Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood(30)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Hey,” Dakota said. “Ease up. It’s hard settling in. Grace’s doing fine, we can’t all be social butterflies.”

“I’m not a butterfly, I’m more . . . a hummingbird,” Hallie declared. “Rare, delicate —”

“Arrogant,” Grace added.

“Exhausting,” Dakota finished, with a grin.

Grace laughed.

“Don’t listen to Hallie,” Dakota told Grace, meeting her eyes in the mirror again. “High school is hell on earth. As far as I’m concerned, if you make it through the day without wanting to slit your wrists, you’re winning.”

“Yeah, I’m not quite at the Bell Jar phase just yet.” Grace smiled. “It’s just, hard, that’s all. They’ve all known each other forever, and everyone is so . . .”

“Spoiled? Rich? Bitchy?” Dakota offered.

“Pretty much.”

Hallie sighed. “I’ve told you, Ana Lucia’s little sister is a senior, and Tai’s cousin is in your English class. Hang out with them!”

Grace didn’t reply. Those kids were the über-popular crowd, all glossy haired and stylish, and although Hallie might have waltzed into their platinum-credit-card world — meeting her new, shiny friends for brunches, and shopping, and cocktail nights sneaking into the Roosevelt Hotel — Grace knew she didn’t belong. One lunchtime spent lingering on the edge of their crowd as they planned a lavish birthday dinner, and weekend trip to Catalina (“because, like, who stays at home to celebrate anyway?”) was enough to prove for certain that they occupied entirely different realities.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “I’m a lone wolf, remember?”

“A-roooo!” Dakota howled. Hallie giggled, and nestled up against him; auburn curls spilling over his leather jacket.

Grace felt that pang again. “Actually, guys, could you just drop me here?”

“You sure?” Dakota checked. “It’s no trouble.”

“It’s just a couple of blocks,” Grace said. “I could use the walk.”

He pulled over. She grabbed her bag, and clambered out.

“Tell Mom I’ll be back late!” Hallie called.

“Are you kidding?” Grace sighed. “She started a new portrait series. You could elope to Vermont, and she wouldn’t notice.”

Grace’s tone must have revealed something, because Hallie paused, leaning out the car window. “Maybe we could hang tomorrow,” she suggested brightly. “Go to a movie, or something.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dakota added. “Maybe if you come along, we’ll outvote her, and I’ll get to see something that doesn’t involve tragic deaths due to consumption.”

Grace gave them a faint smile. “It’s OK, I don’t need babysitting.”

Hallie rolled her eyes. “Duh. I’m just saying, someone needs to get you out of the house.”

“It’s OK,” Grace insisted. “Anyway, I have work. Thanks for the ride!”

Grace wandered slowly back to the Jennings estate. Or, as she couldn’t bring herself to think of it yet, home. If there was anything worse than Hallie’s relentless remarks about Grace’s supposed secret love affair with Theo, it was the pity invites to tag along with her and Dakota. Grace knew that Hallie meant well, but she would far prefer to sit at home, alone, instead of be the third wheel as they gazed into each other’s eyes, and murmured sweet nothings through the night.

Her phone buzzed with a new text. Theo.

Catalyst: 32 points. Bow at my erudite majesty, peon!

She should be glad, that nothing had changed, and part of her was. But the other part, the part that wistfully longed for something more. . . .

I bow to no one, she texted back. The peasants shall rise and defeat you yet.

A car slowed nearby.

“And on your left is the Carson estate, site of the Hollywood Hell murders of nineteen fifty-two.”

Grace looked up. Their neighborhood saw a steady stream of tourists on the star tour trail — strapped into open-top buses, clicking their cameras in unison — but this seemed unlike the others: five Japanese tourists clustered around an old pink convertible, with a blond girl on her hands and knees, trying to change a flat tire.

“Three of the Carson daughters burned to death in a fire,” the girl continued loudly, heaving at the jack. She was wearing tweed city shorts and a white shirt that was crumpled and smeared with dust. “It was rumored to be a mob hit, but nobody was ever arrested for the crime.”

She looked up, and saw Grace staring at them. “Look! One of the Carson granddaughters!” She pointed at Grace. “They’re famous recluses. Photos, everyone!”

The tourists turned, and began snapping. Grace instinctively covered her face. “What’s going on?” She moved closer to the car. “I’m not a Carson!”

“Shh! They don’t know that!” the girl hissed. “I need to give them something, or they’ll start asking for their money back!” She rocked back on her heels, wiping her forehead — and leaving a trail of dirt.

“You’ve got, um . . .” Grace pulled a tissue from her bag, then paused, looking at the girl again. “You go to my school, don’t you? We have gym together.”

“Right!” The girl brightened. “You were the one who hit Cassidy in the face with the volleyball.”

Grace cringed. “I really didn’t mean to.”

“Are you kidding? That was, like, the highlight of my entire week. She’d only just gotten the bandages off from her nose job! I mean, ‘deviated septum surgery,’ ” the girl corrected, with a grin. “Oh, I’m Palmer.” She offered a hand to shake, then stopped. It was covered in grease.

“Grace,” Grace replied. “Do you, umm, need any help with that?”

“Would you?” Palmer brightened. “I’ve seen this done, like, a million times, but I can’t seem to make all the pieces fit.” She hauled herself up, and turned to the tourists. “The next house up is where Brad Pitt once mowed the lawn in nineteen ninety-two, when he was working as a yard boy to pay rent!”

The tourists aah-ed, and obediently went to snap photos.

“Did he?” Grace asked.

Palmer shrugged. “He could have. Why ruin their happiness?”

Grace laughed, taking the pieces of the wrench and fitting them together. “Why didn’t you call someone?” she asked. The car was old, but it was in gleaming new condition, and Palmer’s clothes were clearly designer beneath the mud stains.