By Marilyn Brant
It starts off in the future in sophomore English type, simply as Ellie Barnett's instructor is assigning Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice". From nowhere comes a quiet 'tsk' of displeasure. the objective: Sam Blaine, the lovable undesirable boy who is teasing Ellie mercilessly, simply as he has considering that kindergarten. totally unbidden, as Jane may say, the author's ghost has taken up place of abode in Ellie's brain, and turns out made up our minds to stick there. Jane's clever and witty suggestion courses Ellie during the hell of formative years and past, serving because the voice she trusts, often excess of her personal. Years and boyfriends come and pass - occasionally a bit too speedy, occasionally now not approximately quick adequate. yet Jane's information is continuous, and as regards to Sam, really insistent. remain away, Jane calls for. he's your Mr. Wickham. nonetheless, each person has anything to profit approximately love - maybe even Jane herself. And in recent times, the voice in Ellie's head is being drowned out by way of one other, urging her to seem past every thing she inspiration she knew and search out her own, very unforeseen, chuffed finishing.
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Sad and kind of hurt. “You don’t love me, Sam. ” She didn’t wait for his answer. ” Sam tried to touch her again and, again, she pulled away. “No,” she said. “Can’t we at least talk? Can I call you tonight? ” She gave a short, humorless laugh. ” She turned and marched out of the bar. Sam stared after her in stunned silence. I should’ve shut up, but I was slightly toasted. So, I said, “Well? Get going. Aren’t you gonna run after her? ” My hands shook. To stop them, I squeezed my fists so hard my fingernails dug deep into my palms.
I imagined myself holding my head high and carrying on with whatever I was doing without acknowledging his presence. Or, I thought I might lift an elegant eyebrow in greeting and say with perfect indifference, “Is that you, Sam? I hardly recognized you. ” Or, maybe, I’d be in the midst of laughing over something hysterically funny when someone else would break in and introduce us. I’d shake his hand and pretend not to remember him until he insisted we’d gone to kindergarten and all twelve grades of school together.
I pressed on. “How about this—does he hide his feelings behind a façade of arrogance and cleverness, so you never really know what he’s thinking? Does he enjoy the sex, but always keep a barrier between you? I’m talking emotional, not prophylactic,” I clarified, although Camryn was, I gathered, a smart enough cookie to figure it out. The slight pallor of her complexion let me know I’d hit a nerve. This should’ve made me feel guilty. But, guess what? It didn’t. “You seem like a very intelligent person,” I told her with measured condescension, “but even clever girls make mistakes in judgment sometimes.