The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet by Bernie Su, Kate Rorick Page A

Martha’s two-bedroom bungalow with my parents, Lydia, and her cat, I will be enjoying my own en-suite bathroom while playing chaperone to
the lovebirds.
    I can’t wait to see Mom’s face when we tell her.
    But now, instead of going home and relaxing after these crazy, exhausting, oh-my-God-I-haven’t-walked-that-much-in-years past few days, we get to go home and spend the next week moving
everything out of the kitchen and packing up the house.
    Thank goodness we already filmed next week’s videos here at VidCon.
    . . . Oh, no. How am I going to film my videos when I’m a guest at Netherfield?

M ONDAY , J ULY 9 TH
    Oh, my God. Jane just prevented a heart attack—I thought I had lost you! My diary! My precious. I thought that somehow in all the packing (and seriously, the way Mom made
us pack up the house, you would think we were going on a six-month safari, not spending two weeks inconveniencing friends and relatives within driving distance of our home), my darling diary got
lost in the shuffle. I was certain that my poor little book, with all its secrets, had been accidentally left behind and was going to land in the hands of one of the construction workers who would
read and then ridicule me privately forever. Or worse—it
had
gotten packed, and ended up in the wrong hands here.
    When we arrived at Netherfield on Saturday (although the work on our house wouldn’t start until today, Mom wanted us—read: Jane—to have the time to get “settled in”
at our home-away-from-home), Bing, Darcy, and Caroline met us at the door.
    “Hi,” Jane said to Bing, smiling.
    “Hi,” Bing said to Jane, smiling right back. This could have gone on for hours had someone not judiciously cleared her throat.
    “Er, we’re so glad you’re here,” Bing said, coming out of his love haze. “Let me show you guys to your rooms. Oh, you can leave your bags—they’ll be
taken care of.”
    “Oh—no, we couldn’t . . .” But everyone was already moving inside without me.
    I didn’t think at the time about my diary, possibly stuffed in a suitcase. I only marveled at the idea that somewhere, hidden in the background of this echo-y McMansion, there was someone
whose job it was going to be to carry and unpack our things, like we were visiting aristocrats to Buckingham Palace. So really, I was thinking about how embarrassing it was that I had basically
thrown my laundry basket into my bag and I was going to have to ask this no-named someone to not do my laundry, but instead let me do it myself. And then have that person show me where the laundry
room was.
    Netherfield is gorgeous; I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate. We spent the morning by the pool, enjoying a late Saturday brunch buffet and the company of Bing. Caroline was very
polite and welcoming, too. Darcy was . . . there.
    When Jane and I were finally led back to our
own private wing
of the house (technically not specifically built with us in mind, but instead the generic guest wing, but come on!), it was
to find that our stuff had indeed been unpacked and my laundry had indeed been taken away to be cleaned (talk about a hostile laundry takeover—I surrendered before I knew there had been a
war). But going through my other things, I knew something else was missing. And then I realized it was my diary.
    Panic set in. I’ve never really been without my journal, my means to express my most private feelings and keep safe. My videos—that’s something put out there for public
consumption. That has a filter. My journal is everything else.
    My brain briefly went to the construction worker, and I snuck back to the house this morning to see if I could find it—but the house was a disaster, and I couldn’t even get in the
door without a hard hat, what with all the things being torn out and moved in.
    It was while I was at the library this morning researching that I remembered the nameless, faceless someone that unpacked our bags. And then I thought about my