The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (9 page)

I didn’t kill it.

In my defense, the computer on Carter’s game must be different from the computer on the home game, because it started doing some beyond-crazy steps. Did I accidentally hit the setting for
cephalopod? However, I had a good time, and by the time I got off the machine I was laughing, and Charlotte, Jane, and Bing cheered me when I finished.

But Darcy? No, Darcy had removed himself to the wall. The dark shadows that are his natural habitat. He was talking to Caroline. Charlotte walked by and she immediately shut up, so I know they
were talking about me and my spectacular failure. So I looked Darcy dead in the eye, just to let him know that I knew he was talking about me.

And what did he do?

He started texting. Fake texting.

As well he should, the little snob. (Okay, the tall snob.)

I rejoined the table after that, and after laughing at my Just Dance prowess, I told Charlotte what I did to Darcy.

“Uh, that’s not what they were talking about,” she said.

“Then what was it?” I asked.

“Well, they were talking about you, but not in the way you think.”

“What way
were
they talking about me, then?” Could they have been discussing something worse than my dancing? Was my bra strap showing or did my skirt flip up?

Charlotte was about to answer, when the bartender, the aptly named Carter, came over to our table.

“Hey,” he said, glowering. “You need to get your sister out of here, or I’m calling the cops. This is a public place.”

Jane and I whipped our heads around, searching for Lydia. She was by the Whac-A-Mole game, all right, but what she was whacking wasn’t a mole.

Her shirt was pretty much off, and her hand was down David-not-Ben’s pants. They seemed to have forgotten the existence of other people.

Jane and I were on our feet, immediately sober.

“Hey, Lydia, we have to go home now,” I said, and then turned to her partner in crime. “Sorry, David.” Who, for his part, at least seemed sheepish about his state, and
the encroaching reality that yes, he was on second base in a crowded bar against a Whac-A-Mole machine.

“No,” she whined.

“Lydia . . .” I tried, but she pushed me away.

“No!” she yelled, belligerent. “I wanna keep playing the game!”

“Well, you’re out of quarters, honey,” Jane said in her nicest voice. “There are more in the car.”

Lydia blinked at Jane. “Can Ben come to the car, too?”

The noncommittal noise Jane made was enough to have Lydia willingly go with her sisters. We said our good-byes to Bing and the others quickly and got Lydia into the car. I was the designated
driver, and I even dropped David-not-Ben off at his place on the way. Luckily, by that point, Lydia was asleep and could not protest the loss of her gaming partner.

This is what worries me the most about Lydia. She isn’t a thoughtless person. She can actually be really sweet. But she is careless. And mostly, she’s careless about herself.
She’s home right now and asleep in my bed, thank God, but what if we hadn’t been there to take care of her? What if she’d been out on her own, met up with David, and ended up
getting arrested, like Carter threatened? Or ended up in David’s car, and he drove her home drunk? Or they ended up together somewhere, and she passed out, like she did in the car on the way
home—only this time, Jane and I weren’t there?

Anything could have happened to her. Yes, women should be able to go out and have fun without fear of consequences the way men do—but that’s not the reality. There are a lot of
unenlightened douchebags out there. And my biggest fear is that Lydia is going to fall prey to one of them.

But right now, I’m tired, and Lydia seems to be in the non-thrashing part of her REM cycle, so I’m going to hold my baby sister and try to get some sleep.

I am in term paper/studying hell, and this is the time that Charlotte decides to annoy me about annoying things. Namely, Darcy.

“I’m telling you, he would have played Just Dance with you.”

“I’m only
decent enough
,” I said. “Why would he play Just Dance with me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t think you’re
decent enough
anymore.”

“No, after my performance, one has to assume he thinks I’m worse.”

Charlotte shot me her patented “you’re-an-idiot” look. Which is awfully close to her normal face, but after years of study I can tell the difference.

“You didn’t hear what he said to Caroline,” Charlotte said. “I did. He was saying that you actually looked really pretty when you were dancing. Especially your eyes. That
you have ‘fine eyes.’ ”

“And by that he meant my eyes are just fine. Passable,” I countered. “Again, decent enough.”

Charlotte just rolled her eyes this time. “Or he was trying to give you a compliment. He might just be, oh, I don’t know . . . shy?”

This wasn’t the first time Charlotte had tried to convince me Darcy is anything other than the boorish snob I know he is. Ever since that night at Carter’s, she’s been on a
mission. But that’s Charlotte—always looking for a narrative where there isn’t one. And it was nice to see her in a good mood. More often than not these days, she’s all
about schoolwork. And Charlotte is normally very practical, but that practicality is starting to feel very . . . cynical.

Again, I think she isn’t telling me something, and it’s starting to itch at the back of my mind.

“Shy is unassuming. Meek,” I replied, keeping on subject. “Darcy is not meek. He makes his opinion very well known.”

“Apparently not.”

“Char, stop it, okay?” I couldn’t help it. “I can’t joke with you right now about this stuff. I have four term papers due this week, my write-up on the videos for
Dr. Gardiner’s class, three exams to take, and then sixty essays to grade. Not to mention finals are in a few short weeks. I can’t even think about what I’m going to do for a
video this week, let alone play along with your wild Darcy theories.”

“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.

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.

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.”