A P&P Short Story, Part 4

Here’s the fourth part of my modern P&P short story!

All right, so I said I’d finish this story by today’s post, but as with all my projects, it keeps growing and growing…a bit like the little plant in the featured image for this post. (If you’re reading this post in your email, you may need to visit the site to see the image.)

I used this photo to inspire part of today’s installment. Many thanks to L.L. Diamond for designing the theme banner for the month!

I really am near the end of this tale, and I’ll try to post again in the next week or two. If you have feedback or questions, feel free to let me know in the comments.

Also, here are the links for part one, part two, and part three.

Hope you enjoy this installment!

 

By the time Liz returned from dorm duty, she had graded six of twenty essays—a feat worth celebrating, as far as she was concerned. Sure, 30 percent was not the same as 100, but given her fatigue, not to mention the number of students who had come for extra help while she was on duty, she thought that completion rate merited a brownie. And since she had no brownies, she settled for a handful (or maybe three handfuls) of chocolate chips.

She was in the midst of wondering how much caffeine chocolate contained, and whether a fourth handful contained enough to keep her awake, when she heard a sound at the front door of her apartment.

“Well, Kitty, what do you think?” she asked her cat, whose oh-so-creative name had come courtesy of Lydia. “Is it Mary or Maria at the door?”

Kitty glanced up from grooming herself on the couch and promptly coughed up a fur ball.

“Yes, I hope it’s just my imagination, too,” Liz said, plodding dutifully to the door, knowing that whichever girl was standing on the other side, she’d keep Liz up until at least midnight. Mary felt that no one on the hall listened to her (she was right), and Maria either wanted to gossip or fret (never mind that she should be in bed because it was well past light’s out).

But this was a day for mistaken assumptions: no one was at the door. There was only an envelope addressed to “Dr. Bennet” taped to the door handle.

---

January 6, 2023

Dr. Bennet,

Please find enclosed the signed form granting Georgiana Darcy permission to attend the Ramsgate swim meet.

F.D.

PS — I’m sorry.

---

January 7, 2023

Dr. Darcy,

I am not certain when this letter will reach you, for although we live in the same state, the postal service works in mysterious ways. (Then again, what’s 124 miles of good road to the intrepid USPS?)

I should probably tear up this letter and start again—it seems I cannot blame email for my lack of professionalism—but it’s after midnight and I’m tired.

I am writing to thank you, not for the permission slip but for your willingness to consider Georgi’s perspective. After receiving your note, I checked my email (quite a feat because I currently do not have access to my computer—long story—so I had to use my cell phone, and I hate using my cell phone). Anyway, I saw that Georgi had emailed an explanation for the change in circumstances. Using a few too many exclamation marks, she told me that you showed up at the library during study hours and spent 45 minutes listening to her explain why she should be allowed to attend the swim meet. (She made no mention of any of this when I checked her into the dorm after study hours, but there were other girls around, and I know she values her privacy.) I also learned from the email that Georgi is susceptible to bribery. Who knew that a large order of McDonald’s fries could serve as an appropriate peace offering? I admire your sister very much, but she and I will have to discuss her taste in french fries.

(Now I really should tear up this letter.)

More than anything else (even the french fries), Georgi surely appreciates your willingness to consider her point of view. I will follow your example and make certain she knows she can talk to me—or not talk to me—about anything that may be causing her anxiety. And if, at any point, she decides she would prefer not to attend the swim meet, I will fully support her decision.

With gratitude,

Liz

PS — Do not grade me on my grammar, Dr. Darcy; I am not making any sense tonight.

PPS — Your concision really is maddening. How can you write “I’m sorry” as a postscript and then write nothing else? For what, exactly, are you apologizing?

---

January 10, 2023

Liz,

It appears the USPS works well enough, at least between Meryton and Cambridge.

I’m sorry to hear that you have lost access to your computer. You do realize there is this medium of communication called texting? My number, should you need it, is (xxx)XXX-XXXX.

I’m also sorry that you do not approve of McDonald’s fries. Perhaps you only deign to eat all-natural, hand-cut artisanal fries.

Most of all, I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you. I made a set of assumptions reflecting my own shortcomings, and none of your own. When it comes to raising Georgi, I do not know what I’m doing, Liz.

Will

PS — Mr. Richards (is he still teaching at MA?) wrote these three words at the end of every essay I submitted senior year: concision, concision, concision.

---

January 13, 2023

Will,

Mr. Richards (I call him Stu) is indeed still teaching at MA! He will be very happy to know that you have heeded his writing advice so faithfully. Confession: I also tell my students to write with concision. It is advice I never follow myself, of course.

Texting is the bane of humanity—that and Twitter, which makes no sense at all. When life is so complicated, why try to reduce it to a few hundred characters and a set of incomprehensible emojis?

Also, I’m not entirely sure where my phone charger is, so that makes using it (for texting or any other purpose) rather difficult.

Isn’t there something magical about receiving a letter? We are engaging in time travel and space travel without any futuristic technology — just the USPS, which is indeed serving us well! Nonetheless, I promise to stop pestering you by letter.

You do know how to raise your sister, Will. You are doing a marvelous job of it, too.

Liz

PS — Apology accepted. I hope you’ll accept mine, as well. I made my own set of assumptions; I’m glad you’ve proven me wrong.

---

January 16, 2023

Liz,

You are not pestering me.

Will

---

January 19, 2023

Will,

What about now?

Liz

---

January 22, 2023

Liz,

You realize this is just like texting, only it requires a stamp and a three-day wait.

Will

PS — Re: fries. You did not tell me if my hypothesis is correct.

---

January 25, 2023

Will,

Data plans are far more expensive than stamps, and admit it: waiting three days is part of the fun.

Liz

PS — No doubt Cambridge has an abundance of artisanal fries (whatever those are) but Meryton offers only two choices for those of us wishing to ingest greasy, salted tubers: McDonald’s or Wendy’s. Whenever I indulge, I choose the lesser of two evils.

---

January 29, 2023

Liz,

I received your letter in four days instead of three. I’m thinking of lodging a complaint.

Will

PS — Wendy’s? Really?

---

February 2, 2023

Will,

There is something called snow; it appears from time to time in New England. (You might remember it from your visit to Meryton?) (By the way, why do you not own a proper winter hat?) Do have mercy on our friendly postal workers; with that winter storm blanketing half of Massachusetts, they had their work cut out for them last week.

This letter may also reach you late. I’ve caught a nasty cold (not Covid, thank goodness!), so it may take me a few days to get this letter to the post office. But don’t worry: I used hand sanitizer before writing you.

Liz

PS — Until you’ve dunked mushy fries into a large chocolate frosty, you haven’t truly lived.

---

February 7, 2023

Liz,

Just received your latest. Are you feeling better? I hope so—and not because I’m worried about viral transmission via paper. I’m not a virologist, but I have read several studies indicating rhinoviruses do not live long on paper.

Sleep. Stay home. Tell Cathy her largest donor demands a sick day on your behalf.

Will

PS — While you didn’t spread your cold via paper, you did infect me with a terrible idea. Today, I tried fries dipped in a chocolate frosty. I will never admit to liking such a disgusting(ly good) combination of processed “flavors.”

PPS — I refuse to wear a hat in light snow. I, too, grew up in New England.

PPPS — Seriously, get some rest.

---

February 10, 2023

Will,

As tempted as I was to show Cathy your “get out of class free” note, I decided against it. For one thing, I’m feeling much better now. For another, these letters… Never mind. I’m better. Thanks.

Liz

PS — Re: fries. Now I understand. You are the snob who only deigns to eat all-natural, hand-cut artisanal fries! (I still can’t figure out what makes a french fry artisanal. Does the prep cook make sure to leave the dirt on the potato when slicing it? Is the knife from the 1830s? If the oil’s that old, I’ll stick with my processed fries, thank you very much!)

PPS — Georgi tells me you’re coming to Ramsgate next week. Please find enclosed appropriate headwear for your trip. (Forecast: high of 10°; even for New Englander, that’s cold!) (And don’t tell me you can’t get a cold by not wearing a hat. I don’t care if you’re a scientist. Hats are good for you!)

---

February 13, 2023

Liz,

I’m glad you’re feeling better.

10° Fahrenheit or 10° Celsius? Units matter.

I like the hat — a lot.

Will

PS — Since I tried your fast-food concoction, you have to try some artisanal fries. It’s only fair.

PPS — Yes, these letters…

---

There was never a time when Liz wasn’t glad to see Jane. Even now, when she had approximately 19 minutes to pack for the Ramsgate trip, she felt relieved by her sister’s presence. (Besides being one of the smartest, sweetest people Liz knew, Jane was also an expert packer.)

Still, she really wished Jane would stop bringing up the french fries she’d received last week.

“You do realize that Uber Eats driver came all the way from Cambridge.”

“I don’t even know what Uber Eats is,” said Liz, stuffing a sweatshirt between a pair of jeans and her toiletry case.

Sighing, Jane plucked the sweatshirt out of the suitcase. “The point is, Lizzy, you have a truly serious admirer if he’s willing to send you gourmet food from Cambridge—and on Valentine’s Day, too!”

As Liz watched her sister unfold the sweatshirt and roll it into a tight cylinder that could have fit into her purse, never mind a large roller bag, she tried to devise some means of changing the subject.

But she couldn’t think of anything except the note that had come with the fries: “These would taste much better fresh. What’s 124 miles of good road to the intrepid Liz Bennet? Will.”

Her breath caught and her heart raced, as it always did when she pictured Will’s neat, spiky handwriting. How had this happened? She had met the man once—and on very poor terms, too—and now she could hardly wait to check her post office box each day. Of course, he wouldn’t write back again; she’d responded to his gift and recent letter with radio silence. How could she do anything else? How could she have begun this crazy correspondence in the first place? He was the legal guardian of one of her students. This situation had conflict of interest written all over it. (She’d checked the Meryton Academy employee handbook, just to be sure.)

But good god, she wanted to see him again. Really wanted to see him again.

“Charlie thinks he has to have a lot of money,” Jane continued, removing half the other items Liz had already packed so that she could refold them. “After all, Sorrel is a very expensive restaurant!”

“Wait, Charlie knows about the french fries?”

“Technically, they’re called ‘Artisanal Potato Wedges.’”

Liz stared at her sister.

“What? So we looked up the menu online,” said Jane. “There, all done! Look how much more room you have in your bag!”

“Jane.”

“We had a slow day in the office, okay?”

“Jane!”

“Oh, come on, Lizzy. You know I didn’t tell anyone else but Charlie. I tell Charlie everything!”

Liz scrunched her nose. “You two are so cute it makes me sick.”

Jane smiled serenely. “Also, Charlie really likes studying online menus. I know, I know: It’s a weird habit.”

“Yes, well, you’re both weird.”

“Not as weird as whoever sent you ‘artisanal potato wedges’ all the way from Cambridge. I mean, I didn’t even know you liked fries very much!”

She didn’t—at least, not before Will.

*

As the girls took their seats, Liz wandered down the aisle of the charter bus, taking attendance and checking in with each of her swimmers. For most girls, this meant asking if they’d packed their swim suits, goggles, and swim caps (seriously, at least one girl forgot some piece of essential gear almost every swim meet).

When she came to Georgi, Liz simply asked, “How are you today?”

“Fine.”

Liz raised a brow.

“Really. I promise!” Georgi said, grinning up at Liz.

True, Georgi looked a little pale, and yes, there were slight smudges beneath her eyes, as if perhaps she hadn’t slept as well as she should have. But her smile seemed sincere enough, and her posture was relaxed as she nudged Anne, who was digging through her backpack, searching for something.

“Sorry, Coach, didn’t see you,” said Anne, without looking up. “I remembered everything, except—aha!” Straightening, Anne held aloft her phone charger. “See, I remembered it!” she told Georgi, who laughed and said, “Well, I brought an extra, in case you lost yours again.” Then Georgi grinned up at Liz. “How about you, Coach? Did you remember your charger for once?”

“How do you know I often forget my charger?” Liz asked, feeling her face flush hotly. She thought immediately of the letter to Will. My god, had he told Georgi that they were writing to each other?

Georgi and Anne exchanged a glance.

“Uh, didn’t you joke about something like that once?” asked Anne.

“Yeah, at the last away meet, when you tried to take a team photo, but your phone was dead?” Georgi added.

“Oh, right! Of course.” Liz attempted a breezy smile. “I’m so forgetful— and not just about phone chargers, I suppose!”

The girls laughed, and Liz moved on, reminding herself that not everything in life had to do with those letters, even if she could seem to think of little else.

Even yesterday, when she had sat down with Georgi for a real check-in (not just a casual, “How are you?”), Liz had been unable to banish Will from her mind.

“I want to go to Ramsgate—so much,” Georgi had told her quietly, “but what if…what if…” She had hung her head, her dark hair shimmering in the winter light that flooded Liz’s western-facing classroom every afternoon. “What if I’m about to start a race and I look up and see him?”

Liz had said nothing, for she’d had no idea what to say. Was the “him” Will? She didn’t think so. Though she’d seen them together only briefly, she felt certain that Georgi wasn’t afraid of her brother. Then who? Was he a boy from another swim team, someone she’d met on the swim club circuit? Was he, God forbid, another team’s coach who had hurt her in some way?

“I’d freeze,” Georgi whispered. “I’d freeze, and then I wouldn’t be able to compete.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Liz said quickly, and then immediately regretted it.  Of course it mattered to Georgi. She could see, by the anger in Georgi’s expression, that it mattered to Georgi very much.

Liz cleared her throat. “What I mean is, tomorrow isn’t just about competing. A race provides a single piece of data—a time, a ranking, a comparison between past and present, between expectations and final results. But everything that goes into that race—all the practice, all the ways you’ve helped your teammates, all the experiences you’ve brought to that moment—that’s what matters. Because that’s what life is, Georgi. It’s all the moments wrapped together in a story we tell ourselves. So if you get into the pool and you freeze, then yes, you lose the race, but everything you did to make it to that point still happened. Nothing erases your efforts, Georgi. You get to decide what story to tell yourself about that moment; I hope you never tell yourself you’re a failure because of a single piece of data.”

Georgi glared at her, eyes shining. “You can’t tell me that if someone else were sitting here—if Anne, who you know is so afraid of losing tomorrow—if she were sitting here, you wouldn’t tell her she can just quit because she’s afraid!”

“No, I wouldn’t tell her that—because I’m not telling you that, Georgi. What you define as quitting — that has a completely different meaning for the two of you. Your circumstances are not the same.”

Georgi stared at her for a long moment. “My brother told you something, didn’t he.”

Liz’s stomach flip-flopped. “No, Georgi, he did not—and you don’t have to tell me anything, either. I do hope you have someone you can talk to. The health center—”

Georgi snorted. “You’re, like, contractually obligated to bring up the health center in moments like these, aren’t you?”

“Indeed I am,” said Liz cheerfully, which produced a genuine, if brief, smile from Georgi. “But that doesn’t make the suggestion a bad one.”

“I know. And don’t worry, I am seeing someone, just not here at the school. She’s a therapist from home, and now we Zoom every week, and—well, I like her.”

“Good.”

They were silent for a long moment. Then Georgi said, “I just don’t want everyone to be disappointed in me.”

“Georgi—“

She held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say: you won’t be disappointed in me; the team won’t be disappointed in me; my brother won’t be disappointed in me.”

Liz cursed herself for feeling, once again, that thrill at hearing his name, especially in this context.

Georgi sighed. “Whatever you say now, I think secretly, you all will be disappointed in me.”

“Georgi—“

“No, listen! My brother—he works like 12 hours a day, six days a week, and then on Sundays he goes into the office for like four or five hours—and he’s taking time to drive all the way from Cambridge to Connecticut and back just to watch me swim.” Georgi brushed away the tears threatening to spill, then pulled her phone from her pocket and pressed at the screen a few times. “Look! He even bought a stupid MA hat to wear, even though it’s going to be a thousand degrees in the natatorium!”

Liz stared at the screen for too many seconds. He did not buy that hat. It was the hat she had sent him—a green and white knit cap that made him look endearingly dorky. Below the photo was a text bubble with a string of thumbs-up, smiley-faces, and heart emojis (plus, inexplicably, a cat riding a bicycle) —and below that, another text bubble, this one with actual words: “I have no idea what half these emojis mean, so I hope I’m not sending you some kind of weird message. I’ve been told by a reliable source that texts are the bane of humanity. Still, I wanted you to know I’m proud of you, Georgi. Can’t wait for Saturday.”

In that moment, even in the face of Georgi’s distress, Liz’s first thought had been, I would start texting for this man. And that was exactly why she knew she had to put this infatuation behind her. She had to think about her students; she had to think about Georgi, who needed her teacher to be clear-headed and focused.

“Your brother,” Liz said steadily, “will not be disappointed in you, Georgi. I know that, and you know it.”

“But I’ll be disappointed!” cried Georgi, her eyes filling with tears. “Even if others say they aren’t, I will be! I feel like, whatever I do, I can’t win — and I hate him for it!”

Liz found herself hating him too, whoever he was. “Hey, did you know I read ‘Rebirth’ again, now that it’s out in the literary journal?”

Georgi blinked, obviously thrown by the change in subject. “You did?”

“Yes, I read the poem several times in fact. I liked the changes you made.”

Georgi blushed. “I…I tried to make some of the edits you suggested, Dr. Bennet, but some of the others, well, I just thought, I just liked it better the way I had it, and I hope—”

“That’s great, Georgi. That’s exactly what you should do as a writer: you take the feedback you need, and you leave the rest behind. Remember that line you wrote—something like, ’Shattering its shell, ascending through mud/the seed becomes green, the green becomes life’?”

Georgi’s face became even redder. “Wow. You remembered it exactly.”

“That’s because it’s a great couple of lines!”

“Really? I was worried it wasn’t the greatest analogy, and I was struggling with the meter, but—”

“Well, I liked it. A lot. For that seed, for that plant, there’s no right answer, Georgi. There’s no easy win. There’s just a really messy struggle to find light and air.”

After that, Georgi had made no attempt to hold back her tears, and Liz had not been able to do anything except hand her a box of tissues and watch her cry until, finally, like the seedling in her poem, Georgi seemed to generate energy from nothing but the air around her, jumping up from the table with a watery smile and declaring that yes, she was going to Ramsgate, and all the rest—well, she would figure it out along the way.

So, next comes Ramsgate, and you know (even if Liz doesn’t know) who will be there…

(Here’s the link to part five, available on July 21.)