by Ari Rhoge
Edition: 2
This edition published: 08 September 2017
First published: 15 November 2008
© Hanna House Publishing Ltd, 2017 - hannahouse.co.uk
Cover art by Dave Jorel - davejorel.tumblr.com
Ari Rhoge has been writing fan fiction for a long, long time. She loves spinning variations on classics such as Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Emma, and Northanger Abbey. Her favourite authors are Jane Austen (of course), Gillian Flynn, Adelle Waldman, and Nick Hornby.
She draws inspiration from everywhere — her favourite books and television shows, her wild family, her wee-hours gym escapades, and the goings-on in the coffee shops she loves to write in.
She would love to one day write a YA adventure story similar to The Hobbit — just on uppers.
Ari lives in Philadelphia with her large family and their German Shepherd. Her ideal life is living on an island, hanging out with Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan.
Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand
A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation Romantic Comedy
—
Ari Rhoge
To my siblings and fellow members of the Core Four: Rachel, Michael and Nick. Thanks for inspiring all my fictional family squabbles. Rachel just informed me she doesn't know what 'squabbles' means.
1. I Like My Coffee Bitter
2. Housemate for Hire and other Nuances
3. A Little Brushing of History
4. This Particular Happenstance
5. Nougat Centers are Bullshit
6. Vomitrocious
7. Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part I
8. Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part II
9. First Impressions of Earth
10. Bridges We've Built
11. Of Verbal Spats and General Loathing
12. An Inconvenient Truth or Two
13. Bones to Pick
14. Well, Shit
15. Glass Houses and Polka Dots
16. Oh, and Time's a Loaded Gun
17. We Pine for Higher Ceilings
18. Ramifications of the Lovesick
19. Audrey, Christmas, and Denial
20. In Which Lizzy Matches Tomato Soup
21. Like a Rolling Stone
22. Get Ink, Shed Tears
23. Would You Like Fries with Your Crazy?
24. Knocking Me Sideways
25. Out of the Frying Pan
26. Birds Flying High, You Know How I Feel
27. Epilogue
1
—
I Like My Coffee Bitter
Somehow, I always knew that I'd be that girl coming straight out of high school to land a job as a barista for Starbucks. The Starbucks at Barnes and Noble on Oxford Street? We were destined for each other since my early years.
You know that seven-year-old girl who pretends to inspect Dr. Seuss while silently lurking toward the café like some freckled creeper? Totally me. I had the callings of a caffeine and literature junkie even as a first-grader — go figure. The years have added a few changes — the popping out of a couple more siblings, more demanding responsibilities, and puberty (“hey, boobs”) — but there are probably some scattered pieces of that seven-year-old remaining, hidden. Scary thought. It's where my temper comes from.
“What are you pouring over now, Lizzy?” Charlotte Lucas rolled her gray eyes, snapping a lid on a café Americano. “I thought the whole scribbling-papers-under-the-counter business was reserved for when you were doing your college applications.”
“Because I'm so responsible like that, right?” I grinned at her, smoothing a freshly opened letter against my apron. “Actually, I did some quality studying here too — AP Biology… cell organelles. George even helped me.”
“Yes, well, his freakish affinity for medical terminology comes from House episodes, so beware,” Charlotte murmured, under her breath, approaching the counter to take a customer's order. “Decaf tall cappuccino, ma'am —— $2.95. Lizzy?”
“On it,” I mumbled, stuffing my barely glimpsed letter under one of the blenders. I pulled my visor on more securely, and snatched a cup from a stack, approaching the dispensers. “Is Brenda coming in today?” I asked Charlotte, swiveling on my heel.
“She traded shifts with George, so I guess he'll be here in five minutes,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “Don't even know why — Sundays are so slow.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, quickly sliding a cardboard collar onto the cup. “Decaf tall cappuccino.” My face felt warm, and, before I could distract myself, Charlotte donned a smirk I had seen way more times this week than I could tolerate.
“Amazing, isn't it?” she beamed, brushing auburn bangs from her eyes. “Why, whenever I mention George Wickham, does that pretty pale face of yours redden up like a tomato? Almost like sunburn.”
“Bite me, Charlotte — I'm not into George Wickham.”
“You want him,” Charlotte said, sighing melodramatically. “You yearn for him.”
It's really incredible that we've been pulling the same running gag since elementary school. Yes — Charlotte Lucas and I go way back. We've pissed ourselves in the same kiddie pools, skinned the same knees climbing in and out of trees — it helps that we grew up as neighbors in Longbourn. And she has always given me crap about guys. —— Only back then I would have spit gum in her hair and called it a day.
We're sweethearts.
“Okay, Charlotte,” I muttered, finally retrieving my letter. I gingerly unfolded the strip of paper, and my focus shifted.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet,
We greatly appreciate the trouble you took in sending us your manuscript — it is returned herewith. We cannot deny that you have promise as a young writer in terms of eloquence and well-developed characters. Unfortunately, this cannot serve as basis enough to make you an offer for a novel. Primarily, we bore many objections to the plot. Your protagonist's goals, while initially optimistic, seem to drag the story out. The very action of the manuscript is so integrated with miniscule details that it almost becomes unreadable.
Your characters are interesting to a degree, I suppose. In truth, I feel they are trying too hard to be likeable, and simply border on annoying. Their cynicism and dryness act to eventually make the reader restless and indifferent of their fates. In fact, by the fourth chapter I honestly couldn't be bothered as to whether your protagonist would be defeated or not.
It failed to keep my interest. It's stale. Whatever drama or passion is displayed here quickly evaporates in favor of superfluous detail and sullen characterizations.
Thank you nonetheless for seeking out our publishing company.
Regards,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Editor — Watts & Darcy Co.
The interesting thing about this letter is that it would be the first of two letters I would receive from one Fitzwilliam “Will” Darcy within six months — neither would be pleasant. Both would make me feel like throwing up in my mouth — for separate reasons, mind you, but the feeling is never exactly one of the embraced, fuzzy kind.
“I'm pretty sure my intestines just liquefied,” I muttered, slumping against the counter. “My first rejection letter — joy of joys.”
Charlotte's face fell. “Not for Nottingham and Draperies? Oh, Lizzy — who'd you send it to?” She pried the note from my hands, and scanned it briefly, her brow knitting. “Watts & Darcy? Oh, sweetie. They're picky bastards. Don't take it personally. They're a small but extremely stiff publishing house —— elite. Mariah had the same
trouble.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” I scoffed, tearing the paper back again. “What superfluous details? What the fuck is he talking about? — I've been through so many butchering edits it could make my head spin on an axis.”
“Fuck him, have a latte!” Charlotte grinned, leaping toward the stock. “Pumpkin spice? Peppermint mocha? Green-tea frapp?”
“Sullen characterizations,” I scoffed. “Then this short, shit-faced thank-you! I don't understand why he had to go out and make this letter so personal. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be this abrasive. You know what Fitzwilliam Darcy can do with his thank-you, Charlotte?”
“I have to say, you're taking this really well.” She arched an eyebrow.
“Taking what well?” a male voice interrupted us. George Wickham, incorrigible grin and all, dumped his messenger bag promptly behind the counter, and was in the process of knotting his green apron behind his back.
“Lizzy got her first rejection letter.”
“Ouch,” George said, wincing, and leaning against the counter. “Which publishing house?”
“Watts & Darcy.” I slumped, crumbling the strip of paper into a ball. I launched it at the nearest wastebasket, but it bounced off the rim, landing to fester miserably by George's foot.
He raised an eyebrow, and promptly reached down and unfolded the letter, scanning through. To my surprise, his lip curled up — I could tell he was taken aback. After a while, he shrugged. “Forget them. They're total pricks.”
“Seriously, I've heard this twice already,” I said, laughing, and quickly taking an order for an iced espresso. “Is this just awesome support from you two? Or did I completely pick the wrong publishing house to start with?”
“Both,” Charlotte and George chimed.
“Lovely,” I muttered, clamping down the lid of my order. I slid it toward the counter, just as George laid a hand on my shoulder, startling me.
“Don't take shit from others, Lizzy,” he murmured. “You're a fantastic writer. It's a process — you're young. Even the greats get their stinging rejection letters.”
I've heard this so many times before — from my father especially — and I've always been flippant about it. But my girliness just caused me to slump and agree with him. This did nothing to stop Charlotte's massive grin from spreading.
“You need to get out of here,” Charlotte whistled. “Draw yourself a bath, bitch to Jane.”
“She's the ideal person to bitch to, actually.” George scratched the back of his head, his green eyes apologetic. “I almost feel sorry for her.”
“Well, that's what she gets for being almost unbelievably sweet and good-tempered,” I said, shrugging, and removing my visor. “Not that I don't adore her — she's my life.”
“Twins are like that,” Charlotte said, grinning. “Now, scoot on out, and I'll shred your letter.”
2
—
Housemate for Hire and other Nuances
“You're home!” Jane, beaming, sprung up the garden pathway, bare feet slapping the flags, pale-blonde hair streaming like a banner in the wind. I'm not kidding. My twin is legitimately a fairy princess — true story. She poops rainbows.
Jane, squinting in the sunlight, ruffled my hair. “Why are you back so early? Did Charlotte get you fired? Electrocuted George's hair?”
“That would be something to capture on my phone,” I said, removing my visor. “Charlotte sent me home for a mental-health day.”
“Are we deranged?”
“Collectively? I don't think so. —— Individually? It's a strong possibility.” I grinned, linking arms with her as she led me up to the porch. Jane cast a decisive look, waiting amiably for me to go on. There's no evading my sister, truly — her golden attitude, coupled with her aptitude for listening, physically reaches inside your soul to yank the truth from you. And her pursed lips and narrowed, patient eyes just screamed Mother Hen. It's depressing — I crumbled.
“I got my first rejection letter from Watts & Darcy Co.,” I spluttered, crossing my arms over my chest quickly. “Yes, I feel like punching infants. Yes, I'm incredibly discouraged. And yes, I do want to hunt this editor down and wring every ounce of life from his flailing, soon-to-be-decomposing body.”
“Interesting.” Jane blinked twice, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly. “Was that so difficult?”
“The pressure got to me,” I mumbled, wiping the sweat from my brow. Gingerly, Jane pulled me down to the first step of the porch, and I held my knees to my chest. Down the curve of the driveway, I watched a middle-aged man push a polka-dot twin-stroller down the expanse of the sidewalk.
“If they slap you with murder charges, Lizzy, I'll be a very lonely twin,” Jane said, picking a smidgen of dust from her jeans. “Don't get me wrong — the description of this physically-wringing-life-out shtick is entertaining, but the law's a bit of a hassle in this situation. Personally, I'm all for it otherwise.”
“I appreciate your support.”
“Don't mention it. And you do know that even the best authors, alive and dead, got their slew of rejection letters, right?” Jane took my hand, her eyes like my father's, fiercely bright. “And that this shouldn't discourage you?”
“And yet it does,” I said, scowling, and turning away. “It was vicious, Jane, almost like a personal attack.”
“I doubt that, Lizzy,” Jane said, smiling patiently. “It's a creation of yours — a wonderful creation — so of course it's natural to take offense when somebody disagrees with it.”
“Disagree? … Janey.” I snorted. “I'll give you the SparkNotes version.”
“Humor me,” she said, grinning, and tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.
I cleared my throat regally. “Miss Bennet —— You suck. Your characters suck. This is a festering, steaming pile of shit. You can go leap off a cliff, but be sure to take your manuscript from Hades with you.”
“There's obviously no possibility of you exaggerating of course,” Jane drawled, eyebrow arched. At my firm denial, she sighed wearily and yanked me up by the wrist, pulling me to the door. “Oh, Lizzy.”
“Oh, Jane,” I grinned, passively submitting to being forced inside. I'm Jane's baby sister in the truest sense of the word. There is no age gap (save for 23 minutes between births where my mother questioned what power had possessed her to not take that epidural). But it's no secret that Jane Bennet mommies me through all the muck life can possibly deliver.
Dragged inside, I was comforted by the lemon-fresh scent of a newly scrubbed, one-story home. This afterthought of a flat is Jane's baby — she keeps after it like a goose to her goslings. It used to be my uncle and aunt's first home when they were first establishing their business — they had never sold it, and were renting it out to us for the past three months for an absurdly reasonable price. It was fitting really, for real estate tycoons to have their collection of rented homes dotting the county. And it's 25 minutes from the university we'd both be attending that autumn.
My mother hates it — it's too tiny for her taste. Then again, anything is too tiny in her mind's eye that can't accommodate five squawking girls, a passive husband, and her own hysterical self.
I dumped my bags in the foyer and unlaced my Chucks, following Jane obediently into the kitchen. I knew what was in store. She would brew a heavenly pot of peppermint tea, we would sit at our sheet of wood (see dictionary: kitchen table), and I would bitch — incredibly. George and Charlotte have my sister pegged to a tee.
I'm not saying my twin is one-dimensional, just extremely predictable. We love her for it. She's pure sunlight, and I wouldn't change a thing. My three younger siblings can't be credited with such a title, regrettably, but you accept people for who they are. And if you can't, there's always duct tape.
“By the way,” Jane addressed me, shoving the kettle under a running faucet. “I hope you don't mind, but I'm having a prospective housemate tour this evening. Three candidates have called.”
“Housemate?” I repea
ted, temporarily disappearing next door into our open bedroom. The walls were so thin that conversation was easily managed, so I rifled through my drawers until I could find my sweats.
“Well,” Jane called, and I heard the clank of the kettle on the ancient stove. “With tuition and the dent that buying textbooks created in our wallets, I think it'd be a good idea to have a third roommate to split the cost with. We do have two bedrooms.”
“Jane,” I said, laughing, poking my head out from the doorway. “The second bedroom's a disaster. We have a dozen packed boxes and a crappy paint job.”
“One,” Jane grinned, raking her hair into a ponytail. “I take it you haven't been in that room for two weeks or longer. I repainted it nine days ago. Did you not notice the Lowe's bags and the obvious paint fumes?”
“I'm really flaky and unobservant — was I at work?”
“You might have been,” she paused. “I also loaded the boxes into the crawl space.”
“We have a crawl space?”
“Yes,” Jane sighed, exasperated. “And two, why are you in your underwear?”
“I'm changing into my sweatpants,” I said, plainly. “Unless you have no objection to me moonwalking in the kitchen stripped down to my skivvies.”
Jane narrowed her blue-gray eyes pointedly. “That will be the first thing to go once we get a third roommate — there will be no Michael Jackson moves in skivvies.”
“You're amused by my wondrous moves — admit it,” I teased her, entering the kitchen now having reversed my sans pants situation. Jane rolled her eyes and smirked, digging out two mugs from the nearest cupboard. I leaned my elbows against the counter, trailing a finger against our small fish bowl. Two ordinary goldfish circled their own aquatic prison, and I made sympathetic faces at them — for moral support, of course.
“Don't scare the fish, Lizzy,” Jane cautioned, placing my mug on a wooden coaster before me.
“Ben Affleck looks so sad today,” I pouted, tapping the glass gingerly as the lighter of the two fish swam by.
“I thought that one's Matt Damon?” Jane said, quizzically, leaning back to cradle her mug to her chest.
