“Are you … asking me out on a date?”

“Um. Yes. Look, I know we may have gotten off on the wrong foot … and your mother is my mother’s aromatherapist, and let’s be honest, aromatherapy is complete nonsense and she is sort of crazy and I know some of your friends don’t exactly move in the same circles as mine, but … I like you.”

“You like me?” Aaargh! I’m doing it again. I try to force my dazed brain to form words. New words.

“Yes. Sort of against my will. You’re hot, and funny, and loyal, and…”

“Loyal?” OK, that’s it. “Loyal? To my friends who don’t move in the ‘right circles’? To my ‘sort of crazy mother’? You like me against your will?”

I can’t believe I’m still repeating her words, but at least the scorn and anger seems to be coming through. She takes a step back, startled.

“I know you broke up Jane and Bing,” I hiss. “I know what you said to him. You think you’re too good for us, with your enormous house, and your fancy schools. Please. Jane is worth ten of you! She is a good person, who would never say any of this, because she’d be too worried about hurting your feelings. I can’t imagine you’ve ever given a single thought to another human being’s feelings.”

Darcy takes another step back, looking like I slapped her. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes her eyes, and when she opens them again it’s like she’s pulled a wall down in front of her.

“I’m glad you have none of Jane’s concerns. About hurting my feelings.”

I flush, feeling a tiny twinge of regret in my chest.

“Have a nice life, Lizzie Bennet,” she says, and walks away, leaving me in the middle of the cafeteria holding on to my tray for dear life.

*

It takes a while, but eventually Jane goes from sobbing every day to once a week. She still stares longingly at Bing when she thinks I’m not looking. I try to make sure I’m not doing any of that myself, but Darcy is everywhere. And she seems intent on proving what a nice person she is. Every time I see her she’s volunteering for some new cause or carrying books for someone on crutches. It’s ridiculous.

It’s no help to me or Jane that Lydia is in the middle of possibly the most PDA-ish relationship of all time with Wickham. They spend so much time attached at the lips it’s a wonder they don’t develop sores. It’s a thrilling addition to our lunch table. But at least Lydia is happy.

Which is why it really sucks when one Saturday I wake up to another phone call, and this time it’s Lydia sobbing.

I try to get the details from her but she’s completely incoherent. Which makes sense once Jane texts me a screenshot of Wickham’s Insta story.

“Poll: How slutty are you on a scale of 1 to Lydia?”