The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (35 page)

No, as bad as my presumption was, that’s not the nightmare scenario. The nightmare scenario is that Lydia
didn’t
know about the website.

She knew about the tape, of course. She’d participated, but she never dreamed George would do something like this with it. That he’d try to make money off of baring her body and soul
to anonymous perverts online.

Because she loves him.

When I came home, no one was here. Lydia still wasn’t picking up, so the only thing I could do was wait. And when Lydia finally did come home . . . I got angry with her. Because I thought
. . .

I can’t believe I thought that she knew about it.

When I showed her the website, I watched something inside my little sister break. She became so small and so very, very young. She ran to her room and hasn’t come out since.

That was three days ago.

Thank God I finally got in touch with Jane, and she came home, too. Lydia wasn’t letting me into her room, but I knew she’d let Jane in. She’s been going in once an hour, with
ridiculous amounts of tea, just to make sure Lydia is okay.

That she’s not hurting herself.

“Has she eaten anything?” I’d whispered to Jane, as she was preparing her fourth tea tray of the day in the kitchen.

“No, but she did drink a little tea,” Jane whispered back.

“Is she talking to anyone?”

“I know she’s tried to called George. Is still trying,” Jane replied.

“He’s not answering,” I said.

“It’s worse than that. I’ve heard her through the door. She still thinks this is some kind of misunderstanding. Like George got hacked. I think she tried all of his friends,
too, but—”

“But he’s nowhere to be found.”

I knew this because I had done the same thing. I had called George’s number a million times, wanting an explanation. I tried everyone I could remember was a friend of his . . . but then I
learned he didn’t keep friends very well. Two of his so-called buddies told me that if I found him, to let them know, because George owed them a couple hundred bucks each. I even went down to
Carter’s to see if anyone there might have an idea where George went.

Nothing.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I whispered to Jane. I was filled with so much impotence and rage. Without George, there was no way of getting the tape back and getting the
website shut down. I’d even emailed the company that was listed as creating the site (Novelty Exposures, ugh), sending a DCMA takedown notice on Lydia’s behalf, but didn’t get a
reply. Of course. Charlotte says Novelty Exposures is just a shell company, and there’s an entire labyrinth of holding companies and false ISPs that are protecting it from view. We have no
idea who actually has the tape.

“I know,” Jane said. “Neither do I.”

“How are we going to get her through this? How are we going to stop him?”

“Stop who?” my dad said from behind us, causing both Jane and me to jump.

“No one,” I chirped, a little too brightly. “We were just discussing something . . . Jane and I saw on television.”

But my dad just shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, Lizzie. Not you.” His eyes flew to Jane. “Why are you home? You have a full-time job and an apartment in Los
Angeles.” Then back to me. “Why aren’t you completing your coursework in San Francisco? And why haven’t I seen my youngest daughter or heard her voice in days?”

“Lydia’s not feeling very well,” Jane tried. But it was no use.

“Girls,” Dad said. “Something’s not right here. So, I’m only going to ask this once more. You are either going to tell me what is going on or I am barging into
Lydia’s room right now and asking her.”

I looked to Jane. She nodded at me. It was time. We’d both run out of ways to fight this on our own. We needed help. We needed our dad.

But that meant he had to be filled in on some backstory. About the videos.

“Dad,” I sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” he said, softer now. “It will be okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

And so I did.

I don’t want to make another video. I don’t want to expose the inside of myself anymore, or the inside of my family’s lives.

That’s what led to this. Right? My videos led to me being vaguely Internet famous, which led to Lydia being vaguely Internet famous, which led to George thinking he could make money off of
her.

But I can’t stop now—contract with my audience, and all.

Besides, the people who watch my videos are almost as invested in our family as we are. Everyone is commenting and asking if Lydia is okay. They care about her. More than I was caring about her
for the past couple of months, it seems.

She still hasn’t come out of her room. Jane is still going in there with tea and trays of food.

Maybe I can use the videos. Beg people to not subscribe to the website, and also beg them for help. Who knows, maybe some tech genius is watching and knows how to take down a website.
That’s what I keep praying for. In fact, it’s gone down a couple of times now. But never for long. It pops right back up, like an evil hedgehog.

I don’t know how to stop this from happening.

But Dad is doing everything in his power to try to fix it—which, we’ve discovered, is not easy. Dad talked to Uncle Phil—under the strictest of lawyer-client privilege so Mom,
his sister-in-law, won’t find out. Uncle Phil is a tax attorney, so I don’t know how much he can help in reality, but he did some digging.

Since the website is subscription based, nothing illegal has been posted yet. Apparently authorities can act only after something happens, not before. Dad says he’s going to talk to a
friend who’s a private investigator and see if he can find George. But George has practically disappeared off the face of the earth.

He is incredibly slick. More slick than I think I gave him credit for. I keep thinking back to when I challenged him to watch my videos in the grocery store, so he’d know how much I no
longer liked him. Then I have to wonder, did he go after Lydia to get revenge on me for it? No. That’s too self-centered. He just knew Lydia was an easy target for someone like him.

Because she was alone.

Because I gave her a book, and we got into a stupid fight, and I left her alone.

I just did the math and realized—the day the countdown ends and the website goes live? Valentine’s Day.

As if we needed further proof that George Wickham is a sadistic asshole.

Among the other shitty things to have happened recently, Jane lost her job. Her coming back home to help her family during one of the busiest times of the fashion year did not
go over well with her new boss. Or her now new ex-boss.

She loved that job. And I bet more money than I have in my bank account that she was the best thing to happen at that office, too. However, even knowing how much losing her job sucks, I
can’t help but be grateful that she’s here. She’s the only one who makes any sense.

She’s also better at handling Mom—who is still in the dark about most things, including my videos and the sex tape. While it is hard to believe that anyone could be so oblivious
about the goings-on right under her nose, here is a sampling of things my mother said at last night’s dinner table:

“With Lydia’s hair and young George’s physique, their babies will look just like Prince Harry. Oh, we’ll have our own little princes and princesses in the
family!”

“Do you see how distraught your sister is when her boyfriend leaves town for just a few days, Lizzie? That’s what love looks like. Men like a certain show of devotion. Something you
should learn.”

“Now, Jane, I insist you take some of these mashed potatoes up to Lydia tonight. I know, I know, she’s ‘under the weather.’ But I will not have her wasting away for want
of her George.”

While I was boiling over, Jane simply hummed to Mom her assent and deftly changed the subject to a more innocuous topic. Like global nuclear politics.

We’ve all been debating whether or not to bring Mom into the fold. Part of me wants her to know, so she would at least stop being George’s champion, but the other part of me knows
how she’ll react—if the wailing and couch-fainting she did when Bing left is any indication, this would be incapacitating. Dad agrees, because having to clue Mom in would simply hinder
any progress on getting the website taken down.

I use the word “progress” liberally, because there has been none. George is still missing. The website countdown is still going on. And Lydia still won’t let anyone in her room
but Jane.

Which is another reason I’m glad Jane is here.

I feel so useless.

But Jane did something else. She challenged me to sit down and watch Lydia’s videos with George. My previous aborted attempt ended with my stomach churning and me looking for a
Matrix
-like ability to climb through video screens and beat George bloody. But Jane says Lydia and I have more in common than we realize. That we’re both stubborn, and would rather
talk to the Internet at large than to each other.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got the videos queued up, and I am as prepared as I can be.

* * *

Wow. I . . .

I need a minute.

* * *

Okay, now that I’m not crying anymore, maybe I can make some sense of this. Of how I’m feeling. But the hardest thing to admit is that . . . I never knew. I never
knew anything about Lydia.

I never knew how much I hurt her.

At the beginning of Lydia’s videos, when she’s in Vegas, she is so defiant, ready to party even though “Lizzie would disapprove.” Because she’s “so
irresponsible” and “crazy.” She was lashing
out—to hurt me in the way I hurt her. At the time I was too mad at her to see it. But now, with the
benefit of painful hindsight, I know.

Also, I never knew how lonely she was.

I was gone, Jane was gone, Mary had her own life. Her school friends abandoned her in Vegas when she went overboard with the partying. Lydia felt left over. And that led her to the only person
in town who seemed to want to hang out with her: George Wickham.

And I never knew how truly manipulative George was.

He had answers for everything. Sold my sister on a sob story about how yes, he did spend all the money Darcy gave him in his first year of college, because he was trying to impress his friends.
When he admitted he’d screwed up, Darcy—the closest thing he had to family—wouldn’t help. Totally plausible, totally reasonable. And if I hadn’t known about his
history with Gigi, I might have even bought it.

Whenever Lydia tried to joke with him, he would act hurt and make her back down. Make her doubt herself. He pressured her into commitment—saying that “someone has to look out for
you” and getting her to declare that they were dating. Whenever they discussed me or Jane, he was always the defender, saying we don’t care about Lydia. But
he
does. He would
do anything for her. Lizzie and Jane? They don’t need you—they have each other.

And she believed it.

And finally, I never realized that Lydia has never been told that she is loved exactly as she is.

That’s what George honed in on about her. Lydia’s never had anyone say they love her just the way she is. She’s always too much, or not enough. Too crazy, too energetic, too
wild. Not serious enough, not studious enough, not good enough.

I’m the one who told her that. That’s my doing. With a stupid goddamn book. With every single disappointed sigh and disapproving look and trying to rein her in.

But I told Lydia a lot of other things, instead.

I scolded Lydia for getting drunk in public. You know who I didn’t scold? Charlotte, when she got drunk at the Gibson wedding.

I admonished her for her sexual behavior. You know who I didn’t admonish? Jane, when I caught her sneaking out of Bing’s room at Netherfield, or when she told me about her
forty-eight hours of worry.

I told Lydia time and time again she was being irresponsible. You know who I didn’t think was being irresponsible? Me, when I turned down a good job offer from Ricky Collins.

How could I have never told Lydia that I love her? Just as she is? Exasperating, caring, crazy, wonderful, all of it. What the hell kind of sister does that make me? How could I be that person
who just picks and picks at her until she’s so starved for approval she’ll take it from anyone and anywhere?

I feel like I don’t know her at all.

And how could I have not seen her this whole time?

I’m emotionally spent. The last day has been so hard, but so necessary. Lydia and I finally talked. She came into my room, and I was so relieved to actually see her in
the flesh at first that I forgot about everything else. Almost forgot about the camera. But Lydia didn’t. She wanted it on. And I think it’s what allowed her to talk to me.

She’s been broken by him, but not beaten. She was in love with George. And he used her, and threw her away.

And I’d been calling her selfish, and crazy, and a slut for the last ten months on the Internet.

We needed to talk. We needed to break down. I needed to tell her that I loved her.

There was a lot of crying and apologizing, and I don’t know where to begin getting to know my sister again. The biggest thing I can do is to be here for her now. After our big crying
session, I made Lydia lie down in my bed, and I held her as she fell asleep.

She was snoring softly after a few moments. I don’t know how much sleep she’s gotten this past week.

“How is she?” Jane asked me, ducking her head in.

“I don’t know. A little better, hopefully, from here on out. You were right,” I said.

“About what?”

“About watching Lydia’s videos. She’s . . . I’ve been the worst sister. There are no two ways around it.”

“Lizzie, you’re not the worst sister. You—and I, sometimes—just forget that Lydia hears everything we say. And underneath that bright, loud outside she wears, she’s
vulnerable.”