December 12th, sometime during lunch

Now that the Gigglers are reunited with each other, I have been relegated to the role of Eva's Single Friend Who Needs Romantic Advice.

Eva likes reading books about really, really attractive people who have complicated romances set in exotic locales (spoiler alert: THEY ALL DIE), and thinks that this gives her the right to tell me how I should start an equally exotic yet complicated romance with the Village Idiot.

French was insanely boring today, as Mrs. Allen decided to actually teach, so I spent the period copying down Eva's little gems of wisdom.

On how to get a date with the suddenly very single Mr. Darcy: "Lizzie! Will's single! You could double date with Nate and me! I'll set you guys up!"

How to impress him on said double date: "Say loads of vague things and stare at your wrist. Also, pout. I learned that from Atonement."

How to seduce him: "Wear a green dress! Look like Keira Knightley! Wait wait I've got it- HAVE A CREEPY YOUNGER SISTER!"

Perhaps this is payback for that time we watched Atonement and I spent the whole movie saying, "Oh, fuck me," whenever James McAvoy was on screen.

1:24 p.m.

The Village Idiot is no longer dating the Crack Whore, but she still hates me, as evidenced by the fact that she spilled ranch dressing all over my shirt during lunch.

"Miss Eliza! Didn't see you there!" She crowed.

"Well, you are marvelously short," I said and went off to find Fitz, who is the school's seller of contraband bleach. Must be the British genes in him.

I found Fitz standing in with a gaggle of sophomores, all female, and pushed my way to the center of the group.

"My God, did you vomit on yourself?" Fitz asked, his eyes wide.

My friends are, at best, adequate.

"The Crack Whore spilled ranch dressing on me."

He raised his eyebrow and said, "Really."

"Really."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Rea-"

"FOR GOD'S SAKE FITZ JUST GIVE ME THE BLEACH."

I closed my eyes and counted to 10. Happy thoughts, Bennet, happy goddamn thoughts. Beaches, shirtless Italian men who give you rides on Vespas, cake.

"What happened?" asked a voice behind me. A voice that was definitively not British.

"Your ex," Fitz said cheerfully, patting Will on the nose. "Well spotted, mate. Be a dear and help this lovely lady with the bleach?" He handed Will the gallon of bleach, beamed, and turned back to his group. "Ladies, did I ever tell you about the time I bungee-jumped off a tree? Let's talk about it over some crumpets," he said, and taking the whole gang of girls with him, he left. Leaving me alone with a gallon of bleach and one very confused Will Darcy.

"Um," Will said, refusing to look at me. "Is that-"

"Ranch dressing."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"So. How do you, um, want me to help?" He gestured vaguely at my midsection.

I glanced down at my shirt and sweet baby Jesus someone tell me that this was not happening. Someone please tell me that the ranch dressing had not congealed right around my boobs and formed an artistic brooch.

"I'll figure something out," I said, reaching for the bleach. I am so cool. I am above this. Ranch dressing? Bitch please, it's Chanel.

"Wait-" He held it away from my hands. "You really shouldn't do that. Bleach is bad for you."

"Thanks for the health warning, secretary."

"I try," he grinned. He suddenly put down the bleach and started walking towards his locker. "I have a plan."

"You know how I love plans," I said, following him and desperately trying to deflate the ranch dressing on my boobs.

When we got to his locker, he glanced over at me again. "I'm sorry about this. Veronica will give you hell but I figure it's the only option."

"What are you-"

He handed me his jacket, the one that said DARCY in huge letters, and I felt like vomiting.

"Your soccer jacket."

"You can wear it and give it back to me tomorrow. Great plan, huh?"

"Dude. I am not wearing this." I threw it back at him and crossed my arms.

He glared at me. "Why not?"

"Girls wear jackets like that when they're dating the guy who owns the jacket, and I am not owned by you. I'm not your property, Will."

"Lizzie. It's a jacket," he said slowly, enunciating his words like he was talking to a crazy person. "It's not a dog collar."

"Well, it feels like one."

He rubbed his hands over his face, and I began to feel sorry for him. I mean, clearly this had been his best plan, and what did that say about him? That his best plan was actually incredibly stupid?

I don't call him the Village Idiot for nothing.

"Fine," he snapped, and before I could protest, he pulled off his sweater and threw it at me.

"Please. Like I'm wearing your sweater-" and then I stopped talking because HOLY HELL, he was taking off his shirt and my God, the gossips were not lying when they said that Will Darcy had the abs of Jesus.

He folded his shirt and held it above my head. "I'll take my sweater back now," he said, smiling, still holding his shirt above my head.

I swallowed. Heavily. "You play dirty," I told him. He just grinned and pulled his sweater back over his head.

"So do you," he said through a mouthful of sweater, and then reemerged from it.

I reached up to ruffle his hair. "Aww, cute."

"You know what's cute? Girls with ranch dressing on their shirts."

"Bastard."

"If the shirt fits."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed his shirt, pulling it over mine. It fell to my knees.

Will laughed.

3:30 p.m. on the way home from school

The following is a conversation copied verbatim from people known formerly as my "friends."

Charlotte, the first in a long line of traitors: "You're wearing Will Darcy's shirt."

Eva, Part of the Happy Couple: "I knew it! My advice worked!"

Charlotte, in the middle of a fully body panic attack: "YOU. ARE. WEARING-"

Me, in a helpful and angelic manner: "Will Darcy's shirt, yes. Now how about some pie?"

Eva: "Bull to the shit!"

Me: "STOP TRYING TO MAKE IT HAPPEN."

Charlotte: "God, Karen, you can't just ask people why they're black. LIZZIE YOU WEARING HIS SHIRT."

Me: "Yes, we've established that."

Eva squashes her nose into the shirt, and Charlotte does the same. They both inhale.

Me:

Them:

Me:

Them: "Oh my God."

Me: "So who's hungry?"

Eva: "I say this as someone who is dating his best friend: Will Darcy smells like sex."

Charlotte: "Lizzie. Lizzie. Girl. I am so proud."

Me: "James McAvoy can get it!"

December 13th, thank God it's the weekend

May or may not have spent my Friday night hugging a shirt that belongs to He Who Must Not Be Named.

May or may not have called Fitz, told him about the shirt, and then gotten roped into an ice-skating outing with the Gang, aka Nate, Eva, Will, Fitz, Charlotte and Gia.

Must cease all friendships with British people who sell bleach.

10:04 a.m. and already the family is crazy

I spent breakfast debating the merit of grammar with Maia, only to realize that I had mispronounced banal during my debate presentation last Friday.

I love irony.

"It's buh-NAL," Maia informed me after I told her.

"No no!" My mouther sailed in the room wearing a caftan and turban, fluttered her arms, and corrected her: "It's Baywatch!"

11:36 a.m.

Nate just called me to issue a warning.

"Lizzie, you better be there."

"Where is there?" I said.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Right-o, Captain Obvious."

"Also, Will told me to tell you that you can keep his shirt. Want to tell me what happened?"

"See you at three!"

I think my avoidance issues have really upped their game since I last checked in with them. Look at my babies, all grown up! Avoiding people over the phone!

Praise the Lord! I love the Gospel radio station!

Two hours later

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I was sitting in my room and singing along to Oprah, normal shit and all, when I heard the Siamese Twins say, "You're so hot! You're the captain of the soccer team!"

That could only mean one thing: Will Darcy had entered the Bennet premises. Again.

The last time he had been in my house…no no no not thinking about that.

I ran down the stairs, grabbed my things, grabbed his hand, and pulled him out of there as fast as I could.

"Go," I hissed when he stared at me dumbly. He kept staring at me, and then he muttered, "Right, right," and ran with me to his car.

"You have cold hands," he told me after we got in.

"Smooth, Will," Fitz said from the backseat. "Like Byron, you are."

Gia hit him in the arm and said, "Don't mind Fitz. Lizzie, why are you wearing Will's shirt?"

I wanted to strangle whoever thought it had been a good idea to reproduce Darcy's.

After the ice skating trip

Reasons Why I Will Never Go Ice Skating Again:

1) The trauma of seeing Nate and Eva slobber all over each other.

2) The trauma of seeing Fitz flirt with Charlotte.

3) The trauma that is ice skating.

4) Falling on the ice repeatedly and hitting the same bruise every fucking time.

5) Realizing that I will never be Michelle Kwan, and the subsequent crushing of my childhood dream to become an Olympic figure skater because of the cool costumes.

6) IT IS SO FUCKING COLD.

Reasons Why I Will Go Ice Skating Again:

1) Good hot chocolate.

2) Will Darcy is a terrible ice skater.

Author's Note:

Short filler chapter because...drum roll please...THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE THE LAST. AND THE LONGEST. BUT MAINLY THE LAST.

A huge shout-out to everyone who's stuck with this story; y'all are amazing, and your reviews make my day. They are so sweet and hilarious and thoughtful that they make me want to hug everything in sight.