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

by Ari Rhoge

  • • •

  The days came and went. After Thanksgiving, we were launched headfirst into finals preparation. I didn't have any time to be confused and angry about my argument with Will Darcy (although I thought about it so many more times than I would have liked, and I didn't know why). I didn't have time to question George Wickham again, or wonder if he truly had backed off. I was essentially buried in work.

  Then things got worse. It was like somebody wrapped a noose around our lives and tightened it, trying to strain out the good things from the last couple of months. I understand that it sounds horrible and melodramatic, but I'll just fill you in. First, Georgy left Hertfordshire University.

  We hadn't even seen it coming. One evening, late November, she walked into the kitchen as Jane was eating dinner and I was feeding Affleck and Damon. It would have been completely ordinary if we didn't see that her eyes were puffy from crying. She denied it, and blamed a cold — before she told us that she was transferring out and moving back home. It was kind of like a sock in the stomach — she was so not herself.

  “What?” Jane had asked, fork clattering. “But this is your home. Why are you going back to North Carolina?” She stood up, and looked at Georgy worriedly. “Sweetie, what happened? You've been crying.”

  “I'm just needed back home — that's all,” she said, attempting to look indifferent and unaffected. It almost worked. “I'm really homesick, too. I want to be closer — I've already sent out a transcript, and I have enough credits. Strings have been pulled, obviously — but we'll see.”

  “I don't understand,” I said. “Georgy, it doesn't make sense.”

  “I just explained it to you.”

  “But it doesn't make any sense. Was this your brother's idea?”

  Then she got angry. She told me that I was meddling, and that it wasn't any of my business. She took dinner in her room, refusing to come out. Within a week, she had packed up all of her stuff, and the house was thick and static with held-back arguments and cardboard boxes. There was so much to say, and nobody willing to say it. She was on a flight back to Charlotte that following Sunday. No hugs or goodbyes were exchanged. We were absolutely baffled. We didn't bother to look for a new roommate.

  “It's Will Darcy,” I muttered, on a Saturday morning a week later, still in my pajamas with an unused toothbrush in hand. I was in such a fit that I was pacing the kitchen uncontrollably. “It's fucking Will Darcy. He's babying her, Jane. She's like one of those toddlers that the psycho, inhumane parents strap leashes to when they're balancing their cell phones.”

  Maybe my argument with Darcy hadn't helped, either. I could just picture him, preaching off to his kid sister — “those Bennet girls are unsuitable friends… you hear me? They're loudmouthed —— and the dark-haired one is a bitch and has dirt on me. You stay away and come back home.” I didn't know why he wore a parliament wig, and held a gavel, in my mental picture. I blamed sleep deprivation.

  Jane sat at the kitchen table, unresponsive. She was still in her robe, strands of messy blonde hair falling out of her hair clip and framing her face. She wouldn't look away from the screen of her cell phone. She hadn't been this gloomy about Georgy an hour ago. Actually, she hadn't looked this torn up until that moment.

  “Jane?” I asked, carefully, taking a seat next to her.

  When she looked up, her voice was detached. “What? Oh — sorry, Lizzy. I just —” she hesitated, snapping her cell phone shut. She set it aside, and pressed her palms against her forehead, taking a deep breath.

  “What happened?” I asked, taking the phone from her. “Tell me.”

  “A voicemail — Charlie left a message,” Jane said, quickly, babbling. She seemed so confused. “It wasn't even Charlie — it was Carolyn. God, what did she say? She was forwarding it from Charlie. I don't even —” A pause. “— I don't know.”

  What?

  I dialed voicemail, and held it to my ear, waiting until the greeting passed. Then Carolyn's tinny, insincere voice chirped in my ear. “Jane, dear! It's Carolyn Bingley. Charlie asked me to forward this to you — he's a little busy with packing right now. We're going back to England for about six months to be with our father. Charles really misses home, poor thing. Don't worry, though — I'm sure you'll catch up when he gets back. If not, there's always email or Facebook, or what have you. Take care.”

  “Six months?” I repeated, aghast. Jane looked up at me miserably, her expression halfway between shocked and tearful. She blinked furiously, shaking her head.

  “I don't understand, Lizzy. I thought —” she hesitated. “— Six months. I thought that we'd gotten really close. I thought that he really cared about me.” Then she stopped, eyes growing wide. “Oh, fuck — it's all my fault! I brushed him off. I brushed him off.”

  “How the hell would you do that, Jane? Don't be ridiculous.”

  “A couple of nights ago he told me he loved me,” she said, clenching her eyes shut. “On the phone, for fuck's sake. I was studying, Lizzy, I was really busy. I didn't even realize what he had said until I hung up. I think I said thank you back, Lizzy! Thank you!”

  “Well, maybe you weren't ready to say it back. And who says that on the phone? Maybe you didn't mean it yet.”

  “I do,” she said, quietly. “I — I love him. And now he's gone. And I did this.”

  I couldn't stand to see her like this.

  “He probably is just homesick, Jane,” I assured her, but the explanation sounded shabby coming from my mouth too, not just Carolyn's. “It's not you. It's not. It's got to be this bitch of a sister. It's Carolyn Bingley.” I was sure of it.

  “Carolyn's been nothing but sweet to me, Lizzy,” Jane sighed, wiping her eyes quickly as she got up and started toward the sink. “It has to be me. He probably doesn't think I'm worth it.”

  “Jane,” I whined, following her. “Would you listen to yourself? That's horseshit. He adores you,” I said, emphatically. “Want me to say it again? Adores you. This is his sister. It has to be. He wouldn't leave for half a year and not mention anything.”

  “He would if I wasn't worth it,” she cried, eyes glassy. It was too early to be heartache — these were tears of frustration. She threw the spoon from her mug into the sink, leaning against the counter wearily. “I'm such a fucktard,” she declared, completely dejected.

  “You're not a fucktard.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I said, hugging her tightly. She slumped against me, laughing and sniffling. “Oh, my God — Georgy, and now this. What happened? What the hell happened to this place?”

  I didn't know. I had no idea in the slightest. But it's true what they say about one door closing and another window opening. Charlie leaving the States, and a supportive shoulder in the form of Georgiana Darcy ditching us, meant that I needed to recruit an old friend — open an old window. I made up with Charlotte that following day — because reconciliations, like grudges, can be made out of convenience, too.

  “So, he just left?” Charlotte gawked at me, in disbelief, stirring her tea patiently. It was Tuesday night, and I had come over to make peace and catch up. Green tea was a necessary instrument. I sighed, and nodded gloomily from the other end of her coffee table. Charlotte shook her head. “It doesn't make any sense — he's crazy about her.”

  “I know that,” I said, frowning. “I mean, it was so obvious, wasn't it? He was smitten. He even said that he loved her. And Charlie's not so irrational that he would've ducked out as soon as Jane hesitated. He would have understood that she needed space or time to think about it.”

  “Unless somebody planted a seed in his head and watered it,” Charlotte suggested, gray eyes narrowed. “And there was a conversation I heard at the Netherfield house that kind of supports that. You can guess who had it.”

  “Please say it's not the Bingley sisters. That's my worst fear in action, right there.” I paused. “Next to nuclear warfare.”

  “Well, Lyssa is pretty okay, in my book. But
definitely not Carolyn Bingley. I heard her talking to Will Darcy that night. I didn't think of it much. Actually, I wasn't even eavesdropping on Jane's sake to begin with — just yours.”

  “Mine?” I said, laughing, disbelieving. “I don't understand.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “They were talking about you — that's why I tuned in. I forget what they said, exactly. She kept mentioning how pretty you would look as a bride, and Darcy kept rolling his eyes. Then Jane came up.”

  What the fuck was Carolyn getting at? But the topic of Jane distracted me. “And then what?”

  Charlotte's face contorted. She scrunched her nose, pursed her lips, and put on a tone that was distinctly like that of the elder Bingley sister — it was a stroke of wonderful impersonation. She leaned in close. “Oh, Will… we've got to do something about Charlie. He always does this! You can't let him give his heart away like this. He'll get trampled.”

  “Trampled?” I snorted, half angry and half shocked. “What is she on?” Charlotte sighed, and leaned back, resting her head in her palm. I asked her, quietly, “why didn't you tell me?”

  “If I can remember correctly, you still hated my guts. In fact, I'm not sure that you still do and are just ignoring it now because Jane's unresponsive and in an emotional crisis.” She raised both eyebrows, and smiled ironically. We weren't exactly bitter though.

  “I'm not mad at you anymore. I don't approve. But you know that,” I said, meeting her eye. “Anyway, I don't want this touchy-feely apology fest, Char. You said shit, I said shit. We don't agree with each other, but neither of us are subject to change. We both hurt each other. We'll eat Ben & Jerry's and watch Scrubs later — okay?”

  “Yeah, that's pretty much our style,” Charlotte replied, looking at me critically. “I might spare a reunion hug though. I love those. They're so Brady Bunch.”

  “Okay, fine. But maybe later.”

  “Deal,” she agreed. “But can you at try to be civil to him?”

  “Collins?” I looked up, wincing. “I'll be honest… he's the sort of guy I want to blindfold and leave stranded in the middle of I-95 during rush hour. —— Just so we're clear.”

  “Fair enough.” Charlotte nodded briskly, not so eager to continue on that topic. “Let's talk about Jane — how is she holding up?”

  I sighed, folding my arms and resting my chin on top. “I don't know. She doesn't show emotion too well. She's thrown herself into her studies. Which I guess is good, because normal people just wither and completely ignore exams when these things happen.”

  “Jane wouldn't let herself do that — she's too responsible,” Charlotte said, tracing the rim of her mug with a finger. “Besides, throwing yourself into your work means that you don't have to show how much something's hurting you. In a way, it's easier than the whole I'll-eat-stale-Chinese-food-and-not-shower-periodically post-breakup stint. And you smell better, too — believe me.”

  “Speaking from experience?” I smiled at her crookedly.

  “Hell yeah.” She rolled her eyes, straightening. “Unfortunately, not all of us are as iron-willed as Jane.”

  “But she's really torn up, Charlotte,” I murmured, drumming my fingers. “Even with all the work. She'll just zone out in the evenings, and you know what she's thinking about. And I don't think I've ever seen her look so miserable. She's so quiet.”

  “It'll pass. Fuck Charles Bingley,” she declared.

  “I can't agree with that, yet — I was really rooting for him,” I mumbled. And I was. He was just so nice. So genuine and sincere and completely right for Jane. It had just backfired and exploded in our faces.

  “And this mess with Georgy,” I said, quickly, narrowing my eyes. “I can't help but feel like it's more than coincidence that these two things happened so close to each other. Do you think Carolyn had a part with Georgy?”

  “Honestly? It sounds like all Will Darcy.”

  “Fucker.”

  Charlotte smiled sympathetically. “And to think I thought you were warming up to him. You looked so unthreatening in the library on Thanksgiving. I thought you would hug.”

  I gaped at her.

  “Okay, not hug.” She rolled her eyes. “But there was something else there, and it was a little surprising. Maybe you had forgotten for a few minutes to hate his guts.”

  “Believe me, I'm all past forgetting, now,” I mumbled, getting up to rinse my mug. “If I see that guy again, I may very well pull a Bruce Lee.”

  “Even though you can't throw a punch,” added Charlotte, wryly.

  “Details, Charlotte.”

  • • •

  A tell-tale sign that Jane's in distress? The entire house smells of cleaning products. I'm not sure why (as if school isn't distraction enough, right?) but this was the state we found the place in when my father came to visit us one weekend early December. There was such a pungent odor of Ajax and Comet bleaching powder that Dad asked, dryly, if we had murdered somebody over the past week and were trying to dissolve all evidence.

  “There are several people we wish to murder, but your daughters aren't fugitives yet,” I said, brewing him some tea from the kitchen. He sat at one of the barstools at the island of the kitchen, watching my fish carefully. “Tell me something, though. Why did you randomly just pop in? I thought Mom is the one for spontaneous Kramer-like entrances. It's not really your thing.”

  “It is now. I had to get away. You of all people know how much tolerance I have back home, Lizzy,” Dad mumbled, wearily, rubbing his chin. “Especially since Lydia started dating this boy that Kit liked, and Marin's going through a snotty, rebellious phase. Your mother's nerves are fried, and I'm the one getting the choppy ends. I miss when you and Jane were there to take the backlash.”

  “Thanks much,” I said, laughing, setting a cup in front of him. Over by the dishes, Jane was scrubbing the sink silently with elbow-length rubber gloves, the scent of Clorox filling the air. Her hair (washed, thank God) was piled high on her head, her back bent in concentration. She had barely spoken a word in the course of an hour. So, you could trust Dad for the necessary social commentary.

  “Jane murdered somebody… I'm convinced,” said Dad, smiling surreptitiously. “It was probably one of the fish.”

  “What do you mean?” I mumbled, pouring myself a cup.

  Dad tapped the glass of the fishbowl lightly. “The little one is right-side up, Lizzy. I'm thinking it's time he paid a visit to that great septic tank in the sky.”

  Jane whirled around, and I dropped my spoon with a cry. Poor little Matt Damon was on his back, floating awkwardly in the meniscus of his aquatic prison. Jane slapped her hands to her mouth, and I scooped him out miserably. “Damon, you poor thing.” Jane held out her hands, and wrapped him neatly in a bundled sheath of paper towels, looking like somebody had punched her in the stomach. I guess fish deaths don't usually have this effect, but her overall misery with this as cherry-on-top seemed reasonable. It happens.

  “That's bleak, kids,” Dad said, wincing, taking a sip of his tea. “I really didn't travel two-and-a-half hours to witness a pet's death. Anyway, he probably died three days ago and you didn't notice. This is why we never bought you a puppy.”

  “That's bullshit, Pop — we take excellent care of our fish! Right, Jane?” I said, holding Damon close to my heart.

  Jane answered, “we just fed them this morning. Affleck looks fine.”

  Probably not for long. We had to be sure to clean the bowl regularly. Or at least prevent him from doing a movie like Gigli. Or committing suicide as result of loneliness.

  Dad caught Jane's eye across the counter, but she refused to hold it. So, he slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close, messing up my sister's hair until he got a response other than sullen dejection. “Janey, my love, you are wilting. —— Is this boy really worth it?”

  She looked up blankly. “Lizzy told you.”

  “I don't understand why you look so surprised — this is Lizzy we're talking about,” he teased, and I
glared at him. Dad hugged Jane tightly, and released her. “Chin up, honey. Men are bastards. Except for the one speaking… he is quite the gem.”

  “Would Mom agree to that?” I asked, wryly.

  “Probably not,” he said, taking a seat. “Then again, your mother never liked me. For God's sake, I proposed in Grand Central Station and she said 'no', turned around, and went on home.”

  “That's not on the basis of not liking you,” reasoned Jane, resting her chin in her palm. “She was probably just very indecisive about it. And Mom's never been level-headed — she left you high and dry to make it memorable.”

  “Great success.” I held both thumbs up. “And she accepted two weeks later… so please don't stink up the kitchen with nonexistent self-pity, okay? I don't want to have to open a window here.”

  Dad rolled his eyes, putting a hand on his chest. “My soul was mortally wounded, okay? You kids are so damn cynical nowadays. I bet love comes and you beat it within an inch of its life before you give it a chance to survive. Then it's all soupy and pulpy and disgusting.”

  “You make it sound so Alien vs. Predator, Pop.” I wrinkled my nose, hopping up to sit on the counter. Jane leaned against the island beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. I smoothed her hair back. “Jane will be fine. We just misjudged this guy. There are plenty more fish in the sea.”

  “Really bad choice of words…” Dad looked purposefully at our fishbowl, now sans one A-lister. Jane winced.

  15

  —

  Glass Houses and Polka Dots

  “What do you mean you're at the airport?” Mom sputtered. “I'm trying to make logical sense of how you would book a trip without telling your own mother about it, Lizzy. At least Jane clues me in on her life. You always have to do things differently, don't you? Always in spite! God, my nerves…”

  I winced, unhooking one of my iPod earbuds as she babbled on. I waited for the lecture to wind down. You can't really interrupt Faith Bennet's speeches, especially if you try — the result is usually a scream-fest over the telephone, and it's a little embarrassing, especially when you're smack dab in the middle of terminal C at Philadelphia International Airport.