The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet Read Online Free

to say.”
    “But . . . I’m pretty boring.”
    This is sadly true. Lydia isn’t totally wrong about me. I’m fairly nerdy. I read books and write term papers. I’m (annoyingly) perpetually single. I may have a point of view to
express, but still . . . it’s not the stuff compelling content is made of.
    “How do I keep people’s interest five, ten videos from now?”
    “You’re overthinking it,” Charlotte said, which is her version of soothing. “Don’t worry about five, ten videos from now, worry about the next one. And with the
Gibson wedding tomorrow, you should have something at least halfway interesting to say on Monday.”
    I took deep breaths. Any iChat convo with Lydia or advanced theory of media criticism was forgotten. Charlotte was right. I just have to focus on the next one. And if I know my mother, at least
the Gibson wedding will yield something interesting to talk about.

S UNDAY , A PRIL 22 ND
    It’s about 2 a.m., and if I were smart I’d be asleep right now. Check that—if I had a best friend who wasn’t wasted and pocket-dialing me, I’d be
asleep right now. But I just received a call from Charlotte that went something like this:
    (
garbled noise
)
. . .
“Either I’m drunk, or this party just came down with a bad case of Fellini.” . . . (
more garbled noise
)
. . .
“Why is my phone lit up?” (BEEP)
    To be fair, I wasn’t asleep yet anyway, since we just got home from the Gibson wedding about an hour ago. My mom is currently in a state of glee (or slumber. Gleeful slumber). Because,
according to her joyous monologue on the way home, all of her pain and plotting were worthwhile as Mr. Bing Lee, admittedly good-looking wealthy type and recent homeowner, has now met and been
smitten by one of her daughters.
    Specifically, Jane.
    I, however, am in a state of unbridled annoyance, because of one single person.
    Specifically, William Darcy.
    But I’m getting ahead of myself.
    The wedding ceremony was lovely. Outdoors, in the afternoon. Why live in a sleepy coastal central California town if not to take advantage of the weather for your nuptials? Our longtime friend
Ellen pledged to love, honor, and cover her new husband on her work’s health insurance plan for as long as they both shall live, while Ellen’s mother sniffled her way through the
ceremony—her sniffles only slightly softer than my mother’s wails. (Note: Ellen Gibson was in the same class as Jane since first grade; her mother and ours cut up orange slices for
soccer practice together. Mom can barely hold her head up in front of Mrs. Gibson now, as her daughters remain tragically unwed.)
    Of course, during the entire ceremony, my mother was craning her neck across the aisle to better stare at Bing Lee and his companions. Luckily, he didn’t notice, but his overly tall,
stuck-up friend certainly did. He frowned at us from beneath this ridiculously hipster newsboy cap. Although I can’t even be sure it was a frown now. From what I saw of him that evening, his
face just stays that way.
    Regardless, the newlyweds kissed, the recessional played, and it was time to party! But before we could even get to the car to drive to the lovely restaurant overlooking the town that was
hosting the reception, Mom had pulled Jane and Lydia (okay, I went along, too) into Bing’s path and got herself the introduction she’d been yearning for.
    “You must be Mr. Lee! Or is it Mr. Bing? I know some countries put the last name first but I never know which!”
    Yes. That actually happened.
    Luckily, the gentleman in question just smiled, introduced himself, and shook my mother’s hand. Then, he turned his eyes to Jane.
    And they never left.
    “Hi, I’m Bing.”
    “I’m Jane,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
    “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
    And then, they just stood there. Basically holding hands. Until someone behind Bing cleared his throat.
    Someone in a newsboy cap. And a bow tie. (The bow tie I can