Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood(33)
Author: Abby McDonald

Was Hallie right? Grace turned the question over in her mind for the rest of the day, as she breezed through the rest of her homework; curled on a calico couch on the back patio. Was love like that: mindless, and headlong, like hurling yourself off a tall building? Grace had always thought she was sensible to be so careful when it came to her heart, but there Hallie was: careless to the core, but spinning in some boy’s arms all the same.

Perhaps Grace was the fool, for always holding back.

With Hallie swept up in Dakota and their grand plans for a road trip, Grace tried to focus on her own life for once: spending the next weeks hanging out with Palmer, and surrendering to Harry’s frequent requests for study sessions; even though, it seemed, studying was the last thing he wanted to do.

“So how are you finding it here?” Harry abandoned his textbooks for the fifth time that hour, sitting with his feet dangling in the pool in Uncle Auggie’s backyard. Grace was beginning to wonder if he had ADD or some such other affliction, for all the distractions he seemed to find. “It must be cool, being so ahead on everything.”

Grace shrugged. “It’s actually kind of boring,” she admitted, moving to sit beside him. She shucked off her sandals and plunged her feet in the water, sighing with pleasure as the cool water hit her skin. Indian summer had turned out to be standard for fall in L.A.: the weather so hot that week it made Grace long for the chilled mists back home. “I spend most of the time in class just waiting around.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are.” Harry splashed happily, knee-length skater shorts red against the terra-cotta tiles. “I think it would be great, just kicking back, not stressing about everything.”

“Sure, but it gets old.” Grace sighed. “And the teachers really don’t like having to give me extra work.”

“Just be glad you have the time,” Harry told her, splashing some more. “My parents are already bugging me about colleges. Yay Asian stereotypes!”

Grace laughed.

“It’s not funny. They’re making me join the baseball team, and do all kinds of extracurriculars. You should think about that too,” he added. “Clubs and activities and stuff. I mean, it sucks, but they’re kind of right.”

“I guess.” Grace was reluctant. “I’m not really a joiner.”

“Tell that to the admissions people,” Harry said darkly. “Yeah, sorry I only have a 4.0 GPA and no bullshit student activities, I was actually studying, instead of pretending to be a well-rounded citizen.”

Grace laughed again.

“No, I’m serious,” Harry continued. “It’s this big game that everyone keeps playing. You think anyone believes we’re volunteering because we care, and not just for the credit?”

“But does that make a difference to the people you’re helping?” Grace pointed out.

“A philosopher,” Harry teased. “Great.”

Theo was studying philosophy, Grace couldn’t help but think. Studying it at Stanford, only six hours and six minutes away on the freeway — traffic depending. She’d checked.

“Listen,” Harry said, his tone suddenly hesitant. “You, umm, want to get together later?”

“It’s OK, we should have the chapters finished soon.” Grace eased her feet out of the pool and went back to the table for her drink. She took a gulp, surveying the spread of textbooks and notes. “Don’t worry, McLaren won’t test us on the next section yet. We have tons of time.”

“No.” Harry coughed. “I meant, like, for a movie or something.”

“Oh.” Grace froze. She turned back to Harry, suddenly gripped with awkwardness. “I . . . I mean . . .”

“Or, we could just grab a coffee,” Harry added quickly, looking about as agonized as Grace felt. “Or even go to this party Josh is having. His parents are out and he’s having some people over to watch movies and hang out. . . . Whatever you want.”

What she wanted. . . . Grace gulped. What she wanted was six hours away. “I don’t think . . .” She trailed off. She’d never once been asked out by a boy before, not on an actual date, so how was she supposed to know how to turn him down? “I, umm . . .”

“Hey, guys.”

Grace whirled around. Brandon was sauntering up the path: casual in threadbare jeans and his usual two-day stubble, but to Grace, there could be no sweeter sight. Salvation!

“Brandon!” she exclaimed happily. Harry’s face fell. “Hey! How are you? What’s going on?”

“The usual.” He stood by the pool, hands in his front pockets. “What’s new with you?”

“Nothing!” Grace cried, quickly grabbing her notebook and chem file. “We were actually just finished here, right, Harry?”

He stared at her, clearly crestfallen. “Right. Yeah. OK.”

“Great study session!” Grace could tell her voice was unnaturally high, but she couldn’t help it. Those had been the most awkward thirty seconds in the history of the universe. “See you in school!”

Harry looked from her to Brandon, and packed up his things. “See you.” He sighed, and loped off.

Grace collapsed in a chair with relief.

“Did I interrupt something?” Brandon asked, looking amused.

“Yes,” Grace told him. “And for that, you have my undying gratitude.”

Brandon laughed. “Aww, poor kid. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to try to make a move on someone?”

“Do you have any idea how awkward it is to try and duck that move?” Grace countered. She exhaled. “Anyway, thanks. I owe you.”

“No problem.” Brandon looked around, the hope in his expression unmistakable. Grace felt a twist of pity.

“She’s out,” she told him gently.

“Oh.” Brandon paused. “With him?”

“Yup.” Grace finished packing up the study things. “She should be back later, if you want to come over then.”

Brandon gave a shrug, as if he were trying to seem unconcerned. “No, it’s cool. I’m helping clear out Miss Whitman’s garage,” he explained. “I thought Hallie might want to come see.”

“Is she that old movie star, from all those fifties musicals?” Grace looked over in interest. The Whitman house was at the far end of the block: shadowed with elm trees, the front yard deep with weeds and flowers growing wild. “We drive past it all the time on the tour. One guy was totally obsessed, he took, like, a hundred photos of her mailbox and front gate.”