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

by Ari Rhoge

  Jane turned to Charlie. “Sorry about that. My sister has this rare, infectious disease where she rambles herself in circles. It's usually used to avoid concrete answers or when she's had too much caffeine herself.”

  “I think I caught on to that, yeah,” Charlie grinned.

  “Yeah, I might have downed a cappuccino,” I said, smiling guiltily. “Or, you know, two.”

  “I hate coffee,” Jane sighed, and Charlie gave her a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “Well, I do,” she said, laughing. “I'm more for peppermint teas and hot chocolate.”

  “Wow, that's got to be fate,” I joked. “There's nothing in Charlie's apartment but herbal teas.”

  “Okay, fine — I'll buy some ground coffee,” he muttered, sharply. “Way to tear into a guy.”

  “He's English, Lizzy — let him enjoy his tea.”

  “I love stereotypes. —— Thanks, Jane,” Charlie beamed, kissing her on the cheek quickly. She looked down and blushed, all smiles.

  “Okay. Stop it, guys. I'm becoming tolerant of mush, and I don't like it,” I mumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Speaking of mush, I kind of have to tell you something,” Jane suddenly said, looking more serious than I would've liked. “And you're not really going to like it.” At this, she took a glance at the counter behind us, found Brenda and Charlotte working side by side, and looked back at me. “George Wickham isn't here, is he?”

  “No, he's working another shift,” I said, confused. “Why?”

  “I took the address you left me and went down to 43 Steps to see Georgy play,” Jane explained, knotting her hands together. “First off, she's absolutely wonderful. Earns very good tips. I think she should be working concerts or something.”

  “She's always played brilliantly,” Charlie said, smiling, then growing a tad apprehensive when we were both silent. “You know what? —— I'll go get some hot chocolate.” And, at that, he left us to our privacy. He's really such a good guy. For a second I felt sorry.

  “Why did you ask about George, though?” I asked, quietly.

  “Well, he was there, Lizzy.” She paused. “That's his other job. Occasionally he waits tables, and sometimes he plays something out on his own guitar. And, for a while, I kind of sat without Georgy knowing I was there yet — so I saw some things she probably would otherwise have kept in check.”

  “Like what?” I murmured.

  “Well, they were really flirty,” Jane said. “And not teasing or anything. But she was leaning into George, and he was smiling, playing with her hair, and tickling her. I mean to say that they seemed really into each other. And you know I'm not one to be judgmental — but, Lizzy, I really thought you had to know.”

  And suddenly the numbers aligned themselves and I knew that George was the guy my housemate had been eager to work with on Friday nights. And I felt this queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It had less to do with the fact that I harbored an interest in George, and more to do with the matter of their age difference, and that he held Georgy's brother in bitter contempt, and that she didn't even know what had happened. Then something reached me that I didn't even want to think about.

  “He has to know that she's Will's sister,” I mumbled, raking a hand through my hair. “They work together… he must know her full name. He's probably heard Darcy speak about her back in college. God, Jane — you don't think he could be using her, do you? To get back at Darcy?”

  “I think there's a reason both of us are entertaining this idea,” she told me, blue eyes serious.

  “Oh, fuck,” I muttered, feeling nauseated. I didn't even want to think that he could. But I had to strip away my bias about George temporarily. It wasn't out of any need to protect Will Darcy — this barely even crossed my mind. But Georgy was my friend, and she didn't deserve to be yanked around via somebody else's agenda. If that was even the case.

  Another part of me instantly stamped this theory out. He would never do this. It was vindictive and manipulative. He would never.

  I voiced my opinion to Jane.

  “Lizzy.” She reached across, took my hand. “Look at this objectively for a second, okay? If you barely knew George Wickham, and this was somebody else who had the potential of manipulating our housemate like this… what would you think about it, then?”

  Consciences in human form — Jane, for example — should probably not be ignored. Sometimes she's naive, but sometimes you can feel that she's right. I just wasn't a proud supporter of what seemed to be the truth. I buried my face into my hands, groaning. “Maybe it was a different guy. I mean… George and Georgy? That pairing of names shouldn't even exist, Jane. It's like a violation of biological law, for God's sake.”

  Jane smiled sadly, and patted my hand.

  13

  —

  Bones to Pick

  Right around that cozy slice of space between late October and early November, I always manage to get this lingering cold that feasts on school-related stress and delayed payment of heating bills. This year, the cold was replaced with fresh, jittering anxiety. Why was I anxious? The answer to this question has three separate variables.

  1 — I had been avoiding the issue of George Wickham for weeks. It was a classic case of putting something off until it drives you crazy;

  2 — In a twist of unnerving fate, Bill Collins came creeping back into our lives;

  3 — Class stress? Okay… fine.

  The third one isn't really valid. Everyone has that stress. I like things grouped in threes. I'm a little Adrian Monk-ish that way. It completes my cycle of whinedom, which I just deemed an actual word.

  Jane had been goading me for weeks about how I would approach Georgy about Wickham. The thing was that it wasn't my place to say anything. She had no idea who George really was, and introducing that subject matter would drop a bombshell I had no right in dropping. And talking to George about it was tricky because I was afraid of how he would take it. I didn't want him to misinterpret my protectiveness for my housemate as some ridiculous flare of jealousy on my part.

  “Why can't I just pretend that nothing's going on, Jane?” I had asked one morning, moping around. “I'll pretend you never told me this, and let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Your conscience probably won't let you,” she pointed out, cradling a cup of coffee. “And, yeah, I guess you could consider mine your conscience if you're missing yours or something.”

  I still didn't even prod at the issue for another couple of days. Within that time, Billy — excuse me, William, as he now prefers — came thundering back into our lives as distraction enough. A boy I had grown up with in Longbourn County.

  If you ask me now, I'm not sure why this happened. All I can tell you about Billy Collins is that I had known him for nine, endless years before his parents separated and he moved to Palm Springs with his mother. Before that, we had met in kindergarten. He wasn't the charming class clown who haphazardly ate glue. He was the sniffling, constantly berating little bastard who would lean across your desk to remark on your atrocious dotting of letters. Or that your map coloring skills, to paraphrase, sucked ass.

  I remember in middle school and up to freshman year, he had a monstrous, Texas-size, I-will-marry-you obsession with Jane. To such a point where I once caught him watching her through the tree on our lawn with a plastic set of binoculars. I hit him with a whiffle bat and chased him across the yard, and my mother had been completely dense about it. Why don't you invite him inside, Lizzy? He seems like such a sweetheart! Yeah… thanks.

  Anyway, I hadn't seen the little jackass for a solid chunk of years before I came to visit Charlotte on Sunday afternoon to return her car. I had just parked, and was clambering out, when I saw a man talking animatedly to her at the front steps of the apartment building. He was an inch taller than her, was dressed entirely too poshly, and was sneering at the wobbling bits of foundation underneath the stoop that had to be fixed up.

  I hadn't recognized him until I called out to Charlotte an
d he spun around to face me. And then it hit me like someone's rotten cooking. He had changed, of course — but the expression was exactly the same. His shoulders had broadened a little, and acne also had a habit of clearing up past the age of 13. Also, he had strange blonde highlights and an ill-placed soul patch that kind of looked like a small animal had settled under his lower lip and died there.

  “Lizzy!” Charlotte beamed, waving. She was blushing, and generally trying to conceal embarrassment, but she skirted past Collins (who I was sure, through my horror, was Collins) and hugged me. I must have looked really bewildered, because her eyes widened and she cleared her throat. “There's somebody I'd like you to meet.”

  “Elizabeth Bennet,” Collins suddenly said, descending the steps too carefully. “I thought I recognized you. —— Six years and you haven't changed one bit. You're even still wearing ratty, ripped jeans.”

  “Billy Collins,” I muttered, feeling nauseated. “Look what the cat coughed up.”

  “I go by William, now.” He straightened the lapels of his dinner jacket, smiling sunnily to Charlotte. “It sounds less juvenile.”

  “If you want to seem less juvenile, I think the height thing is playing against you.” I turned to Charlotte, ignoring his glare. “Look, I need to talk to you. If you're busy, call me up. The Pinto's by the curb.”

  “I was just leaving,” Collins insisted. He then took Charlotte's hand, and kissed her on the cheek, making sure to send a purposeful look my way. I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest.

  When he left (and several expletives à la “what the fuck?” were shared) Charlotte sat at the front steps and began a timid explanation. First off, where the hell had he come from? Palm Springs, no-show?

  “His mother died three years ago, and he moved to Manhattan to be with his godmother,” Charlotte explained, at length. “One of the economics professors at Hertfordshire is his godmother's good friend, so he came by around five weeks ago to spend time here, and I met him around campus.”

  “God, that's scary.” George Wickham's words reverberated in my head. Small fucking world, indeed. “And you actually struck up a conversation?”

  “Lizzy, you're horrible,” Charlotte said, laughing. “He's a nice guy. A little pretentious, fine — but actually pretty warm when you get to know him.” She ignored my stare, and straightened self-righteously. “Anyway, we got to talking. His godmother's actually Catherine de Bourgh… can you believe that?”

  “Is this an up-and-coming actress I should be aware of?” It wasn't ringing any bells.

  “No,” she said, taking my hand excitedly. “You know the private de Bourgh school in Manhattan? People have killed to get student teaching positions there, Lizzy. Once I mentioned to Bill that I'm trying to get a teaching degree —”

  “Charlotte.” I pulled my hand back, outraged. “That's called using somebody.”

  “No, it isn't,” she said, brushing her hair back. “It's called utilizing certain opportunities… that, uh, might have sprung up from spur-of-the-moment friendships!” She cast a quick, megawatt grin.

  “I guess you took your bullshit pill this morning… I'm 99.9% sure that friendship is not on his mind. You're doing this to get a good connection and score an interview — and don't insult me by saying otherwise, for God's sake.”

  “Listen — if that happens, then great. In any case, I'm just enjoying his company. I know I heard the horror stories from you and Jane. Well, actually, Jane wasn't as melodramatic. But he's a sweet guy, Lizzy. You don't even know him,” Charlotte insisted — and I was kind of angry that she was taking this so lightly. It was so —

  Shallow. That's what it was. Not like her.

  “I know he's a creeper,” I muttered, pulling a thread from one of the holes in my jeans. “Congratulations, then. Let me know how your prestigious little interview goes.” I rose, and started toward the street.

  “What the fuck, Lizzy?” Charlotte kept up, stopping me. “I thought you'd be happy that I'm seeing somebody.”

  “You're using somebody,” I pointed out, crisply. “And normally I wouldn't give a rat's ass about Billy Collins, of all people — but this isn't you, Charlotte. You can get by well enough on your own without Collins and his connections to this de Bourgh lady.”

  “No, I can't,” she suddenly snapped, and the desperation in her voice surprised me. She ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. “God, Lizzy, don't you get it? I barely have any money right now. I don't know when I'm going to get an opportunity like this. I'm not some prodigy coasting on a full-ride scholarship like Mariah, okay? I don't want to see what little tuition money my parents forked over go to waste. I can't afford to find some shitty job and work my way up.”

  “That sounds like pure laziness,” I said, glaring. “It sounds like bullshit and pure unwillingness, okay? And you have none of those. I never thought I'd have to be the person to tell you that you're good enough. Sorry — was good enough.”

  “See, this is exactly why I didn't want to say anything to you,” she said, angrily. “Jane would have been happy for me. In fact, she is. You're the only one who shits on people like this! You judge everybody. You think you're always right.”

  “I'm right about this!”

  “Whatever,” she muttered, crisply, glaring at me. “It's not like we're related or anything. I don't need your approval.” And with that she turned on her heel and stalked back to her apartment.

  By the time I got home, I was so worked up and angry that I forgot to greet Jane and Georgy. I walked right past them, stormed to the kitchen, and brewed a fresh pot of tea. Chamomile. One of my mom's habits had been translated from her generation to mine.

  “You know —” Georgy came in, munching from a bag of chips. “— The great thing about you is that you're not one of those girls who is silently pissed off. Like those quiet, moody cashiers at grocery stores you half-suspect are going to snap one day and gun the entire block down.”

  For a second, I forgot my stress, and smiled at her, laughing. I sighed, and leaned against the counter, palm to forehead.

  “What's bothering you?” she asked, hopping up to sit on the counter. “You can't blame people who irritate you, this time. As far as I know, my brother and Carolyn Bingley aren't in town anymore.”

  This was true. My asshole bin was fresh out of stock.

  “Yeah, I know,” I admitted, taking a chip when she offered. “But what happens when people you like become irritating?”

  “You poke them with pointy objects,” she suggested, staring at me critically. “Who do you have in mind?”

  I didn't feel like answering.

  “Wait a minute. —— Jane told me you were at Charlotte's.”

  I looked at her.

  “You had a fight,” Georgy said, sulking, blue eyes sympathetic. “Is it because of her new boyfriend? I haven't met him, but I heard he's kind of like that mix of gum and bird poo you find in your shoe after walking in the city.”

  “I think the description can be refined to just bird poo, believe it or not,” I said, laughing, surprised. “Wait, you knew about him too? Why does nobody tell me anything anymore?”

  “Because you're judgmental,” she said, grinning at me, ruffling my hair this time. “And don't look at me like that. I'm going to finish watching Doctor Who. Charlie got me addicted — and David Tennant is wonderful.”

  “I'll take your word for it,” I said, smiling. She grinned, and walked out.

  I spent the next two days in a haze of coffee, a psych paper, a calc exam, and my not talking to Charlotte, who I knew, by Jane's confirmation, was perfectly inclined to take Collins with her to Charlie's Thanksgiving dinner two weeks from then. If Will Darcy was going to be present, I kind of hoped that he would sear a hole in Collins' face just by glaring at it. It'd be nice to see his hatred put to a worthy cause.

  I was thinking about this on Tuesday after work, loading my bags into the trunk of Brenda's sedan. She had agreed to give me a ride home, and was sitting on th
e hood of the car, talking enthusiastically with her boyfriend. I smiled when she winked at me. She was tall and lanky, with a boyish blonde pixie cut and killer bone structure. She was also a total sweetheart, and was completely devoted to her boyfriend of three years, who was studying architecture in Vienna for six months. That iPhone might as well have been its own appendage, permanently glued to her ear.

  It was just when I closed the trunk that George Wickham seemed to materialize beside me out of thin air, causing me to flinch backward about two feet. He laughed and steadied me, hands on my shoulders, and I pulled away. Brenda looked over and gave me a serious little nod, disappearing inside. It was like she knew that I had to talk to him… freaked-out-girl vibe? Quite possibly. I frowned, and turned back to George, arms crossed over my chest.

  “Jesus, now I know that it's not just my imagination —— you really are avoiding me.” He looked mildly concerned, green eyes inquisitive. He sat on Brenda's trunk. “What's up, buttercup?”

  “Will you cut the crap? I actually have to talk to you.”

  “Ouch,” George said, laughing.

  And then I got really angry. Really unreasonably, unfathomably angry. Think monster-in-Cloverfield angry. I spun around to face him, nearly shoving a finger in his face and reminding myself (scarily enough) of my mother — “are you fooling around with Georgy to get back at Will Darcy? Because I have to know. She's my housemate, and I really care about her, okay? If you hurt her, I will remove your ability to procreate. Now, answer me!”

  The interesting thing was watching George Wickham's facial expressions change gradually. Dull shock warped to embarrassment, which subtly changed to anger, then settled for indifference. It was frustrating, but I kind of wish I had my phone's camera ready. It was very cartoon-like in how fast it all happened.

  “I take it Jane told you,” he mumbled, looking out across the parking lot. “I saw her that day at the club. I should have known she would misunderstand everything. And then I found out from Georgy that you three are living together —”