Austensibly Ordinary

by Alyssa Goodnight

  Except where Ethan was concerned.

  I had a sudden, urgent need to see him. He might not be ready to talk to me yet, and honestly, I wasn’t decided on the best way to approach him, but right now there was a big awkward void overshadowing every day. In one way or another, he’d managed to insinuate himself into almost every little part of my life, and now all the bits were broken and I was having trouble putting them all back together again. Particularly as he was still the missing piece. . . .

  I strode down the hall, cautiously optimistic, wondering if I could lead with the “secret love” bomb Alex had just dropped during last period. We could shake our heads in disbelief over the relationship savvy of kids today, and then, just maybe, concede that perhaps we shouldn’t be so surprised that people could see the connection between us.

  This little soda fountain fantasy fizzed off like a shaken up bottle of Orange Crush when I came around the corner and heard Ethan on the phone.

  “Are you flirting with me?” A pause and then a warm, deep laugh. “You know that could get us both in trouble, right?”

  I instinctively flattened myself against the wall outside the IT room, and then I bolted, running down the hall in heels, my A-line skirt shifting and sliding and my French-striped boatneck coming quickly untucked. Back in my classroom, I collapsed onto my chair and dropped my head in my hands.

  Either Ethan had already moved on or else I’d never had him to begin with. Clearly my seniors had a bit more to learn about romance, because they were way off with us. With a tightness in my chest that I wondered if I could technically claim as a heavy heart, I packed my carryall for the long Thanksgiving break. I was powering down my computer when my phone chimed with a text from Gemma.

  Did you invite everyone for Thanksgiving dinner? Dad’s a no, but what about Ethan? And what about Brady?

  I stared down at my phone, now feeling baffled and sad. Since when did Gemma care about holiday dinners with specific guests? We were lucky if she was around for the whole thing. I texted quickly back.

  Not sure about Ethan. He might be busy. I’m sure Mom’s asked Brady unless she’s moved on to younger, meatier prey.

  I was unlocking my car when I got her unexpected reply. There hadn’t really been anything more to say.

  Why not ask Ethan . . . he’ll tell you if he’s busy.

  I rolled my eyes, not sure what her angle was, and glanced back at the school. I could go ask him. . . . No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t go back in there and invite him to a family dinner after I’d just eavesdropped on him talking to—flirting with—some other chick. I glanced down at my phone again and then threw it in my bag and got in the car, planning on drowning my sorrows in a basket of chips and queso at Torchy’s.

  A text came in as I was driving, and I nearly clipped an aggressive cyclist in my scramble to get to the phone, my desperation to hear from Ethan having ratcheted up considerably in the last few hours. But it was only another one from Gemma.

  Bring your yoga clothes . . . downward dog forty feet in the air!

  That was apparently what I had to look forward to over Thanksgiving break.

  I was under the trees, braving the cold snap of a late-November breeze, staring down at the dregs in my bowl of cheese dip when I finally gave in and texted him. Giving in took all of two seconds; texting him took considerably longer. Whereas two weeks ago I would have tossed off a misspelled or autocorrected message and remained blissfully unconcerned, today I agonized over every character. Even punctuation was important. Not that it wasn’t always important—as an English teacher I knew that better than most people—but it wasn’t necessarily critical in a casual text between friends.

  But I wasn’t even sure we had that anymore. I hadn’t spoken to him since the burner phone debacle. I finally decided on simple and straightforward, familiar but not forced.

  You’re invited for Thanksgiving dinner. And Scrabble afterward. C

  I sat shivering all alone, grading papers at a picnic table in the shade until the sky dimmed to twilight purple, the fairy lights blinked on, and the dinner crowd started to arrive. I’d chosen to sit at the same table I’d shared with Ethan and Courtney almost a month ago . . . before Cat Kennedy . . . before Jake Tielman . . . before ghost hunting and Gypsy Jane. Before I’d made a colossal idiot of myself. I tipped my head to peek up underneath and check the table supports, just on the off chance that something else had been left to be found. A love potion or a magical scarf . . .

  There was nothing. But if there had been, I so would have used it. I was that desperate.

  I was packing up to go when his text came in:

  Thanks, I’ll let you know.

  My shoulders slumped in defeat. Nothing. I got nothing from that. I couldn’t tell if it conveyed distraction, uncertainty, anger, or a simple noncommittal maybe. Exhausted, I trudged back to my car and drove home and let one day blur into the next.

  After a good amount of nudging from my mom, I called Courtney and invited her and Micah to Thanksgiving dinner. After she gabbled on a few minutes about Micah and ghosts, she asked how things were going with Ethan.

  I cringed, but came clean. “He kinda found out about Jake. And then there was the cheating bastard from the Driskill. . . .” Naturally that prompted a whole new line of questioning, and a bit of nuancing to keep Ethan’s secret life out of it.

  “Aw, sweetie! If this were a noir film and you were still a femme fatale, you’d be ready to bitch-slap someone and make off with the cash.”

  “That does sound good,” I admitted. “But I don’t think that’ll get Ethan to talk to me, particularly if he’s the one to get the slap.”

  “Good point. What can I do? Want me to go back to the bathroom with Micah, see if Lady Jane reappears? Quiz her a little?”

  “I appreciate the offer, Court, but you and Micah should probably stay out of the ladies’ bathroom. Besides, I sort of have a feeling that she’s connected to the journal and that she wouldn’t make an appearance without it being somewhere in the vicinity.”

  “Gotcha. Hang in there, Cate. Knightley is a sure thing.”

  The sentiment was comforting. Trouble was, I wasn’t convinced it was accurate.

  I spent a good amount of time wearing sweats and my reading glasses, poring over the entries in the journal. Not surprisingly, Gypsy Jane had been right all along, but I didn’t need “I told you so”s. I needed practical, step-by-step instructions that I could meticulously follow in a effort to at least get Ethan talking to me again, beyond the prickly “Your e-mail is back online” I’d gotten via voice mail the Thursday before the weeklong Thanksgiving holiday.

  Clearly that wasn’t her style. So I let myself enjoy the romantic successes of others, feeling terribly martyred as I lay on the couch and dined on Chinese takeout.

  It was miserable having to say au revoir to England, but in being so miserable I inspired Henrietta to loan me the use of her journal. This journal. I have heard about it—little snippets, odds, and ends—how it “solves problems” and “tells fortunes.” I am anxious to try it out here in India, where I’m kept like a hothouse flower, away from any “damaging influences.” Damn it, I want to be damaged . . . I do. Perhaps not in the manner Father is most concerned about, but in other ways no less diverting. I want to see a Bengal tiger and an Indian princess. I want to meet a concubine and pepper her with questions. I want to make a secret friend of the boy who brings me afternoon tea and lounge on silk pillows in men’s trousers. But I need to know how to begin. A girl’s imagination is only as enlightened as her experience will allow. Father says that’s as it should be and an excellent reason indeed to lock me up. It’s difficult to believe he doesn’t realize that such a statement must be interpreted as a challenge. Which I’ve accepted, with your willing help, Dear Journal. Let us conspire. . . .

  I read that last bit while biting into an egg roll and felt simultaneously pitiful and intrigued. I’d had a chance to conspire with someone, and I’d let it slip away. And
now I was alone, vicariously conspiring, a century and a half after the fact. I flipped the page, being careful of greasy fingers.

  Excellent suggestion! The perfect way to proceed. Henrietta is as absolute treasure to offer you up on loan, Dear Journal, and I wrote out an effusive letter of thanks just this morning, seconds after checking for your reply. After which I pestered Father for a visit to the market, insisting I needed a new parasol and some lighter fabric if I was expected to survive in this heat. He tried to suggest I let the house man go, but eventually I convinced him that I could not be satisfied without going myself. I’m to be escorted tomorrow. With that taken care of, I very casually foraged about the house, searching for a few items I consider necessary for the implementation of our plan. Now it is time for tea, and I have a few little thoughts of my own on how to draw out the tall, lean boy with the quick, mischievous smile. I will let you know how I get on, and otherwise behave as much as possible like a hothouse flower to divert suspicion.

  Hmm. I had my suspicions as to how this would play out.

  I had managed, quite elegantly, I believed, to attach myself to a hunting group that was venturing off into the jungle on the hunt for a troublesome tiger, but I didn’t count on Father’s deplorable lack of trust. Now I see that you tried to warn me. . . . I just wasn’t clever enough to decipher the message. It seems I was spared “considerable danger and discomfort” by one of Father’s junior officers, who’d been instructed to keep an eye on me . . .

  That was all I could take. I didn’t want to read about this particular adventure seeker and her Gypsy Jane Success Story. I could already predict the outcome: Irritation with this interfering junior officer soon gave way to an easy flirtation, and before long the pair had fallen hopelessly in love and ridden off into the sunset on the Orient Express. Not. In. The. Mood.

  I also wasn’t in the mood to pour my heart out only to have my words taken out of context and crafted into a little snatch of life wisdom that was completely irrelevant to my current, rather precarious situation. The truth was, I was itching for a confrontation. I’d tried calling Ethan on his cell, and when he didn’t answer, I’d biked over to his house … but he didn’t answer there either. Probably on secret assignment. Perhaps taking care of our Bad Manners problem with a little Burn Notice—style vigilante justice. I biked home feeling thwarted and more determined than ever to get into it with someone.

  And that is how I ended up in the mezzanine ladies’ bathroom at the Driskill Hotel on a Saturday afternoon. Holed up in the handicapped stall, carefully poised on a Texas Longhorn stadium seat that was teetering on the closed lid of the toilet. (I was prepared, if necessary, to vacate my impromptu headquarters, should the need arise.) I’d packed my clipboard, a bottle of Orange Crush, a bag of Chex Mix, and my clothbound Coralie Bickford-Smith copy of Emma. And, of course, the journal. I hadn’t told Courtney I was here, nor that I was holding an amateurish sort of seance. Anyone who ventured into the bathroom would only think they were catching one side of a phone conversation. Admittedly a particularly odd one.

  “I think you made the connection before I did, but now I’ve realized it: My life has turned into a parody of Emma. Every instinct I had about matchmaking was wrong, including the ones I reserved for myself. Jake was the rake in my tale of romantic woe, my Frank Churchill.” I paused to take a sip of soda and lick the salt from my fingers, silently berating myself yet again for not having seen that. “And Ethan was my Knightley. Is my Knightley,” I corrected. I was going to cling to that until all hope was lost. Gemma could just keep her hot little hands off.

  “So what I really need from you,” I continued, “is a little gypsy magic. I need a second chance. In other words, I need some more ‘surprises’ to finish out the story so I can earn my happily-ever-after. So . . . if you want to come chat, I’m here. Waiting. Hanging out in a bathroom stall.” I paused in my little speech to see if anything would happen. Nothing did. I glanced around, wondering if the ghost of Jane Austen had higher standards than a little chat around a toilet. It was probably best if I just checked the rest of the bathroom.

  I stood up, clutching my clipboard and ballpoint pen, and took a deep breath, feeling all jittery at the prospect of another ghostly visitation. I left the stadium seat in position and my day bag slumped in the corner and slowly opened the stall door. When I saw her shimmery nineteenth-century self perched primly on the bathroom counter beside the fancy soaps, the triumph of success was promptly edged out by “crazed celebrity fan” nerves and excitement. I was tempted to flick the lock on the bathroom’s outer door to ensure that I had Miss Jane all to myself for a few critical minutes, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If someone chose this moment to breeze in and freshen their makeup, well, she’d just have to deal.

  I took a moment to bask in the unbelievability of the entire situation. I had summoned the ghost of Jane Austen. All by myself. While sitting on the toilet! That last bit would likely not make it into the retelling. Should I decide to tell anyone . . . Who was I kidding? Courtney was a must-tell, and Ethan . . . Well, if things ever got back to normal with him, I was going to use this little doozy to whip up on his logical ass! I’d never even gotten the chance to tell him about the first sighting, what with Bad Manners and the burner phone.

  Suddenly my smile faltered and I was hesitant. If there’d been a secret mission associated with my turn at the Jane journal, it had been to hook Ethan and reel him in. But I’d failed. Judging from past experience with her close-lipped self, I probably shouldn’t expect any poor babys. A glance at her face confirmed my suspicions. Her knowing smile and single lifted eyebrow were clearly willing me to get on with things.

  I straightened my shoulders and hitched my clipboard into position. I figured if I wanted any response at all I’d need to get my words down on paper, but it seemed overly weird to chat up a ghost without a peep from either of us, and I didn’t see her making any concessions, so I talked us through it too.

  I’m all for skipping the small talk, particularly given that your lips are sealed and your poker face is utterly undecipherable. Presumably you have somewhere to be, and yet here you are, summoned by a chick who’s been waffling between Darcy and Knightley and has misread virtually every clue you’ve left for me to follow.

  My pen was flying over the page, scrawling out the bleak reality of my situation as my eyes blurred with prickly tears.

  The last bit of advice I found in the journal was essentially that surprises make the story. I disagree. Not always. Occasionally a story plays out exactly as expected and still manages to get the job done, even wowing you in the process.

  My voice had risen in urgency and was now echoing loudly through the bathroom, but I couldn’t rein myself in.

  Once Darcy thwarts that jackass Wickham (or at least does his damnedest in trying), I think every romantic soul in the world knows that Elizabeth will forgive him and that they’ll end up together at Pemberley in a gorgeous happily-ever-after. See? No surprises there and still a swoon-worthy love story, even two hundred years later. You rock, by the way.

  Come to think of it . . . I suppose Wickham counts as the surprise. . . .

  Well, in my opinion, my own story has already had more than its share of surprises, and yet, it’s missing the most important element. I don’t have my happily-ever-after! So . . . I’m hoping that we can come to some sort of arrangement, whereby you offer up some additional, remedial advice, and I’ll be extra careful to follow it. Basically I’d like to rewrite my ending.

  I glanced up at this point, slightly chagrined that I was asking Jane freakin’ Austen to tweak a few things. In any other situation I would readily concede her indisputable qualifications to call the shots, but not this one. Gypsy Jane could help me or not, but one way or another, I was getting my Mr. Knightley. I firmed up my smile and straightened my shoulders, hoping I was projecting confidence and determination.

  My shimmery companion tipped her head to the side and glanced up to the ceili
ng, biting her lip. I couldn’t tell if she was planning her escape or brainstorming possible alternate endings. I decided to keep jotting and hope for the best.

  I haven’t made any specific plans myself yet—so I’m wide open. Clean slate. Anything goes. My “secret life” might have fizzled, but I see no reason why there shouldn’t be a little excitement, a little spark, a little sexy seduction. . . .

  I was getting off task and so reined myself in with effort.

  But as tempting as that sounds, it won’t be enough. I need to prove to Ethan—and myself—that I can handle his secret life and not feel like an outsider. That I won’t let my little insecurities and Austen hero crushes affect our relationship. That I love the man he is and don’t want to change him.