The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet

by Bernie Su

  “Fine.” Char threw up her hands. “I’m sorry. I know this week isn’t fun. It’s not fun for me, either.”

  “Yes, but you already turned in all your projects at least. All that extra editing-lab time. Kiss-ass.”

  She smirked back. “Fair enough. How can I help?”

  “Do you have a time-turner?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. It’d be my secret.” Charlotte laughed. “But seriously, what if I do a video this week? I can take that off your shoulders at least.”

  I couldn’t help but feel relieved. “Would you? That would be so great. But I know you don’t like being the main one on camera.”

  “I can handle it once.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’ll get Jane to help me.”

  “What will you talk about?”

  “Something with narrative cohesion. Probably Bing. Or something similar.”

  Char smiled at me, and I smiled back, grateful. I don’t know what I’d do without my bestie. She always has my back.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 1ST

  There is something in the air around town today. The hyped-up heartbeat of anticipation. The bitter taste of adrenaline filling your mouth. The faint but distinctive smell of chlorine.

  The . . . abdominal muscles on display.

  “Woo-hoo! It’s Swim Week!” Lydia screamed as she climbed into my car.

  Oh, no. Not now. Not this.

  Our sleepy little central California town is noted for two things: its Brady Bunch–era suburban architecture and the fact that sometime in the seventies, an Olympic swimmer was from here. Not a famous one or anything—I think he might have come in fourth (just shy of a medal!) in the 200-meter breaststroke. But he (or she? I can’t remember) dedicated all his post-Olympics money to building a state-of-the-art swimming program and facility right here in town.

  It was a huge economic disaster, but it did leave us with a honking big pool. The builders also got some state funding for it—which is why for one week, once a year, our hamlet gets invaded by collegiate swim teams from all across the state for the Speedo-and-shaved-chest bacchanalia/competition known as Swim Week.

  “Aren’t you excited? It’s going to be awesome! All those hot guys . . .” Lydia looked over the top of her sunglasses at me.

  “Not really. I have a lot of work to do before the end of the semester.”

  “You know, I’ve found that my schoolwork gets a lot easier if I party a little bit beforehand. A little beer makes my papers way better.” She nodded at me, all innocence.

  “I haven’t found that to be the case.”

  “Ugh, we need to get you out of the house. You are in danger of becoming criminally boring. You, me, Carter’s, every ranked freestyle swimmer in the state . . .”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think you’re going to Carter’s anytime soon.”

  Seriously. The last Carter’s incident was two weeks ago. I still haven’t emotionally recovered. But Lydia is a bouncing ball of energy, ready to go go GO!

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “No, but your car privileges are still suspended.” Hence my picking her up from school today. “And I certainly don’t have to drive you.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Lydia pouted.

  I could barely contain my sarcasm. “Yours.”

  Contrary to what Lydia likes to believe, neither Jane nor I mentioned to our mother what happened at Carter’s last time. But this is a small town. Word got around. And for once, my mother showed some sense and tried to rein Lydia in by taking the car away from her.

  All it really means is that now Jane, Mom, or I chauffeur Lydia everywhere, but hey—Mom made an effort!

  “You all think I’m still a little kid.” Lydia shook her head. “Well, I’m not. And you and I are going to go out and try to catch some man-meat at Carter’s during Swim Week. You’ll see.”

  “Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that.”

  I can tell you one thing. Between my workload and my post-traumatic stress from last time, the one place I most definitely will NOT be going is Carter’s.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 5TH

  We went to Carter’s.

  In my defense, it was really the best option. Lydia was going to go, anyway—her car privileges got miraculously reinstated when she mentioned Swim Week to Mom, who wouldn’t mind an athletic aquatic son-in-law—and at least this way, I could keep an eye on her.

  And it turned out to be not too bad. Heck, it might even have proved . . . interesting.

  As you will note, we even got home at a reasonable hour (11 p.m.! No chance of turning into a pumpkin!). The usual coterie of beer-slogging swim jocks were of course in attendance—and Lydia was in heaven. And to give her credit, she was nowhere near as crazy as last time and stayed far away from the Whac-A-Mole machine.

  But wading through their drunken bro-ness might actually have been worth it, because—dare I say it?—there was possibly a diamond amidst the rough.

  We had been at the bar for about half an hour (Carter the bartender had already spotted me, and we had a wordless conversation along the lines of “You gonna keep an eye on your sister? Okay. You have my permission to be here.”) when the guy who had wedged his way by me to the bar knocked my arm and caused me to spill my drink all over the bar stool I was just about to occupy.

  “Whoa, hey!” came this voice from my other side. “Dude. Not cool.”

  But my assailant had disappeared into the crowd. I turned to find myself staring up at this . . . perfect chin. Chiseled. A slight dimple. Looking up, this perfect chin was attached to a sculpted face, with amazing blue eyes. (Looking down, this perfect chin was attached to a gorgeous neck and amazing shoulders, and the flattest stomach I’ve seen in real life. And it was inches from me. But I digress.)

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Still, on behalf of guys in general . . .” He smiled at me. Oh, my God, that smile. “Can I buy you a replacement?”

  I looked down at my now near-empty glass. “Oh, you don’t have to.”

  “Trust me, guys in general have a lot to make up for.” He nodded to the bartender, and, using some kind of magic considering how crowded that place was, I had a new drink in hand in less than a minute.

  “And your chair,” he tsked, noticing the puddle of liquid occupying the indentation of my seat. “Hold on a sec.”

  He leaned over, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and sponged the seat down. Then, after wiping away the majority of the liquid, he put his jacket down over the seat.

  “Voilà,” he said with a flourish.

  “Wow,” I replied as he handed me into my chair. “You literally put your jacket over a puddle for me.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned forward, whispering. “Most swimmer-owned apparel is waterproof.”

  “Still, I don’t think anyone has put clothing—waterproof or not—over puddles since Elizabethan times.”

  “Well, Elizabeth is my girl.” He grinned at me. “I take all of my social cues from the dudes that surrounded her.”

  “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.

  SUNDAY, JUNE 10TH

  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:

  • Me traveling to the grocery store with Mom at four in the morning to purchase via coupon green beans packed in cranberry sauce. And gelatin.

  • Mom making use of a cake mold.

  • Mom trying to convince Jane it was a good idea to wear a white dress, carry the gelatin mold to Bing’s, and get soaked by a predicted-yet-currently-unseen rain shower, which would lead to the aforementioned torridness.

  • Dad and Mom arguing about a second mortgage in the den, while I snuck into the kitchen and stole the cranberry gelatin mold on its decorative plate.

  • Me nearly throwing up from having to eat the whole thing, green beans and all, thus foiling Mom’s plan.

  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 v
ideo. 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.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 14TH

  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.”