The Rules of Love & Grammar (27 page)

“Nice dress, Courtney,” the boy says, stepping back to admire her.

“You think so?” Courtney looks down shyly. “Thanks, Tom.”

He nods. “You look really cool. I usually don't see you dressed up.”

“Yeah, I guess I just never have the chance.” Another couple dances closer to Courtney and Tom, and Courtney smiles and waves to them over Tom's shoulder.

I want to lose myself in the moment, and the memory, but I can't stop thinking about the dress. That yellow is so brash. It should be green. And strapless. Peter glances at me and gives my fingers a little squeeze.

Tom and Courtney continue their slow dance to our song, as the singer's words float around me. But her voice seems a bit high, and the beat a little fast.

Courtney gives Tom's tie a tug. “You look nice, too,” she says.

“I borrowed this tie from my dad. I couldn't find mine. Maybe it was the weed. I guess I got a little too stoned.” He laughs.

Courtney laughs as well.

What is he talking about? I don't remember him being stoned. I wasn't stoned. Is he getting this confused with some other dance? Or have I misunderstood the whole night?

Tom looks at his necktie, and his eyes go dark. “Actually, I just took it. I didn't have a chance to ask him. He and my mom were in the middle of another fight.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well…” He looks away. “That's how it's been lately. They can never just talk anymore. It's always yelling and fighting. The other night she threw a glass at him.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah, Mom thinks Dad's cheating on her. I don't know if it's true, but he does act really weird sometimes.”

I glance at Peter and wonder what's going on. This isn't the conversation we had. This isn't our night.

On the monitor, two boys are goofing around, doing a head-banging dance. One of them runs into Tom, almost knocking him down.

“Hey, watch it, Greeley!” Tom shouts.

“What's your problem, Baxter?” Greeley says.

“You almost knocked me down, you asshole.”

Greeley scrunches up his face. “You're the asshole.”

The next second they're shoving each other, and then they're on the floor, fists flying. Courtney is screaming, and the other kids, all huddled around the two boys, are screaming as well.

“That's enough, that's it!” A man pushes his way through the crowd and pulls the boys apart.

“And cut!” Peter shouts. The actors stay in their places.

This is crazy. This isn't what happened. He's not telling it the right way. He didn't say anything to me about his father cheating on his mother, and that fight never took place. The whole thing is off. The room feels hot, stuffy. My forehead is throbbing. I pull off the headset, and the silver crown falls to the floor.

I turn to Peter. “I think I need to go. I feel funny.” I stand up. “A little nauseous.”

He lays his palm against my cheek. “Hmm. You are warm. We've got a medic here. Maybe we should call her.”

“No. Thanks. I just need to go home.”

He looks worried. “I'll have Cassie walk you out.”

“No, no. Please. I'll be fine.”

“Grace, come on. You don't look well.”

I hold up my hands. “I'll be fine. Just let me go.”

I step away from the chairs and the monitors, Peter calling after me, telling me he'll be in touch later to make sure I'm all right. I head toward a set of doors in the back. The balloons hanging from the ceiling look cold and drab, the gauzy fabric limp and lifeless.

Doesn't he remember? We danced and talked and walked outside. We went down to the docks and the boats were in the moorings and the water sparkled as if it were made of a million stars. And he leaned toward me and said, “Hey, you,” and then he kissed me. He doesn't even have the kiss in the scene. He has a fight instead. A fight that never happened. He's taken my best night and ruined it, sent it down some dark tributary where it doesn't belong. I need to hang on to that night. Otherwise, what will I have left?

I brush by a bearded man in cargo pants and open the door. I run down the hall and out a side exit that leads to the parking lot. The breeze is damp and briny and cold now, and I shiver as I race toward the VW.

Once I'm in the car, the engine catches, and I press my foot hard on the gas. The VW lurches forward, taking me away from the parking lot and the yacht club and my green dress and our dance and the dock and the stars and the way Peter looked at me that night and everything that was good and true and beautiful, before my world collapsed.

I
n my closet, far back on the top shelf, a small plastic bag is tucked away. I open the door and reach for the bag, its green letters still dark against the white background:
Woodside/Your Family Pharmacy.
On my bed, I take out the faded receipt and smooth the wrinkles. Then I remove the bottle from the bag and brush my fingers over the tiny blue flowers that form a border around the name Jardin. Once, a long time ago, it was my favorite shampoo. I twist off the cap and breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of rose, white lily, and violet.

Closing my eyes, all I can see is Renny and me. I want to remember the two of us riding our bikes down Harbor Road, sitting on the dock with our legs in the water. I want to remember lying in the hammock, the tree branches over our heads, the afternoon sun blinking down on us. I want the memories from the days when we're still kids, the days before anything bad has happened. But all I see is the two of us on the evening of the accident.

Renny, I'm sorry,
I say.
I'm sorry.
The words come out choked in sobs, tears slipping down my cheeks as I clutch the bottle to my chest. I don't hear my father walking down the hall. He stops at my doorway.

“Grace, are you all right?” He's dressed in his white button-down shirt and gray pants. He must have been teaching today. He looks at me, puzzled.

I turn away and wipe my eyes. “Not really,” I say, and then the tears start again.

“What's wrong?” He sits down next to me.

“Doyle? Are you ready?” my mother calls from downstairs.

“I'm up here,” he says. “In Grace's room. I think you'd better come up, Leigh.”

I hear Mom's footsteps on the stairs. The flash of her smile fades when she sees us. “What's going on?”

I clutch the bottle tighter.

“Grace?” Mom says, quietly drawing out my name. She sits down on the other side of me.

I shake my head. I can't speak.

“Honey?” She brushes her hand across my wet cheek. “What's got you so upset?”

“It was all…”

Mom looks at me expectantly. “What? All what?” she asks, her voice soft.

“It was all my fault.”

She puts her arm around me. Dad gently pulls the bottle away and looks at it. They know it was in the car the night Renny died. But they don't know she bought it for me that evening, after our fight, as a peace offering. Like the peace offerings Dad leaves. Renny used to do that, too.

Mom puts the shampoo back in the bag. “Grace, it wasn't your fault. How could it have been your fault?”

But it was. And my life is such a mess. How stupid I was to believe Peter could make everything better, to think he could bring back the happiness that died along with Renny. It's as if I'm standing on a shoreline and waves are pulling the sand from under my feet, eroding my foundation. I've lost everything. In a few days I'll be going back to New York, and the only good thing waiting for me there is a new ceiling.

“You didn't have anything to do with the accident,” Dad says.

“But I did. I had everything to do with it.”

Mom pulls me closer. “Honey, you weren't even in the car.”

“No,” I say. “But I was here with her…” I start to cry again, and she brushes her hand over my hair, and all I can do is wait and catch my breath. “Before it happened,” I say. “When you were at that cocktail party. We got into a fight.”

I glance at my mother and then my father. Their faces are drawn, still. What have I done? Now I've started this and I have to go on and they're going to hate me. And then I'll lose them, too.

I close my eyes, and there's Renny, lying on her bed in her camo pants and spaghetti-strap tank top, staring at a bottle of fluorescent-yellow nail polish, the
Titanic
poster on the wall behind her, Metallica wailing in the background.

I'd been out all day, and she turned to me. “So, where were you?”

I told her I'd been shopping with Cluny and asked what she'd done with her afternoon. She shrugged. “Nothing. Was out for a while. Now I'm here.”

I could tell she'd been drinking. I'd seen her high before, and I'd seen her drunk—eyes glassy, speech thick. “Have you been drinking?” I asked.

“What?” She tried to open the bottle of nail polish, but her fingers fumbled around the cap.

“Have you been drinking? You sound weird.”

“Maybe. What do you care?”

“You shouldn't drink so much,” I said. “You're going to kill your brain cells.”

She flapped a hand at me. “So let 'em die. I've got more where those came from.”

“Not really,” I said.

“What did you buy?” she asked. “Shopping.”

I told her I bought a skirt. “For tomorrow. I'm going out with Peter.” It was to be our first real date.

“
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,”
she mumbled.
“Had a wife and couldn't keep her.”
She glanced at me. “Are you going to be Peter's wife, Grace?”

“Leave me alone, Renny. Why don't you go have another beer.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I will.” She opened the nail polish and started to brush it over one of her toenails, but she missed, and the neon yellow ended up on her foot. “So, Peter's your new boyfriend?” She stared at the yellow splotch. “Guess so, after that
big kiss
and all.”

I missed the sister who used to play Barbies with me, and ride bikes, and paste pictures from teen magazines on the wall of our secret space. But now, most of the time, that sister was unreachable.

“You're just jealous because I have a boyfriend,” I said.

She dabbed at her toes with the nail polish. “Why should I be jealous? I've had plenty of boyfriends.”

“I know, but you don't have one now.” It had only been a few days since Elliot Frasier broke up with her.

Renny put the cap on the nail polish and shook the bottle. “You really think a guy like Peter…” The bottle slipped out of her hand. She picked it up. “Popular guy like that. Wants to date you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Peter could date
anybody.
” She stretched the word as though it were elastic. “Like Missy Faulkner. He dated her, and she's a junior. I mean,
a year older.
I don't think he really wants to
date
you, Grace.”

I glanced at the
Titanic
poster. What did she mean, he doesn't really want to date me? “What are you talking about, Renny?”

“I just told you. He could date anybody.” She shoved a pillow under her head.

“Do you think he just wants to use me? Is that it? Is that what you're saying?” I looked at her and I wanted to punch her. I didn't care how drunk or stoned or whatever she was. “We've been friends for three years, Renny. I think I know him a lot better than that.”

“Well, good for you, Grace.” She sat up on the bed. “I'm sure he's totally in love with you, then. You know all about him.”

“I do know all about him. Stop being so mean.”

“
Stop being so mean,
”
she muttered, imitating me. “What are you going to do if Peter wants to have sex? Are you going to tell him you're a virgin?”

“Oh, shut up, Renny!” I started to walk out, and then I turned around. “You know what? I totally get why Elliot broke up with you. He probably couldn't stand being around you anymore. He finally figured out what a total bitch you are!”

“Don't talk about Elliot!” she screamed. She raised her fists, and drops of neon yellow fell to the white bedspread.

“Don't talk about Peter!”

For a moment, she didn't move. Then she got up and walked to the mirror. She straightened one of the straps on her top and muttered, “I'm outta here.”

“Where are you going?”

She pushed her hair behind her ears. “To a party.”

“Somebody's picking you up?” She couldn't be driving herself there.

She whirled around. “What are you, Mom, now, with all these questions? No, I'm driving.”

“You can't. You've been drinking.”

“God, you are Mom. I'm fine. Butt out, Grace. Go try on your new skirt. See if you can impress Peter.” She glared at me.

“You know, you ought to be happy for me that I have a boyfriend. But it's always about you, Renny. Everything always has to be about you. If you don't have a boyfriend, I can't have one. Well, I do have one. So go to your stupid party. Drink fifty beers or a gallon of vodka. I don't care. I hope you go out and get yourself killed!” I saw the shiny glint of Mom's car keys on Renny's desk, and I picked up the keys and flung them at her.

I turn to my mother. “And she did. She did. I wished she were dead, and it happened. And I can't get her back.”

“Grace, Grace,” my mother says, her arms warm around me.

Dad kisses the top of my head. “Sweetheart,” he says, “listen to me. You—”

“No, let me say this. I need to say this.” I push them away. “I always felt I had to walk in her footsteps.” I try to wipe the tears from my face. “Okay, maybe not always, but ever since we were teenagers. I hated the first day of school because when the teachers saw my name, they'd all ask me the same thing:
Are you Renny's sister?
She preceded me in
everything.
I was always second-best. I could never compete with her, never match her abilities, her accomplishments.” I take a deep breath. “She was better than me in everything. And I know that's why you loved her more, why you gave her all the attention, all of the encouragement. But it made me feel as though I couldn't do anything right.”

Mom puts her hand on my arm. “Oh, Grace. We didn't love Renny more. That's not true.”

“There were times,” I go on, “—maybe not many, and maybe they were quick, but they were still there—when I wished…” I gaze across the room, my chin quivering. “When I wished she didn't exist. I wanted her to be gone.” I bury my face in my hands. “And that's what happened. I wasn't careful about what I said. And my words—they set everything in motion, and it couldn't be stopped.”

“Grace, come on,” my father says. “That's not—”

“It was my fault. You don't understand. I knew about it. I knew about the drinking. I saw her when she'd been drinking. Lots of times. And I should have told you. It was a horrible mistake not to tell you.”

I glance at my father. He looks pale.

“You knew she was drinking?” Mom asks. There are fresh lines in her forehead. Her eyes have gone gray.

It's happening just how I imagined it would. Now they know the truth. They hate me. They don't want me around. And I don't blame them.

“I'd give anything,” I say. “To change places with Renny. To have her be here, and me be…there. I know that would make things better for you. I know how much you miss her and everything she meant to you. I ruined your lives by doing what I did.”

“Grace!” Mom says. “Stop right now. That's not true. Don't ever say that or even think it.” She turns my face so I'm looking in her eyes. “We love you so much, so very much.”

Dad wraps his arms around Mom and me. “None of what happened was your fault, Gracie.”

“How do you know?” I ask, my head down. “How do you really know? Don't you understand? Words have consequences. That's why we have to be so careful with them.”

My father lets out a deep breath. “Grace, your sister had some serious problems.”

My mother clasps my hand between hers. “We knew about the drinking,” she says. “We knew about the pot. We knew about the shoplifting.”

I look up. “What? You knew?”

“Parents aren't as unaware as their children might think they are,” she says, running her fingers over mine. “We wanted Renny to see a therapist. We tried to get her into a program, but she wouldn't go.”

“Did she ever tell you about that?” Dad asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

“She got picked up drinking at Captain Henry's one night,” Mom says. “At two in the morning. Your father had to go down to the police station. We were lucky they didn't arrest her. The officer was a fan of your dad's.
One free bite at the apple,
I think is what he said. He was very nice. He didn't have to do that.”

Captain Henry's. The police station. It all seems crazy. But then I have a distant memory, something so vague, it's more like a shadow of a memory—a Massachusetts driver's license, and on it, the photo of a girl with long, light-brown hair like Renny's and a birth date that made her twenty-one. I discovered it in one of Renny's bathroom drawers one day when I was rummaging around in her makeup. She told me she'd found it and was going to send it back to the owner. Now I know that was a lie. Looking back, it seems so naive of me not to have realized what was going on, but I think I wanted to fool myself. I didn't want to believe she had changed that much. I wanted to believe she was still the same sister I'd always known and loved and respected.

Dad glances at Mom. “It's hard being a parent,” he says. “You never think you'll have to deal with the things you end up dealing with. And half the time you're not happy about the way you've handled them. Maybe more than half. You can't press Pause and Rewind and do it over.”

He looks at Mom, whose eyes are misty. “I remember the first time I realized the vodka was being watered down,” he says. “And the first time your mom discovered a couple of empty beer cans in Renny's closet. You wonder, is this just teenage experimentation? And you hope it is. But then, over time, you begin to understand the extent of it, and you know it's not. You keep finding the empty beer cans, and then one night, you get a call from the police station telling you they just picked up your daughter with a fake ID at the local bar.”