A Good Name: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation
Page 6
Then Lizzy had moved and he’d been lost without her, and he’d met Mr. Darcy and found a new book connection.
Finally, his mother had died and he’d thought he was about to be tossed back into the foster care system, only to discover that his new foster parents were none other than the Darcys.
He thought about his mom sometimes, with a slight pang of regret. His mother had always been distant, busy, usually out of her mind on some sort of drug. She’d never read to him, or sung to him, or even made him breakfast.
George felt guilty for not missing her more, but he didn’t miss those days. Life was suddenly so much brighter.
July 2002
A couple of weeks after he’d come to Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy’s brother came over to visit, bringing his younger son, Richard. George thought at first that Richard looked like he might be a friend. His scuffed jeans and t-shirt made him look more approachable than he had expected, at least. Since Richard was only a year older than George at thirteen, the adults had declared the boys would be great friends.
Just went to show what adults knew.
Richard clearly hated George right from the start.
The boys were sent off to play together, but Richard told George, “Go back where you came from. Nobody wants you here.”
George hadn’t quite known what to say to that, so he’d said nothing. He was supposed to play with Richard. Should he go back to the house? Would that get Richard in trouble? He knew what kind of trouble tattletales got in, and going back to the house would probably count as tattling.
When George didn’t turn and leave, Richard rolled his eyes and went down to the rocks by the south pasture. They were huge, presumably left over from some farmer clearing the field, but piled up into a tempting structure for boys to climb.
“These are my rocks!” Richard said. “Bug off!” He started to climb.
George raced after him, climbing to the top just a few moments after Richard. Richard glared at him, then shook a fist into the air and shouted, “I won!”
Richard had had a head start, which George refrained from pointing out. Instead, he pushed Richard off.
Their brief scuffle ended up with both of them soaking wet from rolling into the pond and enough pond scum in Richard’s cornrows that Mrs. Fitzwilliam was beside herself. Both boys were given a telling-off on the way to their showers and shared nothing more that day than angry glares.
Richard, George decided, was a brat. And a jerk. And . . . all sorts of names he was not supposed to call people. But he’d never be a friend.
George was thrilled with the new bicycle the Darcys had bought him. He was a bit intimidated, though. He’d never had a bike before, and learning to ride at the age of twelve was awkward. Mr. Darcy offered to hold the bike for him and run along behind, but he scoffed at the idea. He wasn’t five, after all. He’d learn it on his own.
He spent several afternoons falling off the bike, over and over, until his legs were black and blue and skinned in numerous places. Mrs. Darcy suggested he try riding in jeans to protect his legs, but it was just too hot for that.
Once, he saw the Fitzwilliams’ car coming down the lane as he was practicing. It was a good thing he could see them from a distance so that he could put the bike away before Richard saw it. Richard would probably taunt him for not knowing how to ride already. Or worse, he’d try to teach him.
It took him almost a week, but soon he was pedaling around the circle in front of the house and up and down the driveway to the main road. It was a full mile through pastures and meadow to the main road so it was a good practice ride, even if he had to get off when he wanted to turn around because he couldn’t do a tight enough U-turn yet.
Now he was ready to ride into town. There was a 7-11 in his old neighborhood, and now that he had an allowance, he was dying to try a Slurpee.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Darcy said. “It’s almost four miles, George.”
“So what?” he asked. “I bike to the main road and back, and that’s a mile. And I do it dozens of times a day.” Perhaps “dozens” was a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much, right?
“It’s along busy streets, and you’re still new at riding your bike.” She looked at Mr. Darcy, who shrugged. George guessed that maybe he wasn’t so sure it was a bad idea. He could work with that.
“I know how to handle myself on busy streets. Those were my streets, my neighborhood. I can watch out for cars, and I used to walk everywhere so I won’t get lost.” He definitely wouldn’t get lost if he had a cell phone, but the Darcys believed that twelve-year-olds were too young for cell phones.
“George, my answer is no,” Mrs. Darcy said firmly. “I’m sorry, but you’re too young and too new at riding a bike to go that far.” She looked at Mr. Darcy again.
George clenched his fists, then forced himself to relax them. He loved living at Pemberley and having real parents . . . but what the books didn’t tell you was that parents could be so annoying sometimes! He wasn’t going to get hit by a car or get lost, honestly! He was twelve!
“Maybe when you’ve had a bit more practice with the bike, you could go with Richard,” Mr. Darcy offered.
Mrs. Darcy brightened. “Yes, you and Richard could go together. Keep practicing for now, and we’ll see. Maybe by the end of the summer, you and Richard will be ready for an adventure.”
Like he’d want to go anywhere with Richard. Bah. He’d just keep making stupid down-and-backs on the driveway and wanting somewhere to go. What was the point of riding a bike if you never went anywhere?
George dropped onto his bed with his newest book, The Hobbit. Mr. Darcy had recommended it, so he couldn’t wait to read it. It was supposed to have dwarfs and dragons and all sorts of interesting creatures in it, or so Mr. Darcy assured him.
That reminded him a bit of Lizzy, years ago, assuring him he’d like the Narnia books because they had centaurs and a witch. He smiled at the bittersweet memory. He wished Lizzy could be here. He’d love to introduce her to the Darcys. She and Mr. Darcy could talk about books all day long! Mrs. Darcy would love her bright sunny spirit. In a way, Mrs. Darcy was a lot like a grown-up Lizzy. He sighed. He and Lizzy could run and play to their heart’s content in the woods. Riding bikes would never be boring with her, and they could ride to 7-11 without needing stupid Richard to come along.
He had a compelling urge to check his dresser, so he got up and opened the top drawer. And stared in shock.
What had happened to his stash? He’d hidden all the food he’d thought he might want if he got hungry later. Granola bars, because they were filling. Tortillas, for when he wanted bread, because they lasted longer than regular bread. A couple of jars of peanut butter. Apples, for when he wanted fruit. They lasted a long time, too. Beef jerky. A whole box of cookies Mrs. Darcy had bought him last week.
It was gone. It was all gone.
George took a deep breath and tried not to panic. There was food in the kitchen. He’d seen it there this morning; he knew there was plenty of food. He’d just make a new stash. Maybe this time he’d keep it . . . under the bed, maybe? No, in his backpack. Then he’d have it with him all the time.
He kept breathing, in and out, in and out, until he had calmed down again. Good. He was going to be okay. He’d just go to the kitchen and . . .
“George!” Mrs. Darcy exclaimed as she walked into his room. “I thought you were still outside.” She stopped short, just inside the door, and flushed.
He couldn’t take his eyes off what she was holding. She had a stack of plastic storage containers, and he could see his food in them.
He blinked and stared at the floor. What was she thinking? Was she going to ask him what all the food was for? He didn’t know how to explain it. He just felt more comfortable if he had some food close at hand, just in case he got hungry. Besides, if he got sent away from the Darcys, he could put the food in with his clothes and stuff when he packed up. He’d separated his clothes from the clothes the Darcys had given him just f
or that reason.
“I found your secret hoard,” she said, giving him a conspiratorial smile. She opened the top drawer and put the containers back right where his food had been. “I don’t mind at all, but I’d like you to keep the food in storage containers so we don’t get ants, okay?
George swallowed hard and nodded. It was humiliating to think that she’d found his food and knew exactly why he had it. But not embarrassing enough for him to want to stop. He was too anxious without knowing it was there.
Mrs. Darcy took a step toward him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. George resisted the urge to squirm away. He liked Mrs. Darcy a lot, he did, but it was kind of weird when she did mom stuff like that. Not that he remembered his mom touching him all that much.
He felt a pang in his chest. He hadn’t thought much about his mom this past month. What was wrong with him, that he could just forget about her like that? His life with her just seemed so very long ago now.
Mrs. Darcy’s question brought him back to the present. “Would you like a plastic storage container with some granola bars that you can keep in your backpack?” she asked. “That way you could take something with you.”
George wished desperately that he could say no, that he’d be fine. She was looking at him with soft eyes, but there was pity there. He didn’t want her to pity him. He’d had enough of pity. But he really did want that container.
“Okay,” he whispered.
She gave him another smile, then looked around the room. “Wow, LEGOs everywhere,” she said brightly.
George winced. There really were LEGOs everywhere. Mr. Darcy had gotten him a low table to set his buildings and vehicles up on, but a lot of pieces had fallen on the floor all around and under the table. And he must have been tracking them around a bit, because he could see some LEGO pieces that were almost as far as his bed.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” he said, standing up quickly as well. “I’ll clean it up right now.”
Mrs. Darcy touched his upper arm before he could start scrambling after pieces. “George, the room is clean. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a room kept so clean by a preteen boy. I almost wonder if you’re hiding everything in the closet!”
“I just thought . . . I thought I should keep things neat.” He blushed. Maybe he’d gone overboard a bit. But he’d always tried to keep things neat at Mark’s, too. It was so much easier and nicer here at Pemberley. Everything had a place, and nobody else was messing it up. He liked seeing everything placed neatly on its shelf.
She smiled. “Well, I don’t mind if you want to keep it neat. But the house, and your room, are meant to be lived in.” She frowned slightly. “George, you know that we’re not going to send you back for having a messy room or talking back on occasion, right?”
He nodded. It sounded good, but could she truly promise that? He never knew for sure what would bug somebody. He’d seen it time and time again with Mom and her boyfriends. Everything would seem rainbows and unicorns for a week or two, then reality would start to set in. Reality never ended well.
Mrs. Darcy walked to the door of the room, but just as she was about to step out, she turned back.
“George, Mr. Darcy and I are going over to help with dinner at the shelter. Will you come with us?”
George bit his lip. “Do I have to?”
Mrs. Darcy frowned. “No, you don’t have to, but . . . don’t you want to?”
He swallowed and shook his head. Just thinking about the shelter made him remember the smell. The desperation on people’s faces. The feeling in the pit of his stomach when that social worker, Mrs. Cole or whatever her name was, told him that his mother was dead. He blinked rapidly.
“No, I . . . Can I just stay home? I’m old enough.”
She sighed. “You can stay home. You’ll have to make your own dinner, then,” she said, as if it were some sort of punishment. George resisted the urge to snort. He’d been making his own meals for basically his entire life, at least up until he had gone to the shelter. Not like he couldn’t handle it. At least he wouldn’t have to eat dry ramen.
It was worth it to never have to set foot in that place again.
July 2002
“George,” Mrs. Darcy said at breakfast a month later. “Mr. Darcy and I wanted to talk to you about something.”
He nodded, his mouth full.
“When you first moved in with us, we talked with your social worker about adopting you out of foster care. There’s a bit of a process, so we’ve been looking into it for some time now. They had to look into whether you were eligible, that sort of thing.”
He frowned. “Eligible?” Adoption out of foster care? Did that mean . . .
“Yes, whether you could be adopted or not. If a child in foster care has parents who are still living, the system is generally going to be focused more on uniting the child with his or her parents. But in your case, we know that your mother is deceased and there’s no father of record, which means that you’re an orphan, as far as the county knows.”
George swallowed. “An orphan.”
Mrs. Darcy reached across the table and put her hand on his. “That doesn’t sound good, I know. But it means something good. It means that it’s possible for us to adopt you. We were approved to start the process. If you would like to, that is. Would you like to be adopted, to be our son, not just our foster son?”
Mr. Darcy smiled encouragingly at George. “Our son,” he said softly.
George blinked. He wasn’t about to cry, he wasn’t, despite his blurred vision. He wasn’t. He just felt . . . confused. Overwhelmed.
“But why me?” he asked. “Don’t you want a baby?”
Mrs. Darcy looked down at the table, then back up at George. “I did. We did. We tried for a long time, but we couldn’t get pregnant.”
George nodded. He had assumed something like that. “But why not adopt a baby?”
“A few reasons,” Mr. Darcy said. “For one, it’s difficult to find a baby to adopt. Babies are in high demand. Everybody wants to adopt a baby. We might have had to wait years. It’s expensive, too, and while we could, quite frankly, afford it, we thought perhaps it would be better to consider a kid who needed a home instead. We heard about adopting through foster care, and we had almost finished the process of being certified for foster care when I met you.”
Mrs. Darcy smiled. “He was so taken with you right from the start that when we found out you needed a home, it seemed an answer to our prayers. George, we would love to have you stay with us forever, to adopt you and make you ours. Will you think about it?”
“Are you kidding?” George asked, grinning from one to the other. “I don’t need to think about it! I would love to!” And then he could never, ever be taken away from them!
Mr. Darcy reached over and ruffled his hair. “We love you, George. And we’d love you to call us Mom and Dad, when you feel ready for it.”
They loved him. They loved him? He blinked quickly, fighting back tears. His mom had loved him, in her own way, he thought. But this was a different kind of love, the kind that actually showed up day after day, not the little scraps of love his mother had tossed his way. Calling them Mom and Dad, though . . . could he truly allow himself to get his hopes up that high?
Mr. Darcy had taken Mrs. Darcy’s hand and was smiling at her as she continued talking.
“That’s another thing to consider,” Mrs. Darcy said. “We’ll have two George Darcys!”
George frowned. “I hadn’t thought about that.” Would Mr. Darcy dislike sharing his name?
“You don’t have to take the name Darcy,” Mr. Darcy said quickly. “You can keep Wickham if you like.”
“No, I do want to be a Darcy,” he said. “It’s just . . . it’s kind of confusing if we’re both George Darcy. Would I be, like, a junior or something?”
“You could be, if you wanted,” Mr. Darcy said. “But usually middle names match as well, and ours wouldn’t since you’re George Michael.” He smiled.
“Could I . . . could I change my name entirely?” George asked. “Like, first name, too?”
The Darcys exchanged a look. “I suppose so,” Mr. Darcy said. “But what would you change it to?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought, you know, a fresh start and all that.” He thought about all the names he knew, from school, from the old neighborhood, from his mom’s boyfriends, even the characters he’d liked in books or in history. There was one name that came to mind, even if he didn’t know from where.
“What about William? I’ve always liked William.”
“I like it,” said Mrs. Darcy. “William’s a good, strong name.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “William Michael Darcy?”
He shook his head. “I like Michael, but I’d rather be William George Darcy. Then I can still share your name.”
Mr. Darcy put a hand on his shoulder. “William George Darcy.”
Mrs. Darcy laughed. “You know, my family always had a tradition of naming the first son after the mother’s family. If we’d done that, you would have been Fitzwilliam George Darcy! How odd that you should pick a name so close.” She chuckled. “My brother was always happy that my mother’s maiden name was Henry and not Studebaker. I always told him he would have made a great Stud.”
George choked. “Mom!”
She shrugged, winking at him.
George looked at her. She was smiling, but he could see a hint of wistfulness in her look. Fitzwilliam George Darcy—what a pretentious name. He could see it perfectly. It was just the kind of name the Darcys would have given their son, had they had one. But they never would—they would just have him.