The Rules of Love & Grammar Read online

  For a second, I don’t say anything. I thought we already had this conversation a few days ago. Is that why he lured me in here—to go on, again, about my career? “Dad, I know you know some people,” I say, my neck stiffening. “But you’re talking about poets and novelists and people like that.”

  He takes a long sip of his gin and tonic, walks back to the chair, and sits down. “Really, Grace, you make it sound as though I’m hanging around with ax murderers.”

  “No, it’s just that I’m not talented enough to work with people like that.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve got all the talent in the world. And these are good people. I know they’d be happy to help you if they can. I’d like to get you out of the bike shop.” He sits down. “And the proofreading.”

  “It wasn’t proofreading,” I remind him again. “And the bike shop is only for a couple of weeks.”

  “Just hear me out. I actually have a lead for you on something.” He leans forward, his stomach protruding slightly under the sweater. “Did you ever meet Paul Duffner?”

  Paul Duffner. The name doesn’t sound familiar. “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s a colleague of mine at the university. In the English Department. He’s working on a fantastic book, all about the Dutch poet and playwright Joost van den Vondel. Seventeenth century. The Shakespeare of Holland. In fact, Shakespeare may owe a debt to Vondel, if you ask me. And certainly, if you ask Duff. Milton may have even drawn some inspiration for Paradise Lost from Vondel’s Lucifer. I’ll bet you didn’t know that when you read Paradise Lost, did you?”

  Should I tell him I’ve never actually read Paradise Lost? Maybe not.

  “Well, it’s an exciting project, and Duff could really use a research assistant to help him with—”

  “Dad, please.” I hold up my hand. “I don’t think this is for me.” I can’t imagine doing research on a seventeenth-century Dutch anything. Maybe I do need a drink. I get up and walk to the bar, where I pour myself a glass of sauvignon blanc. I take a long sip and then top it off. The idea that I’m not interested in a job like this probably makes me a big—or, rather, bigger—disappointment to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “But it’s just not the right thing for me. And I couldn’t do it even if it were. I’m not staying here.” I gesture at the room but intend to indicate more than the house. “As soon as my apartment is fixed, I’m leaving. I need to get back to New York and start looking for a job there. Something will come along.” I’m not sure I’m convincing him. I’m barely convincing myself. But I don’t want my father to think he’s my new career counselor.

  Dad takes off his glasses and sighs. “Finding something isn’t the answer, Grace. It’s finding the right thing. You could do worse than work for Paul Duffner for a year. You could learn something new. You might even enjoy studying poetry again.”

  “I know you’re trying to help. But, please, let me do this myself.”

  He taps his glasses on the arm of the chair. “But, Grace.” He pauses. “The bike shop?”

  “You know, I actually kind of like it there. I got a good start today, and I think I can really help them. I think I’m doing something they need.”

  “I’m sure they need it,” he says. “Who wouldn’t want to have a bright, attractive young woman like you, summa cum laude from Middlebury, organizing their store, essentially for free? They’re getting the deal of the century. But what are you getting? You can’t put that job on your résumé.”

  I try to interrupt, but he goes on. “You know, the other night I was looking for that poem you wrote about the garden and the rabbit that ate the string beans. I thought we might have it in the attic. I couldn’t find it, but I did find something else—that script you wrote in college. I think you should read it, maybe remind yourself how talented you really are.”

  Oh, no. Not my college screenplay again. “I don’t need to read it,” I tell him, recalling the angst I felt trying to come up with the right ending for a story of two sisters, one dying of cancer. “It was mediocre at best.”

  His mouth goes slack, and he looks at me as though it’s him I’ve insulted. He rubs his glasses with the bottom of his sweater, holds them up for inspection, and then puts them back on.

  “Don’t you think I recognize good writing when I see it?”

  “You’re my father. You probably think anything I write is good.”

  He leans in across the table, closing the space between us. “That’s not so. I’m being objective here. Your script is good.” He takes another sip of his drink. Flecks of lime swirl in the glass. “Personally,” he says, “I can only assume you’re stalling for time.”

  Uh-oh, here we go. It’s as though he’s flipped a switch inside me, one that runs on circuitry so well established, I can’t help but respond. “I’m not stalling for time,” I say, my stomach tightening.

  “I think you are. Working in a bike shop? That’s not real life. When are you going to get started with life, Grace? You’re thirty-three. I think you know you’re cut out for greater things, but you’re afraid to try. So you’d rather inventory handlebar grips or whatever nonsense they’ve got you doing.”

  I sit up straighter. “I’m not inventorying handlebar grips, and it’s not nonsense. I’m reorganizing the workroom. It’s a big task. Lots of responsibility. They’re counting on me.”

  “Honey, you could work for a magazine,” he says. “Or a book publisher. I could call Matt Rosenberg. I know he’d meet with you.”

  “Of course he’d meet with me. He’s your publisher.” I wring my hands. “That’s enough. Why are you doing this?”

  “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 pa
rents 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.

  Chapter 14

  The subject of a sentence is the noun or pronoun that performs the verb.

  A woman may attract the attention of more than one man.

  The 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:

  Grace,

  I, more than anyone, know how special and talented you are. Here is just one example, from your college days. Very impressive! Please read this and believe that I believe in you.

  With much love,

  Dad

  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.