Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation Romantic Comedy

by Ari Rhoge

  “I'm not sure if that's true.” George slumped his shoulders. “The people he cares about he defends to the death. I've never met his family, but he's always been very protective. If you happen to be outside his elite, precious circle, he'll happily throw you to the dogs. It doesn't matter how decent a person you are, or the sacrifices made —— he ultimately judges if you're good enough or not.”

  And this description, judging by personal experience, was a dead ringer.

  “God, I'm so sorry,” I mumbled, suddenly hugging him tightly.

  He laughed against my hair, pulling back an inch. “I didn't take you as the hugging type, Lizzy.”

  “I'm not,” I said, pulling away self-consciously. “I just feel like it's unbelievably unfair what happened to you.”

  “I guess,” he replied, quietly, glancing up. “So, how do you know the poor bastard?”

  “He's related to a friend of mine.”

  “Small fucking world,” George grinned.

  “Tell me about it,” I muttered.

  “Well, hey, don't worry about me,” George insisted. “I'm taking night courses at community college and balancing two jobs. Things will work out in the long run. In the meantime, please don't join the pity-party, or create a support group in my honor. I think it's more than enough that you even bothered to listen.”

  “If you want a support group, I'd seek the other Bennet twin.” I hugged my knees. “As for the listening part, I'd like to think that I'm good at it, for a girl with a severe case of motor-mouth.”

  “You are,” George smiled, socking me gently against the jaw. “Thanks, Lizzy.”

  I smiled, glancing down.

  Then for a brief second or two his hand didn't really leave. It stayed and cradled my cheek. And before I knew what was happening he was suddenly extremely close.

  “George —”

  I wanted him to — that was the thing. I think I wanted him to kiss me. But the word slipped out before I could even comprehend it.

  “Stop.”

  And so, he did. His hand dropped, he cleared his throat, and he sat perfectly still, green eyes vaguely surprised. “Sorry,” he said, wincing. “I'm sorry. I know —— that was weird.”

  “A little,” I murmured, feeling myself blush.

  “I guess I saw an entrance.”

  “Which was my mouth.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

  “No, George.” I rolled my eyes. “I think it would've been nice, don't get me wrong. But I just don't really feel comfortable with this, yet,” I babbled. And miraculously I blushed even more. Fuck.

  George nodded, looking downward. “Yeah, it might have to do with the fact that we've been working side by side for the past year and a half. Sorry for making things awkward.”

  “That's okay.”

  “I just really like you, Lizzy.” He looked up. “You're not like most girls.”

  And I opened my mouth to respond — really, I did —— it's just that my ringtone beat me to it (and I have never hated Magic Carpet Ride by Steppenwolf more than I had at that very moment).

  • • •

  “See, the thing about the 'you're not like most girls' comment is that it's probably used on most girls,” I reminded Jane, stoutly, watching her stubbornly change gears. “So, in all actuality, saying that comment to a girl makes her like most girls.”

  “Digging yourself too deep, kid,” Jane huffed, shifting into gear. “Man, Charlotte's car is shitty. Thank God she lent it to us, but still —— how old is this Pinto?”

  “15 years,” I sighed, glancing at the chipping paint job from the side mirror. “Janey, I don't know if I did the right thing.”

  “Yeah, I'm not sure why you didn't kiss him,” my sister said, grinning cheekily. “God knows you've had a thing for George Wickham for more than a year. And he's always flirted with you.”

  “No, he hasn't.”

  “Lizzy, wake up and smell your own lattes,” Jane balked, laughing. “Every time I'd come visit you, that boy would constantly be chatting it up. Hell, he'd have his arm around you, he'd always be teasing you, complimenting you. It was like flirtation central over there. I don't know how Charlotte put up with it.” She paused. “… Maybe on the secret hope that you'd make her a bridesmaid at your wedding.”

  “That's complete and utter bullshit.” I rolled my eyes, digging through my purse. “I mean, fine. Maybe I've had a small thing for him. I wouldn't even call it a thing —— It's more like an extremely fine-tuned curiosity.”

  “It's fine to admit that you're attracted to somebody.” Jane cast me a sidelong glance. “The guy's charming and hot, okay? I don't blame you for crushing on him.”

  “God, what is this? Are you spending more time with Charlotte? This is ridiculous!”

  “River in Egypt, honey.”

  “Oh, why don't you just go coo your little pleasantries at Charlie?” I snapped, laughing when she glared at me.

  “I knew you would bring that up.”

  “Honey, are you looking at the moon?” I pouted, simpering. “Because I'm looking at the moon and wondering if you're looking at the moon —— and it's so beautiful, baby.”

  “Charlie has never said that!” Jane snorted, outraged. “He just happened to comment on the full moon the other night, and you were eavesdropping on speakerphone and being a brat about it.”

  “He's so sentimental and artsy, Jane,” I sighed, leaning back in my seat. “And he's crazy about you. Put the poor boy out of his misery already, and date him. I swear he probably wants to do more than get into your pants — it's just a hunch.”

  “I'm going to hit you.”

  “You punch like a girl,” I reasoned.

  “Oh, shut up. And do me a favor, okay? Reach into my bag for a comb and a tube of mascara,” Jane glanced over at me quickly. “We're going to our mother's house, and she may combust if you rock that I-don't-give-a-damn look today.”

  “But I rock it so well,” I teased.

  “Lizzy.”

  “Killjoy,” I muttered, snatching her satchel from underneath the glove compartment.

  • • •

  Our house in Longbourn was perched on a ridiculously high hill. This created the illusion of a more expansive property. In reality, it simply resulted in an extremely steep, winding driveway that had been the sight of champion sled races throughout the stellar snow days of my childhood. As a direct result of that, this great hunk of asphalt had witnessed about three lost teeth, a broken arm, two sprained ankles (both from yours truly), and about one Lydia worth of urine.

  She had a bladder-control problem around age nine.

  “God, I missed home,” Jane beamed, slamming the Pinto's door shut carefully. She perched her shades over her ponytail and plucked a smidgen of dust from the hem of her cotton dress, undoubtedly readying herself for our mother's inspection.

  Glancing around with my hand as a visor to block out the setting sun, I actually couldn't help but think similarly. I had missed little, normally forgettable things about our house. The brick pathway. The toolshed, by the garage, that Jane had skinned her knee in. The rickety gazebo Mom had sworn to fix up five summers ago. The winding silver maple by the porch I had shoved Billy Collins out of, in my freshman year of high school.

  He was a peeping Tom with an asthma condition and a thing for Jane. It's a long, troublesome story.

  Then the deepest, most beloved relic in our little snow globe of nostalgia made me grin ear-to-ear. John Bennet sat right at the stone steps, with his pant-legs hiked up, reading glasses sliding down his long, narrow nose, and blue-gray eyes squinted at the creased newspaper before him. And by my guess his hearing had probably continued to fail since we left —— he hadn't even reacted to us pulling up.

  Until Jane tackle-hugged him and I almost slapped her for inducing a heart attack.

  “Relax, Lizzy.” Dad pulled me into a bear hug. “You know I'm the healthiest thing in this house. Regardless of what type of bran c
ereal your mother shoves into me according to the day of the week.” He ruffled my hair, grinning widely. “God, I missed you two.”

  “We missed you, Pop,” Jane beamed.

  Dad squinted up at us. “Look at you two, all grown-up and beautiful. Janey, you get prettier by the day. I guess we know which parent you take after. And it isn't your mother.”

  “You're gorgeous, Dad.”

  “I know.”

  Jane rolled her eyes, grinning. “I'll see you two inside —— try not to burn any houses in the process.” At that, she turned the doorknob and disappeared inside.

  “I can't believe she's still running that burning house gag,” Dad muttered, folding his reading glasses into his shirt pocket. “It was just a Christmas-light-show malfunction eight years ago. We didn't know it would torch the Jenkins's shed. How many fruit baskets does a man have to send?”

  “Water under the bridge, Daddy,” I said, laughing, draping an arm around his shoulder.

  He smiled at me fondly, squeezing my hand. “I missed you, kiddo. Let's go inside and see whatever crap your mother has managed to cook.”

  11

  —

  Of Verbal Spats and General Loathing

  My mother's first words to me, after my carefully orchestrated months dedicated to avoiding her, were, quite stoutly, “Elizabeth Bennet, please invest in that thing they call a haircut.”

  “I missed you too, Mama.” I grinned, leaning down to peck her cheek. And, despite our long, drawn-out feuding for most of my existence (“none of my children are this difficult!”) she enveloped me in a bone-crushing, maternal hug.

  She's a mother hen through and through. I don't mean a creation out of a cookie-cutter household from the 50s, but a clucking, nearly headless chicken who must control everything — your nutritional values, laundry dates, dance recitals, soccer practices, prospective boyfriends, and the amount of shower time you're allotted in order to preserve hot water for the rest of your sisters. Everything is gathered into a scrambled checklist that is my mother's mind — with one, ever-present catch.

  “Jane, sweetie, are you seeing anybody?” Mom prompted, smoothing my twin's hair back lovingly. You couldn't see it at first, but if you looked this sentence up in the Faith Bennet Dictionary of References, you'd find that it directly translated into eldest daughter, you better be planning to settle down soon, because grandchildren don't make themselves.

  “Fay, for God's sake,” Dad muttered, agitated. Jane grinned at him thankfully, and kissed him on the cheek — and Mom got huffy and declared in a simpering tone that we were always ganging up on her and taking my father's side.

  “Notice how you never ask Lizzy if she's seeing anybody?” Jane hinted, sneakily, eyes narrowed at me from across the kitchen counter. “That's perfectly plausible too.”

  I glared at her threateningly. “Do you want me to hurt you?”

  “Lizzy doesn't like boys — they have cooties,” Dad stated, in dead, perfectly serious monotone — a phrase he's repeated to every one of my dates, starting with Timothy Gresham at the tender age of 10. A boy who fled the property one minute later and left a tattered bouquet of dandelions at the front step.

  Mom sighed and swept up her graying blonde hair into a short, stubby ponytail. “Oh, there's no doubt in my mind that Lizzy would have a boyfriend right now. You know, if she hadn't grown up playing soccer with them in all her free time and glaring at all the other clean-cut ones.”

  “I made the greatest friends during soccer seasons, Mom, including Charlotte,” I muttered, taking an apple from the kitchen counter. “And I didn't glare at boys — that's just my neutral expression.”

  Jane snorted.

  “Yes, Charlotte Lucas,” Mom murmured, gathering a stack of plates from the cupboard. “I spoke to her mother the other day. Mariah just started residency at University of Pennsylvania, did she tell you? And Charlotte wants to become a teacher of all things.”

  “She'd be good at it,” I mumbled, defensively, taking a bite out of my apple. “You've never liked Charlotte.” And it was true — she hadn't. She'd always approved of the eldest daughter. Mariah Lucas might have been at Penn practicing medicine, but she was a spry overachiever who really had no room or consideration in her life for anybody else. Charlotte was the overshadowed, modest and thoughtful sister — but being outshined was an easy task for her when she was up against her older sister.

  Mom just denied this, and shrugged. “All I'm saying is that she's always been the quiet, not-very-motivated type. Maybe she even held you back from meeting boys — who knows?”

  “Trust me, Mom, that's not the case,” Jane said, defensively, grinning. “She does anything but that.”

  “I should have a word with her mother,” Dad replied, dryly, stealing a spoonful of potato salad.

  “John, you're really not helping,” my mother insisted, swatting him back. “Your daughter is going to end up being some callous, sarcastic old spinster with a dozen cats and a musty apartment, and it's all from your encouragement.”

  “Lizzy hates cats.” Marin Bennet had entered the room, unhooking her iPod earbuds and ducking away artfully when her older sisters tried to bombard her with bear hugs.

  “Marin, this is the third hair color I've seen on you in six months,” I marveled, carefully touching a tendril of her shock of hot-pink and orange hair that had escaped from its clip. “Picky much?”

  “Indecisive,” Marin clarified, narrowing her eyes. She was a waif of a girl with a permanent smirk (or scowl) and thickly framed reading glasses she wore mostly to make the impression that she was artsy and bookish (which was only half true). Marin took a seat beside me, and set a great, stacked volume aside. I craned my neck to read the spine.

  “Dostoyevsky — how sunny.”

  She rolled her eyes, lip curling downward — I couldn't help but smile incredulously at this. This 17-year-old handful of kittens has been taking herself too seriously since she was old enough to walk. Her nature conflicted with her hair color, but this could be blamed on your standard teenager's struggle for a spark of originality — and Marin's spark of originality seemed to be Hayley Williams's spark too.

  “Anyway, why'd you bring it up, Jane?” Mom asked, carefully, refueling our conversation. “Has Lizzy actually snagged herself a man?”

  “Tentatively,” Jane said, grinning. I flicked a bread crumb her way. “There's a boy she works with who's absolutely into her. And she won't see him. Or kiss him.”

  “Jane.”

  “If you're going to talk about this, I'm leaving the room,” Dad warned, grimly.

  “You should talk, Jane.” I narrowed my eyes. “You haven't even told them about Charlie Bingley yet, your groom-to-be.”

  There was a heavy pause, then Dad's skeptical inquiry — “what's his social security number?”

  “Jane Bennet, really?” Mom's face brightened like an overheated Christmas tree. “You're dating somebody!”

  Jane buried her face in her hands, unbearably mortified.

  “He hasn't asked her out yet,” I said, grinning, and delighting in my own sister's deserved embarrassment. “He just calls her three times a day, and sends long, insightful emails and observations about nature.”

  Jane glanced up, beet-red and outraged. “Did you check my Gmail?”

  “Not intentionally — you logged on to my MacBook and it's already the homepage,” I mumbled, through a mouthful of apple.

  She looked perplexed for a moment, groaning angrily. “I knew I should've borrowed Georgy's laptop.”

  “Who's Georgy?” Dad asked, passively, eyebrow raised.

  “Our third housemate. —— We've told you this, Pop.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where'd you meet this boy?” Mom asked, quickly, positively glowing. “How old is he? What does he look like?”

  “What's his social security number?” Dad repeated.

  “I'm not really dating him,” Jane said, blushing and wincing. “I mean… I like him. A lot.
But I'm not sure what's going to happen —”

  “What's his name again?” Marin asked, brow furrowed. “Chandler Bing?”

  “Up top for Friends reference,” I murmured, and she obliged with a high five.

  “Charlie Bingley,” Jane sighed, running her fingers distractedly through her hair.

  Mom paused. “Wait a minute — As in Bingley Oil?”

  “Steel,” she said, wincing, and dreading what was to come next.

  “Honey, you are set.”

  “Mom!” Jane groaned, slapping a hand to her forehead. “God, I hate you, Lizzy. You brought this up on purpose!”

  “I love you,” I teased.

  “You have to invite him over!” Mom insisted, eyes bright. “Jane, honey. I'm so proud.”

  “Yes, Jane. Do drop out of college, marry him for his money and live the American Dream,” Dad confirmed, digging out his abandoned newspaper again.

  “Don't listen to your father.” Mom flitted over, beaming, and wrapped her daughter in a hug. “My baby!”

  “You're diabolical,” Marin said, smirking at me from over her glasses.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Kit and Lydia met us for dinner half an hour later, when gossip had simmered and mediocre potato salad, steamed salmon and cooked asparagus had summoned all Bennets to the kitchen table for the first unified family dinner in months. Lydia could barely bother to glance up amidst her rapid texting, but Kit at least spared an acknowledgment.

  “Where were you two?” Jane asked.

  “At the library,” Lydia beamed, twirling her dark blonde ponytail. She nabbed a bottle of ginger ale from the refrigerator and poured herself a glass, pocketing her Blackberry.

  “By library, they mean the mall,” Marin clarified, smugly.

  “Impressive, Mare,” I murmured, through a mouthful of salmon.

  “I'm fluent,” she justified, seeming less-than-thrilled. I felt for her — I really did.

  “Why were you at the mall, honey?” Mom asked, less skeptical than I would have preferred her to be. If it were Jane and I who had shamelessly lied to our mother about where we were spending a Saturday afternoon three years ago, we would've gotten bruised and beaten. Psychologically, of course. But our parents have seemed to loosen their restraints with age. Fair? No. Expected? Yes.