The Rules of Love & Grammar (21 page)

“Doing what? I'm just trying to help.” He tilts his head, his neck sagging a little.

“No, you're not. You're trying to map out my life, because you can't do it for Renny anymore.”

There's a crash in the kitchen, and the sound of something splintering into a million pieces. “Oh, damn,” I hear my mother say, quiet and resigned.

Dad gets up and walks to the doorway. “Everything okay, Leigh?”

“Yes,” Mom calls back. “Just dropped a plate.”

He sits down again. “What are you talking about—mapping out people's lives? Don't be ridiculous. I'm only—”

“I'm not being ridiculous.” My stomach is in knots. “I don't need this kind of micromanagement. I'll figure things out.”

I feel myself shaking. I'm on the verge of crying, and all I can think about is how this would be the worst day of my life except that there will only be one worst day of my life. It's also the worst day of my father's life and the worst day of my mother's life, and that's the day Renny died. The thought of that makes me angry and sad at the same time, because somehow our lives—mine, my mother's, and my father's—have always been about Renny, and still are about Renny, even seventeen years later.

I stand up. “I'm sorry but I can't be Renny. I'm never going to be her.”

My father rubs his forehead. “Nobody expects you to be Renny. That's not what this is about.”

“Isn't it, though? Isn't that exactly what it's about? She did what you wanted. Reciting those stupid poems at dinner and poring over all those biographies of writers you love. She wanted to be an English lit major, for God's sake. You can't tell me you weren't behind that.”

He raises his hands in protest. “I wasn't.”

“I don't believe you. Now Renny's gone, and it's all on me. All the attention you used to lavish on her has nowhere else to go. Well, I don't want that kind of attention. Not now. Don't try to make me be Renny. I'm not her.”

I storm out of the room before he can say another word.

It's been a long time since I've opened this door, and I'm not surprised when it sticks. I finally pull hard enough to look inside. It's a small space, tucked under the stairway that goes from the second floor to the attic, a space originally intended to be used as a storage closet but discovered by two young sisters who claimed it as their secret spot. It was a place for them to drag blankets, curl up on the floor, and tell ghost stories on rainy days, a place to keep their favorite books, a place to draw on the walls without fear of being scolded, and, years later, to cover those same walls with pictures—clothing ads, makeup ads, TV stars, rock bands, friends, boyfriends. Although I never asked her, I've always felt that this was the original shrine, the place that inspired my mother to create the others.

I locate the switch inside the doorway, and when I press it, a soft, pink bulb glows from the ceiling like a cotton-candy sunset. It was Renny's idea. She always loved pink. I try to remember how many years it's been since I've set foot in here. Five? Six? Everything looks the same. The two white cushions on the floor, rescued from the old sofa my parents got rid of decades ago; the blue vase in the corner, with its silk tiger lilies; yellow throw pillows Renny dragged in after she redecorated her bedroom in lavender; a book on hairstyles, with a picture of Jennifer Aniston on the cover, circa
Friends;
an old makeup case with a half-used pink lipstick called Dream Girl.

I stare at the collage of photos Renny and I arranged on the wall so many years ago. In one, I'm a year old, and Renny is holding me with a three-year-old's eager, proud grin. In another, we're in the auditorium at Howe Elementary, and my third-grade class has just completed its spring musical program. Something about the pioneers and westward expansion. I still remember the red and white checked dress I wore. I looked like a picnic tablecloth.

There's a picture of Renny and me and Mom and Dad at the pond in Central Park, on the trip we took to New York when Dad was getting the Northeastern Poetry Society Prize. There are people in rowboats behind us and, beyond them, clusters of trees and a huge building with towers soaring into an endless sky. I think that must have been 1992. I was in fourth grade, and Renny was in sixth. I remember the cream-colored sweater she's wearing, with the faux fur around the collar and the pearl buttons. I remember there was a boy she liked back then, and the thought of it scared me. I thought boys were such losers.

There's a photo of us in our driveway, me with my Raleigh and Renny with her Schwinn. We're holding the handlebars, a breeze blowing our hair, Long Island Sound whipping up a little chop behind us, like icing on the water. When I remove the thumbtack to take the photo off the wall for a closer look, I find another picture behind it. It's Renny, on the night of her senior prom at Dorset High. She's standing next to a boy with dark hair and sleepy eyes. It's the middle of May, only a week before she died.

Her hair is long, styled in loose waves that unfurl down her back. She's wearing a pale-blue gown, the most gorgeous thing I'd ever seen. She and Mom bought it weeks before the prom, and as soon as I saw it, I was dying to try it on. One day, when no one was home, I did. But it didn't look good on me. The hem dragged on the floor, and the bust was too big. I felt like a child pretending to be a grown-up.

Smoothing the bent corner of the photo, I stare at Renny. She's beautiful. That's the thing about death. It freezes you in time, locks you into a moment. She'll always look that way. She'll never have a wrinkle, a blemish, crow's feet, a sagging neck. She'll never worry about finding a job or whether the man she's in love with will love her back or what the rest of her life is going to be like.

I gaze at the boy with the sleepy eyes, Elliot Frasier, the former star quarterback of the Dorset Dragons. He dated Renny all senior year, took her to the prom, and then broke up with her just a few days before the Cinderella Ball. What happened the evening Renny died was my fault. I know that. But it started with Elliot. Renny wouldn't have been upset if Elliot hadn't broken up with her. I often wonder about that. If she hadn't been dating Elliot, if she had never met Elliot, if Elliot had never been born…There's no stopping how far back I can go.

I saw him only once after that summer, here in town. He was coming out of Tyler's Stationery. It must have been ten years ago. He was dressed in a suit and tie, and his hair was a lot shorter than he used to wear it. He was with a woman in a white dress, and she was carrying a shopping bag. I wondered what was in there. Invitations to their wedding? She was smiling; he was laughing. I wanted to shout,
You have no right to laugh. If my sister had never met you, she might be alive today!
I was about twenty feet away, walking in their direction. I would have run right into them. Instead, I buried those words in my heart and crossed the street. What else could I do? I tack the picture back on the wall, covering it once more with the photo of Renny and me and our bikes.

There's a wicker basket full of magazines, and I sit on the old sofa cushion and grab the issue of
Seventeen
from the top of the pile. In my early teen years, every girl I knew read this magazine, devouring the how-to articles on flirting and dating, columns about “true” embarrassing moments we all knew were fabricated, and sobering, cautionary tales of girls whose best friends had died of rare diseases. This issue, from November of 1995, has a very young Natalie Portman on the cover.

I pick up an April 1994 issue of
YM,
full name
Young & Modern,
although nobody ever called it that. This magazine was my go-to, my staple, back in the day. Drew Barrymore is on the cover, a teenager herself. “Drew: How She Beat Her Bad Rep” is the lead article, followed by stories on acne, the mysteries of men, and “Heather Locklear: Her Shocking Hair & Hunk History.”

I pull out a few more magazines, and then I find something a little different—a 1996 issue of
Cosmopolitan
with Cindy Crawford on the cover, and it feels as though someone's just opened a window and let in a blast of arctic air. This is what Renny took from Nutmeg Market the day I realized she'd begun to shoplift. Cluny and I were riding by on our bikes, and Renny was walking out of the market with some friends, one of whom had already turned sixteen and was driving. I saw Renny pull a magazine from under her sweater and hold it up like a trophy right before she got into the car.

When I went into her room that night, I found her sitting at the vanity in her bathroom, trying on plum-colored lipstick. Green Day was blasting on her portable CD player.
Cosmo
lay splayed on the floor.

I pointed to the magazine. “I know you stole that.”

She glanced at me in the mirror. “What?”

“I saw you coming out of Nutmeg Market. I know you stole the magazine. You had it under your sweater.”

She shrugged, picked up a pair of scissors, and trimmed a few split ends from her hair. “So I take things sometimes. So what?” I think she had second thoughts then, about admitting it, because she shot me a nasty look and added, “Don't you dare tell Mom.”

“You shouldn't do that,” I said. “It's wrong. And you're going to get caught. Why don't you just buy it?”

“Because I don't have the money.”

“Then ask Mom,” I said. “Or I'll give you money.” I was a better saver back then.

“Grace, butt out,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

After that, I worried about anything new she brought home—jewelry, clothes, CDs, magazines, makeup—wondering if she'd bought it with her allowance or if she'd stolen it, wondering when she'd get caught. But she didn't. She never got caught.

There's a knock on the door. I sit still, hoping if I don't make a sound, Dad or Mom, whichever one of them is out there, will go away.

“Grace, are you in there?” It's Dad.

I remember the disappointment Renny and I felt as kids when we discovered that our secret room wasn't as secret as we'd thought—that our parents had known about it for years. When I was ten, I overheard Mom say something to Dad about
the girls' little hideout.
And I knew. Years later my mother told me she had once considered putting shelves in there to store the Christmas decorations, but when she realized Renny and I had laid claim to it, she canceled the plan.

My father knocks again, and I hold my breath. I don't want to talk about Renny anymore. I glance at the cover of
Cosmo
again. Cindy Crawford's brown eyes stare back at me. My parents don't know about the shoplifting. Or anything else. And I'm not about to tell them.

Dad turns the door handle, but the door sticks and rubs against the jamb. I wait for him to give it a little shove, a little more pressure, but it doesn't happen. Instead, I hear his footsteps recede down the hall. I return the copy of
Cosmo
to the stack of magazines, and I sit there on the old sofa cushion, under the pink light, wishing Renny were with me, wishing I'd never done what I did on that last day.

T
he next morning, on the kitchen counter, I find a manila envelope with my name scrawled on the back in Dad's handwriting. Inside is something I haven't seen in at least a decade—
All She Ever Knew,
my college script from Essentials of Screenwriting, junior year, Mrs. Semple. Clipped to the cover page is a note, written on a little piece of paper with the logo of a chisel and the name
Whorley Tools
at the top:

Ever since I was little, my father has made a habit of leaving things for me to find at times when I'm upset, especially when I'm upset with him. Once he left a pair of his old eyeglasses on my bureau, along with a poem he wrote about needing to see more clearly. Other times he's left books, usually by obscure but nonetheless talented poets. Once he left a pair of my baby shoes, little pink Reebok sneakers, next to my pillow, with a note that said he would never be more than a few footsteps away. And now he's done it again.

But I'm not sure I want to look at my college screenplay. I don't think it was all that good, and I still feel a bit guilty about the A that Mrs. Semple gave me. She should have given me an incomplete, but I guess she thought she was doing me a favor. She knew how many times I'd rewritten the ending, that I couldn't seem to get it right.

A story about a young woman whose sister has terminal cancer can really go in only one direction. Yet one of my versions included a last-minute, miracle cure developed by a handsome research physician/love interest. Another featured the discovery that the sister's perfectly normal X-rays had accidentally been switched with those of a terminally ill patient. And those endings were the most credible of the bunch.

The night before the project was due, I jettisoned the ending altogether, and the next day I turned in an unfinished script. I remember Mrs. Semple looking at me with her quiet blue eyes and saying,
Someday you'll write the ending.

On the way out the door, I put the script on the Chippendale chest. Maybe I'll look at it later. It's sweet of my father to tell me he thinks it's good. For that, I feel grateful.

I spend the morning sorting through piles of stuff on the worktable at the bike shop, asking Kevin and A.J. questions, taking pictures of parts and making new labels with names and photos on them. At noon I run out for lunch. When I return, a dozen women are crowded around the shop's entrance, all talking at once. “I'm getting this framed!” one of them says, pressing a piece of paper to her heart. “Those eyes,” another says. “Oh my God. I'd follow him anywhere.”

I squeeze by them and open the door. Kevin is near the counter, emptying the saddlebag on one of the rental bikes. A.J. is adjusting the back wheel of a mountain bike while its owner, a gray-haired man, looks on. The usual rubbery smell of the shop has been replaced with something sweet. Almost too sweet. It smells like jasmine and that terrible perfume Catch Me!

“What's going on?” I ask Kevin, trying not to inhale too deeply. “What are those women doing outside, and why does it smell in here?”

“I know,” he says, closing the saddlebag. “It's bad, isn't it?”

“It's awful.”

He steps behind the counter. “This dude came in a little while ago. He was looking at some of the bikes. Next thing I knew, all these ladies were in here. They were trying to make it look like they weren't paying any attention to the guy, but they were definitely checking him out. I knew something was up. Then I realized it was Sean Leeds. I recognized him from
Bullet Holes.
”

“Sean Leeds was here?” Oh my God. How did I miss him?

Kevin shrugs. “Yeah. It was definitely him, except he looks a little shorter in person. Man, there must have been thirty ladies here, all going crazy, asking for his autograph. The dude was nice about it, though. He even did some selfies.”

Thirty women. I wonder if Porcine Thighs was here. “Did anybody get rowdy?”

“Uh, well, this one lady…she wanted Sean to sign her chest, and she was going to take off her shirt, but Mitch said no way, and he walked her outside. She looked almost as old as my mom. That was scary. And some of them had these bottles of perfume they were spraying, until Mitch got them to stop, because it was really stinking up the place.”

“So, did he buy a bike, or was he just browsing?”

Kevin runs his finger along the stubble on his chin. “Uh, nope. He was looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. He asked for you. Said he went to your house first. Found out you were here.”

My house? “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No. When Mitch told him you weren't here, he left.”

“That's it? He didn't leave a message? A phone number?”

“No, but he left something else.”

Kevin bends down, and when he stands up again he's holding a huge orchid in a large clay pot. He places it on the counter. The orchid has a half-dozen long, green leaves and one twenty-inch bloom spike that shoots from its base into a tall, graceful arch. Attached to the bloom spike are nine massive blossoms—white with flecks of maroon.

“Wow.”

I step closer. It's some kind of cambria. Not your usual grocery store orchid. Nothing you could find around here, that's for sure.

“There's a note,” Kevin says, handing me a small envelope.

I rip it open.

I read the note again.
A new collection. This can be the first.
I turn the words over in my mind as I study the tiny dots of color on the orchid's petals. I can feel Kevin staring at me, but I can't stop smiling. Maybe Peter's forgotten about me, but it's nice to know that not everyone else has.

Kevin tilts his head. “So you and Sean Leeds are…like, friends?”

“Yeah, we're friends.”

The bells above the door ring, and three young women stroll in. “Gotta get to work,” Kevin says. As he walks toward the women, I hear him mutter, “Sean Leeds…Cool.”

I pick up the orchid and head into the workroom, where Renny's bike leans against the wall, untouched. A blue Fuji mountain bike is on one of the repair stands. The front wheel is off, and Mitch is removing the stem, the piece that connects the handlebars to the rest of the bike. I wonder when someone will start to work on the Schwinn.

“You just missed all the excitement,” Mitch says. “Hollywood came to the Bike Peddler. And apparently Hollywood was looking for you.”

“So I hear.” I try to keep my tone casual, as though I'm used to people like Sean Leeds inquiring after my whereabouts. I place the orchid on the file cabinet and drop my handbag into the drawer.

Mitch slides the fork, which holds the front wheel in place, off the bike. “Course, I could have done without the sideshow. Those women were nuts. Autographs, selfies; some of them were spraying that perfume you were wearing yesterday.” He gives me a cursory glance. “I had to put a stop to that. This is a bike shop after all, not Sephora.”

“Right,” I say. “Without that rubbery smell, people might not know.”

“I was afraid the lady with the thighs might be here and I'd have to wrestle her to the ground and confiscate her jasmine.”

I laugh. “I heard you did have to escort one unruly fan outside.”

“News travels fast. Who told you that?”

I pick up a seat post clamp from the worktable and deposit it in a container where several others are stored. “Kevin did. Something about an autograph on her chest?”

“I guess she ran out of paper.”

“Well, Sean does attract the ladies. He's a popular guy.” I watch as Mitch taps the fork with a hammer and some metal rings fall to the floor.

“Looks to me like you attracted him.”

“What?”

“Sean Leeds. He brought you an orchid.” Mitch glances at the file cabinet. “So now you really are hanging with the Hollywood crowd.”

Here we go again. “I barely know him. I just had a little talk with him one night.” I pick up a round piece of metal that looks like a ring. “What's this?”

“That's a headset bearing. It goes in one of those.” He points to the small plastic drawers above the worktable, half of which bear my new labels showing the names and photos of the parts inside. “By the way,” he says, “good idea with the labels.”

So he noticed the labels. And he likes them. Amazing.

“And the table looks a hell of a lot better.”

So he noticed that, too. I feel proud of my work.

Mitch picks up a new fork from the table. “Didn't you dance with him at a party?” he says, and I realize he's still talking about Sean.

“How did you hear about that?” I open and close several unlabeled drawers, looking for the place where the bearing belongs. “Is there an underground newspaper in town I don't know about?”

“Everybody heard about that. This is Dorset, remember. The story is that you danced with him in a greenhouse.”

“Oh my God, you really did hear everything. Yes, we were in a greenhouse, with orchids. That's why he got me an orchid.” All of a sudden I'm feeling defensive. Why does Mitch make me feel that way?

“So,” he says, “you danced with Sean, you're dating the director. I'd say you're in pretty good company there, Hollywood.” He slides the new fork onto the bike frame.

“Mitch, I'm not from Hollywood. I live in New York, but I'm
from
Dorset. Just like you. I'm a small-town girl. Not glitzy, not flashy, and definitely not Hollywood.” I find a drawer with the word Bearings scrawled on a faded label, and I drop the piece into it. “And, although I wish I were dating the director, I'm not. He didn't even have my name on the list to get into the movie shoot yesterday. After he
invited
me.”

Mitch puts the handlebars on the bike. “Maybe they only allow one guest at a time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Regan Moxley was there, right? Maybe there's a limit on the number of people who they let come watch.”

“There really
is
an underground newspaper here. You knew Regan was there?”

“That was in the real newspaper, Grace. There's a photo on the front page.”

“The front page of the
Review
?”

“Yeah. There's a copy on the counter, if you want to see it.”

I rush into the store and grab the paper, and right there on the front is a photo that makes my stomach lurch. Peter is smiling and pointing to something on a video monitor. And standing next to him, looking at him with dark, adoring eyes, is Regan.

The headline reads,
DIRECTOR REVIEWS FOOTAGE WITH DORSET'S NEWEST ACTRESS.
I feel my throat tighten as I read the caption.

I throw the paper on the counter. Regan got a part in the movie. An actual part. How is that even possible? He won't let me in to watch, but he gives Regan a part. I feel something start to tear inside me, and I just want to cry.

But I don't. I walk back into the workroom and stand in front of the table, looking at everything I still have to organize. I can feel Mitch staring at me. There's an awkward stretch of silence, and then he says, “Are you okay?”

No, I'm not okay. That's what I'd like to say. I watch as he puts the front wheel back on the Fuji, and I'm about to tell him I'm fine. But then I look at Renny's Schwinn again, and the thing that's tearing apart inside me rips even further.

“Is somebody going to get started on my bike?” My voice is wobbling, and I stop for a second to bring it under control. The last thing I want to do is cry. “I can't take looking at it any longer. I'll work extra hours if I need to, but I'd really appreciate it if someone could begin working on it.”

Mitch peers at me, his mouth ajar. “Well, yeah. We'll get it done,” he says, his voice soft. “I'll have A.J. start on it tomorrow.” He takes the Fuji off the repair stand and leans it against the end of the worktable. “Are you still planning to ride it in the challenge?”

“I don't think I'm going to do the challenge,” I tell him. “I haven't really been on a bike in years. I only signed up because Regan was making such a big deal about it. I felt I had to compete with her.” I pick up another bearing and let it fall into the plastic drawer. “But obviously I can't.”

Mitch walks over to Renny's bike, lifts it up, and sets it in the repair stand.

“Are you going to begin working on it?” I ask, feeling a sudden rush of hope.

“Yeah,” he says. “You're doing your part of the deal, so I'll do mine.”

“Fantastic,” I say, stepping closer to the bike and imagining it with a new seat that's not rotted and peeling, wheel spokes that aren't gray and oxidized, tires that aren't flat and cracked, and a chain that's not coated in rust. “I can't believe you're going to take this whole bike apart and put it back together.” The prospect seems daunting, but also thrilling.

He runs his hand along the top tube. “I've rebuilt plenty of old bikes, and it's always interesting. You usually run into some kind of challenge. Sometimes you'll have a nut that's frozen on there because it hasn't been moved for a long time, and it just doesn't want to come off.”