The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet

by Bernie Su

  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.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21ST

  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

  1. Update my wardrobe.

  Whatever; I’m used to Lydia deriding my fashion sense. Hey, I prefer classic staples to her adherence to stupid trends. Besides, did she forget that we’re poor, and probably shouldn’t be going to the mall whenever we’re bored? Actually, she probably did.

  2. Get a hobby.

  Sorry. I don’t have time to fritter away on other things besides the pursuit of my degree and career, but glad to know her priorities.

  3. Be better at stuff.

  According to her, people like to be around others who are good at things. I suppose she would like it if I got better at drinking. Because then I’d be less lame in her eyes.

  4. Get a boyfriend—but not one that leaves town immediately.

  Thanks, Mom. And way to bring up the skeevy recent past. Thank God I never told her the whole story about the real George Wickham—I’d never hear the end of it. Oh, and I notice you’re fairly boyfriend-free there, too, little sister.

  5. Stop thinking that I’m better than everyone else.

  Which I do not. I don’t. I don’t think I’m better than anyone else, because if I did I would never be able to admit to being wrong, and I can’t even calculate the number of times I’ve been wrong in the past year alone. But it still doesn’t mean that I’m wrong about Lydia.

  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.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22ND

  “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.”

  Jane was right: I did need to go out into the world, and not be afraid. Besides, what do I have to stay home for? More of Mom’s passive-aggressive comments about my love life and Lydia’s silent treatment?

  “I’ll make a few calls, see if it’s still possible,” Dr. Gardiner finally said.

  “Thank you!” I admit, I might have bounced a little bit.

  “I’ll let you know early next week if it’s a go, but Lizzie—if it happens, it will happen fast. So make sure you have everything else cleared out of the way, okay?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, knowing she was talking about having my second prospectus done. Which shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just . . . not sleep until I finish. “Thank you again. And happy holidays!”

  “Merry Christmas, Lizzie,” Dr. Gardiner called after me, as I practically skipped down the hallway.

  San Francisco, here I come.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25TH

  Merry Christmas! Right now, we have reached my favorite part of Christmas Day: that pleasant lull after the presents are opened, the festivities done, and everyone goes to separate corners to play with their new toys. While I wait for my new four-terabyte hard drive to sync up (thanks, Bestie!), I thought I’d jot down my impressions of this year.

  As Christmases go, it’s been an above-average one, I think. Certainly better than when I was eight and I decided to help Mom make Christmas breakfast and ended up making the omelets with what I thought was blue cheese. But it turns out, this cheese wasn’t supposed to be blue. We all ended up spending the holiday in line for our one bathroom, doubled over in pai
n.

  This holiday was the first one where I felt like gathering together as a family was a special occasion. With Jane in LA and Charlotte at Collins & Collins, seeing them again (and yes, I know I saw them a month ago) filled me with all those warm holiday feelings the commercials preach.

  Cousin Mary, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Randy came over last night. Uncle Randy isn’t Martha’s husband, but he’s been her not-living-together boyfriend for so long we’ve always just called him Uncle Randy. (Dad claims he has long since stopped judging his hippie sister, but he still only shakes Randy’s hand instead of hugging him. Although that might just be the overwhelming patchouli.) Mary brought her bass guitar as always and picked out “Jingle Bells,” which is a true sign that it’s Christmas, according to Jane. My mom took Martha for a last-minute whirlwind at the mall, and I would have thought that Lydia and Mary would have been thick as thieves, considering how much time they’ve spent together this past year (what with Lydia staying at Mary’s all through August, and Mary tutoring Lydia in math), but no. Lydia pretty much stayed in her room, talking on the phone with her friends from school, whoever they might be.

  Jane said I should give it time. Charlotte doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s concerned.

  Unfortunately, Jane and Charlotte’s visit is going to be shorter this time around—I guess extended Thanksgivings lead to truncated Christmas breaks, but I’ll take what I can get. Especially with Lydia still giving me the cold shoulder.

  I have decided that I can’t care about Lydia’s current snit. I just can’t. I have my own life to focus on, and she shouldn’t get what she wants simply because she’s stubborn enough to hold her breath until she passes out.

  So, yes, I can’t care about it right now. Especially if Mom can’t be bothered to care, either.

  “Lizzie, I don’t know why you’re so hard on the girl.”

  “Because no one else is,” I muttered beneath my breath.

  “Her grades are up, and everyone deserves a little fun.” She sighed wistfully. “I had fun in Vegas when I was a girl.”

  There’s no need to get deeper into that, so I just shot my dad a look and continued cleaning up the discarded wrapping paper from our usual Christmas carnage (which didn’t decrease at all this year, even given my parents’ brush with foreclosure over the summer—maybe I really should have gotten Dad a book on how to manage finances).

  “Your sister is just getting it out of her system,” my Dad whispered to me. “I have a feeling that once she comes back from Las Vegas, everything will go back to our warped version of normal.”

  You’re probably right, Dad. The problem is, I don’t think our warped version of normal is very good for Lydia. Or for us.

  Right now, she’s in her room, packing for Las Vegas. Funded by her advertising revenue from her own videos and with Mom’s permission to use their shared car, she’s taking off in the morning. I doubt I’ll get a good-bye out of her.

  Which is unfortunate, because by the time she comes back, I’ll be gone myself. And I have to admit, I’m surprisingly eager to say good-bye to this drama-filled year and move on to the next thing.

  In fact, I just got an email yesterday about the next thing! I’m very excited, because come the first week of January, I’m going to San Francisco! I’ll be apartment-sitting in the city (yay!) for a friend of Dr. Gardiner’s, while I shadow a company called Pemberley Digital.

  Hm. That name is vaguely familiar to me. I’ll have to look it up.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 1ST

  Nothing like starting off the year with a desperate phone call to your faculty advisor hoping to get you out of something you really don’t want to do. Although this time, it doesn’t seem like I was as convincing as I was with my bid to stay at Collins & Collins.

  * * *

  “Hi, Dr. Gardiner! I’m so glad I finally got through to you! . . . Yes, I realize that you’re on vacation. . . . In Australia! Wow, that must be fun. . . . So it’s about four in the morning there, isn’t it? Okay, then, let me get right to the point—this company in San Francisco—that you have been so gracious as to set me up with—it’s called Pemberley Digital, right? . . . Well, interestingly, and I’m sure you’re going to laugh, that’s the name of William Darcy’s company, too. . . . William Darcy? The, uh . . . stuck-up hipster who I’ve mentioned in my videos? . . . True, I’ve more than mentioned him, and that’s actually kind of my point. How am I supposed to shadow the company of a person that I haven’t exactly been the biggest fan of—or treated very nicely—on the Internet?

  “. . . No, I don’t have a backup company for my independent study, but I’m sure I could find one. . . . Yes, I understand that this is my last term, and that the independent studies are extremely truncated. . . . Yes, I understand that, but . . . No, of course not. . . . So, if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t be able to graduate on time? . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . No, I get it. You’re absolutely right. . . . Actually, I’m headed up there in a few hours—I’ll be in San Francisco tomorrow. Okay. . . . Happy New Year to you, too, Dr. Gardiner.”

  * * *

  Well. Looks like there’s no getting out of it without jeopardizing my graduation schedule. So, I don’t really have a choice.

  To Pemberley Digital, therefore, I shall go.

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 6TH

  I’ve been in San Francisco for four days now and I am already in love. With the city.

  And, I have to admit, with my new independent study.

  After I got off the phone with Dr. Gardiner, I accepted my fate. No, that’s not true—I moped and worried and bit my nails raw the entire ride up to Charlotte’s. My bestie offered to drive me to San Francisco so I could leave my car for Mom, who is without one while Lydia flits off to Vegas. (One could say that it’s Mom’s own fault for letting her go, but whatever. I’m the good daughter.) Plus, I won’t have to worry about parking, and the apartment I’m house-sitting is within an easy mile of the Pemberley Digital offices. Besides, I like to walk.

  We stayed over at Charlotte’s place on Tuesday, and she dropped me off at the apartment the next morning.

  “It will be okay,” she told me, as we drove over the bridge into San Francisco proper. “Think about it—you were at Collins & Collins for two months and how often did you see the CEO?”

  “Ricky?” I replied. “Almost every day that he wasn’t in Winnipeg, Manitoba.”

  “Yeah, well . . . we’re a much smaller company. Besides, you said that Darcy was in Los Angeles right now—even you, with your luck, would have difficulty running into him if he’s in a different city.”

  That was true, and it was the only thing calming me down. Darcy’s tweets place him squarely in Los Angeles for the foreseeable future (what good is social media if it can’t help you avoid awkward run-ins with the guy who told you he loved you, who you then shut down?) and therefore I shouldn’t worry about seeing him. Heck, he might not even know that I’m here.

  Although I have to sort of assume that he does know I’m here. Especially if he’s still watching my videos. Plus, wouldn’t he have to have approved me shadowing his company?

  “Not necessarily,” Charlotte said, as we pulled up to the corner of Hayes and Octavia, in front of a sandy-colored three-story apartment building that was to be my home for the next couple of months. “Like I said, his company is bigger than Collins & Collins. Do you think the President of the United States approves all of the interns at the White House?”

  Again, Charlotte knows exactly what to say to make me feel better.

  We grabbed my bags and headed up the stairs to my top-floor apartment. When I found the keys and swung the door open, both Charlotte and I stood there for a minute, mouths agape.

  “Okay, I’m not usually jealous of you,” Char said, “but I’m getting a little jealous of you.”

  The apartment was gorgeous. Small—but what in a major metropolitan area is spacious?—and perfect for me. There were shelves and shelves of books that lined one wall, and an open kit
chen with a huge table right before the room flowed into the living space. Big windows fed airy light to a few hanging plants. A bedroom beyond, and everything decorated with tasteful restraint. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better apartment for me. Seriously, I don’t even think Jane could design a space better, and she’s the professional.

  “The bathroom has a claw-foot tub!” Charlotte cried. “Okay, calming breath, calming breath—remember that you have a washer/dryer in unit.”

  “True. But Pemberley Digital has an in-house laundry service,” I said, inspecting an antique writing desk.

  The noise Charlotte made cannot be recorded by our current technology. “Who are you house-sitting for again?”

  “A friend of Dr. Gardiner’s who is taking a sabbatical in South America for the semester. She just wants someone to collect the mail and water the plants.”

  “And you get to live here for free?”

  “Actually, I get a small stipend.”

  Charlotte made another non-recordable noise. Then, taking another few calming breaths, she pasted a smile on her face. “Come on—let’s go check out that cute French café across the street and then walk around the neighborhood. I’ll try to restrain myself from cursing your good luck in the meantime.”

  The neighborhood (the tourist maps call it Hayes Valley, near SoMa, which stands for South of Market, which is not a pretentious-sounding acronym at all) was delightful. Full of young people chatting, little stores with handmade things, and a wide breadth of boutique coffee shops. Charlotte and I wandered for a little bit, found a place to have lunch, and after one more Don’t-worry-Pemberley-Digital-will-be-Darcy-free pep talk, Char got back in her car and drove home to her own apartment with a washer/dryer.

  It felt strange being on my own for the first time . . . ever. It still does. In college I had roommates, and at home I share a bathroom with two parents and two sisters. This is the first time in my life I’ve lived alone. On the one hand, I have complete control of the remote. On the other hand, it is eerily quiet.