The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet

by Bernie Su

  “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.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30TH

  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.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 7TH

  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?

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 12TH

  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?”

  “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.”

  Yes, 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!

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 14TH

  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.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 17TH

  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.”