by Bernie Su
Oh, my God. Jane just prevented a heart attack—I thought I had lost you! My diary! My precious. I thought that somehow in all the packing (and seriously, the way Mom made us pack up the house, you would think we were going on a six-month safari, not spending two weeks inconveniencing friends and relatives within driving distance of our home), my darling diary got lost in the shuffle. I was certain that my poor little book, with all its secrets, had been accidentally left behind and was going to land in the hands of one of the construction workers who would read and then ridicule me privately forever. Or worse—it had gotten packed, and ended up in the wrong hands here.
When we arrived at Netherfield on Saturday (although the work on our house wouldn’t start until today, Mom wanted us—read: Jane—to have the time to get “settled in” at our home-away-from-home), Bing, Darcy, and Caroline met us at the door.
“Hi,” Jane said to Bing, smiling.
“Hi,” Bing said to Jane, smiling right back. This could have gone on for hours had someone not judiciously cleared her throat.
“Er, we’re so glad you’re here,” Bing said, coming out of his love haze. “Let me show you guys to your rooms. Oh, you can leave your bags—they’ll be taken care of.”
“Oh—no, we couldn’t . . .” But everyone was already moving inside without me.
I didn’t think at the time about my diary, possibly stuffed in a suitcase. I only marveled at the idea that somewhere, hidden in the background of this echo-y McMansion, there was someone whose job it was going to be to carry and unpack our things, like we were visiting aristocrats to Buckingham Palace. So really, I was thinking about how embarrassing it was that I had basically thrown my laundry basket into my bag and I was going to have to ask this no-named someone to not do my laundry, but instead let me do it myself. And then have that person show me where the laundry room was.
Netherfield is gorgeous; I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate. We spent the morning by the pool, enjoying a late Saturday brunch buffet and the company of Bing. Caroline was very polite and welcoming, too. Darcy was . . . there.
When Jane and I were finally led back to our own private wing of the house (technically not specifically built with us in mind, but instead the generic guest wing, but come on!), it was to find that our stuff had indeed been unpacked and my laundry had indeed been taken away to be cleaned (talk about a hostile laundry takeover—I surrendered before I knew there had been a war). But going through my other things, I knew something else was missing. And then I realized it was my diary.
Panic set in. I’ve never really been without my journal, my means to express my most private feelings and keep safe. My videos—that’s something put out there for public consumption. That has a filter. My journal is everything else.
My brain briefly went to the construction worker, and I snuck back to the house this morning to see if I could find it—but the house was a disaster, and I couldn’t even get in the door without a hard hat, what with all the things being torn out and moved in.
It was while I was at the library this morning researching that I remembered the nameless, faceless someone that unpacked our bags. And then I thought about my darling diary, somewhere in the bowels of Netherfield, making its way back to the wrong bedroom . . . landing in Bing’s hands . . . or landing in Darcy’s.
I didn’t get much work done after that.
So I came back to Netherfield and started tearing my room apart. This is where Jane saved me.
“What are you doing?” she asked, coming to the door, looking flushed and lovely after a hard day at the office (“flushed” is really as disheveled/tired/cranky as Jane Bennet ever gets).
“I can’t find my diary,” I said. “I know I packed it. At least I think I did.”
“You did. Or rather, you gave it to me to pack, remember?”
My head came up. “I did?”
“You did.” She smiled, and beckoned for me to follow her to her room. “You needed more room for your camera and stuff in your own bag, so I took your books in mine.”
Ah, yes, my camera equipment. School lent it to me for the summer. But in case anyone here ever happens to see it (read: Bing or Darcy), Charlotte and I came up with a cover story—I’m going to say that I’m sending video letters to Charlotte, as an experiment for one of our communications classes. Because that’s totally a thing that schools give credit for these days.
Jane went to the little desk in her room and picked up a shoulder bag, and rifled through. “Including one red Moleskine journal.”
And now, you are in my hands, and I feel normal again.
Can you imagine if someone had read it? It’s hard enough trying to be private here—for such a large house it feels awfully crowded. Mostly since Bing is being so polite and welcoming and trying to make us feel at home that you can’t help but not feel at home. But if someone had found my diary, and read all my deepest thoughts and feelings about my family? About my future? It would be like exposing a wound.
I mean, I’m still reeling from the implications of Caroline knowing about my videos.
Yes. That’s the big news.
I was making a video yesterday, and she came in and totally called me out on my “Letter to Charlotte” ruse. Apparently, unlike anyone else in this house, Caroline knows how to use Google, and she found the videos a while ago and has been watching.
The good:
1. She hasn’t told Bing about them. (Thank God.)
2. She hasn’t told Darcy about them. (THANK GOD.)
3. She wasn’t weirded out by the Bing/Jane-heavy focus and speculation the videos have taken thus far.
The not so good:
1. I don’t know if there is a downside to this. Caroline, who could have been very angry and rightfully so, was remarkably cool about the whole thing. She came on camera, wanting to be in the video—even going along with my opinions about Darcy. She told me that “even though he’s my friend, sometimes you just want to shake him.”
2. However, I am a little uneasy. After all, this is the first time someone who’s been talked about on the videos has known about the videos. And I’m not exactly known for my niceness. But then again, neither is Caroline. And she took it in stride.
3. And I guess that’s what’s bothering me most about this. Caroline has always seemed rather stuck-up to me, in a “fake-smile” kind of way. But she’s been great about having us stay with them, and she’s totally fine with my project. Could it be I misjudged her the same way that I misjudged Bing? (Next, you’ll be telling me that I misjudged Darcy, too—which, no. That one I see clear as day.)
Maybe I did misjudge Caroline. But that can only be a good thing, because my initial opinion wasn’t very nice. And it’s actually a little bit of a relief to have Caroline know. It’ll make the two weeks we are here at Netherfield a lot more comfortable.
FRIDAY, JULY 13TH
So, this is life at Netherfield:
I get up early, because sleep has never been better on 3,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
I go down to the breakfast room (yes, it has its own room) to find a buffet already arranged with piping-hot coffee (and lattes!) and every iteration of egg and bacon known and yet to be discovered.
I am not-so-secretly glad to be the first one down, because it means I might be able to slip out of the house to the library without having to go through the rigmarole of being asked how I slept four different times by four different people. Plus, I like to read the news on my phone while enjoying a mocha latte. I am the twenty-first-century version of my father.
I am only seventeen seconds into my news reading of the morning when my solitude is interrupted by Netherfield’s other early riser, who apparently has been in the house gym, judging by his for once not overly fussy attire—Darcy.
If he is startled to see me, he doesn’t show it. In an effort toward good manners, and an acknowledgment of our forced cohabitation, I greet him.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good morning,” he replies
. After an awkward moment, he continues. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very much so,” I reply. “And yourself?”
“Yes.” He nods. Then, after another moment of staring, as if he can’t comprehend that I have the gall to exist, he grabs a cup of coffee and leaves the room.
I read a bit about world news and then about celebrities and their Twitter habits, finishing my latte. I then grab my bag and head out to the library, just missing the sleepy yet bright-eyed happiness of Jane and Bing greeting each other in the breakfast room.
Study. Tutor. Study.
I come home to an already prepared evening of entertainment, be it a movie in their private theater, a five-star meal prepared by their personal chef, or a beta test of the next generation of a video game that won’t be out for another year. (I don’t know how Darcy got that. Or why. Caroline says it must be for work, but to my mind, Darcy doesn’t do much but work on spreadsheets on his computer while the rest of us are having a relative amount of fun. Which means I was wrong about him being a trust-funder with no responsibilities, when really, he’s a stuffy, boring workaholic with no personality.)
I go to bed. On a new set of Egyptian cotton sheets, because God forbid I sleep on the same set two nights in a row.
Try not to notice when Bing sneaks into my sister’s bedroom in the middle of the night, and you can hear her giggling.
Repeat five times, so far.
I don’t mean to complain—after all, this is WAY better than living with Mom, Dad, and Lydia at Aunt Martha and cousin Mary’s—but I’m definitely the third wheel on the Bing and Jane Shack Up tour. Caroline and Darcy are extra wheels, too, but they at least were here already. They had squatter’s rights.
So I escape as much as I can. Most of the time to the library, either to tutor or work on documenting my videos for my thesis (again, I am glad for my prolific writing habits—this journal will very much come in handy). But I’ve been kind of lonely, because unfortunately Charlotte’s summer of double shifts in the edit bays and admin offices has already begun, and she’s working harder than ever. In fact, this afternoon was the first time she managed to get away long enough for us to catch up over coffee.
“Oh, my God, I miss you!” I cried, upon seeing my dear Charlotte enter the café. I hugged my bestie to me, unwilling to let go.
“I missed you, too,” Charlotte gasped. “But now I miss breathing.”
I let her go.
“So how are you?” I asked. “Tell me everything.”
It’s strange, but Charlotte and I have never had to fill each other in on our lives before. Even though we hadn’t seen each other in a week, we’ve still been texting and tweeting, and she’s been editing my videos. But that’s not the same as talking about things in person, or more likely, experiencing them together in real time.
She told me all about work and her little sister (who’s been losing it over the latest Doctor Who news and makes me wish my little sister were a bit more like Maria—how do you solve a problem like Lydia?), and I filled her in on Netherfield.
“Everything’s fine. Bing is great—”
“Of course.”
“And even Caroline is being really nice.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlotte said, unable to hide her inherent skepticism. “If you say so.”
“Hey, you saw Monday’s video.” She’d edited it, after all.
“True. And she was very understanding about the videos.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know.” Charlotte shrugged. “I just think Caroline always has a reason for doing things. Including being nice.”
“Well, maybe her reason is that Jane and Bing are getting serious,” I offered, giving Caroline the benefit of the doubt that I, admittedly hadn’t given her before. “And she wants him to be happy. You should see the way they are together—Jane has the tiniest cold and Bing just wants to wrap her up in cashmere and feed her soup until she gets better.”
“Oh, I did see,” Charlotte replied. “After all, you caught them on camera.”
I had. The video I posted yesterday included one Mr. Bing Lee. Jane was filming an actual video letter to Charlotte—and not just using that as an excuse in case someone interrupted. Lo and behold, Bing Lee did interrupt! They were unbearably cute together, on camera, for about three minutes.
So, unbeknownst to both of them, I posted it.
“And Bing really doesn’t know?” Charlotte asked.
“No clue,” I said, grinning. But Charlotte’s face was a bit more studious. “Well, how could I not?” I justified. “We’ve been talking about Bing on the videos for so long . . . In the comments everyone kept asking to see him!” And oddly, they also had a fascination with seeing Darcy. Although that will never happen.
“I don’t fault you for it,” Charlotte said eventually. “It was too good to deny. The response was awesome, so ethical lines be damned!”
Wait, what?
“Ethical lines?” I asked.
“About showing someone on your videos who has no idea they exist. Or that his love life is fodder for thousands.”
Huh. I didn’t really think of it like that. I just thought that Bing and Jane together were too cute to pass up.
And then I began to get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one that crops up when perhaps you’ve done something wrong and only now realized it. Like you cut someone off while driving but didn’t see him. Or you egregiously violated someone’s privacy.
“So, are we ordering?” Charlotte asked. “I have twenty minutes before my next edit bay shift and I need to caffeinate.”
As Charlotte flagged down a barista, I couldn’t stop one single phrase from rolling over and over in my head. Oh, crap—what have I done?
WEDNESDAY, JULY 18TH
I cannot wait to get out of here. Not that I don’t like it here—it’s impossible to dislike any place that has poolside margaritas nightly and a masseuse visit biweekly. But Jane and I have been here almost two weeks now, and I jump every time my phone dings, thinking that it’s going to be my parents letting us know that the house is done and it’s time to come home.
My antsy-ness to leave is not predicated on my ethical quandary of putting Bing’s adorableness online, thankfully. Caroline actually made me feel a lot better about it, because she says he knew the camera was on, thanks to the “sending Char video letters” ruse, and that if he was okay with Charlotte seeing the video, it was already meant for semi-public consumption.
Plus, Bing seems to be fairly blissfully oblivious to most non-Jane things, anyway.
I’m still a little wary, but I also have to think about my audience, and the honesty of my video project. And if nothing else, it’ll make an interesting point for analysis in my thesis.
And I’m not antsy because I miss my family. How can I possibly miss my family when Mom calls me every day asking for updates on Jane and Bing (right, like I’m going to tell her about running into Jane coming out of Bing’s room in her PJs yesterday morning) and Lydia’s making videos of her own?
That’s right. Lydia is making videos. What kind of monster have I created?
Actually, they’re not too bad. I’ve watched a couple. They’re . . . cute. I guess. Lydia seems to be mostly torturing cousin Mary, exploiting the Internet’s love of cats, and being her hyper, Adderall-fueled self. It’s fun, but silly. Like glittery vaudeville. Not exactly substantive.
No, my antsy-ness can rest squarely where it usually does, on the scarf-clad shoulders of one William Darcy.
But now, it has reached new levels.
Because last night, Darcy introduced us to his List.
We had all gathered in the “family room” as per usual, but had sort of split off into doing our own things. Bing and Caroline were trying to teach Jane to play Apples to Apples, but she never wanted to insult anyone by possibly not choosing their card, so it mostly devolved into fits of laughter.
“This game needs more players.” Caroline sighed.
“Darcy?”
But Darcy just tucked his chin back farther and kept his eyes on his computer. As previously mentioned, Darcy is not one to take part in anything involving fun, so he had drifted away back to his spreadsheets and his artfully arranged hipster scarf.
Yes, he was wearing a scarf. In July. In California. Inside.
“Lizzie?” Caroline turned to me. “Why don’t you join us? Oh, but you don’t like games like this, do you? You more into video games?”
“I like games of all sorts,” I said, and held up my book. “But unfortunately, I have to get through this.”
“Anna Karenina?” Jane said. “Lizzie, you’ve read that book a dozen times.”
“I know, but I have a tutoring student, so I need to brush up for her.”
I think the biggest indication that we live in an extremely competitive culture is that the students who seek out tutoring are often not looking to catch up, but instead are looking for an edge over everyone else. Such is the case with most of the kids I tutor. The aforementioned student is actually going into AP Lit in the fall, and in our school district, AP Lit means Tolstoy. So instead of spending her summer at the beach and having a social life, she’s spending it in the library with me, trying to be first in her class.
“They’re reading Tolstoy in high school now.” Bing shook his head. “Man, everyone has to be so accomplished these days. It must be exhausting.”
I find myself smiling, thinking of my student. “Girls especially.”
“Oh, girls will always have a leg up on guys when it comes to having their act together.” Bing held up his hands. “You’ll get no argument from me.”
“I don’t know that many women who have their act together,” Caroline argued. “Really, we’re few and far between.”
“What are you talking about?” Bing argued. “Every woman I’ve met around here has it together. Darcy—back me up.”
Darcy’s head didn’t even come up from his computer. “I’m afraid I have to side with Caroline on this one.”
