.
You’ll have to be more responsible, and look out for yourself.”

“Hmm.”

I paid for our yogurts and guided us outside toward a table.

“It’s not a bad thing. I promise,” I said. “I mean, you can’t be like this forever. Change is good. It’s normal.”

“Hmm.”

“So,” I said, as I sat in my seat. “Are we good?”

Lydia remained standing. “No,” she said, and strode over to the trash can, dumping her untouched cup of yogurt in the garbage, before walking away.

Okay, so she didn’t accept that my gesture was well-meaning. I left her alone for a couple of days after that. But I’d thought it would eventually blow over. Lydia doesn’t stay
mad for long—more often than not, something comes up that distracts her from what happened before, and we move on. It’s human nature. But this time, she didn’t. No, letting it go
would have been the ADULT thing to do.

Instead, she retaliated, using the only thing at her disposal.

The Internet.

Lydia decided the mature thing to do in this situation would be to create a list of things I can improve about myself and then post it in a video.

And she has plenty of people watching her now, thanks to me.

Lydia’s List for Ways Lizzie Bennet Can Be Less Lame

It’s already gotten thousands of views.

You know, it’s not the message—trust me, I get this type of criticism all the time, most of all from myself—it’s that she took it to the Internet instead of telling me.
And that just shows me that she’s beyond immature and completely unwilling to change.

I certainly didn’t intend to hurt her, but she is willfully trying to hurt me. And you know what? It’s working. Now she’s saying that she’s going to Vegas for New
Year’s with friends, and nothing I say will convince her otherwise, no hints I drop to the parents will matter, so why bother? Why bother putting up with someone who is obviously just trying
to hurt me and drive me crazy? I have plenty of work to do to keep me busy; I’d rather not have to deal with an immature, needy, reactionary, pissed-off, substance-abusing little sister, so
I’m not going to. I’m not even going to watch her videos while she’s gone. Hell, I won’t even follow her on Twitter.

I need to get on with my own life and stop worrying about hers. You want incommunicado, Lydia? You got it.

“Dr. Gardiner!” I called out, running down the hall.

“Lizzie,” Dr. Gardiner said, startled. “You’ve caught me packing up my office for the next three weeks. What are you doing here? It’s Christmas vacation.”

“I know, but I wanted to talk to you—about my independent study,” I said in between gasps of breath. I really do need to exercise more.

“Is everything all right? With the Gracechurch Street company?”

“Yes, great—in fact, I should have enough by the end of December for my prospectus. I was hoping to talk to you about the
next
independent study.”

Dr. Gardiner stopped packing up her bag.

“You mentioned you had a contact at a media company in San Francisco? If the offer still stands, I think I would really like to check it out.”

I held my breath as Dr. Gardiner considered it. “I thought you weren’t looking to go that far away from home.”

“I know. I hadn’t been,” I replied. “But you were right about broadening my horizons. I’m ready now.”