The Rules of Love & Grammar

by Mary Simses

  “Neither am I. Come on, Cluny, please. I’d really like to show Regan Moxley I can do it. Wouldn’t you?”

  She raises her eyebrows and lets out an extended sigh. “Well, I guess when you put it that way…Yeah, okay.”

  “Yay!” I give her a hug.

  We walk to the Founder’s Day entrance, where a sign reads, All proceeds benefit the Dorset Historical Society and this year’s special recipient, the Dorset Animal Rescue League. Greg buys the tickets and refuses to take my money.

  “Come on, Greg. I’m not a charity case,” I tell him.

  He looks at me. “Grace, has anyone ever told you that you need to relax a little?”

  “Who? Me?”

  He laughs. I don’t see what’s so funny.

  A volunteer hands us programs. Games on the Green, Baxter Middle School Choir, Apple Pie Contest, Vintage Car Parade, Revolutionary War Reenactment, Tara Jones Dance Studio, Zip Roddy Quartet.

  We pass booths selling oysters, burgers, barbecue chicken, and fried clams. Smoke billows over the food tents, and the smells of hickory and barbecue and fish drift on a slow breeze, making me hungry. I study the people going by: teenagers in ripped jeans, fathers with children on their shoulders, mothers with babies in front packs, toddlers in strollers, dogs in strollers, dogs on leashes, college girls in short-shorts, elderly people with canes. We pass a line of children waiting for their turn in a hula-hoop competition, and a man selling T-shirts that say, Dorset: Here’s to the Next 375!

  At the Dorset Historical Society booth, two women in hooped skirts and aprons are handing out pamphlets about the history of the town. A collie dressed in a Colonial pinafore comes over and sniffs my ankles as I look at a display of old photographs. A sepia-toned picture of Main Street shows a blacksmith’s forge where 32 Degrees, the ice cream shop, now stands.

  Farther down the street, a line of children and parents snakes around a booth where an artist is offering free face painting. We wait for almost an hour so the girls can have their faces done up like Disney princesses.

  Then we’re on to the dunk tank. Scott Danzberger, from the town’s board of selectmen, sits, dripping wet, on a precarious-looking platform a couple of feet above the water. Greg pays the five-dollar fee, and the second softball he throws hits the target, triggering the lever that dumps Scott into the tank.

  “Sorry about that,” Greg says. “But it is for a worthy cause.”

  “You’d better vote for me in the next election,” Scott calls as we walk away.

  Greg offers to take Morgan and Elizabeth to see the red engine on display from the Dorset Fire Department and then to visit the bounce house, their favorite part of any celebration. “You know, once they get into the bounce house, we’ll probably never see them again,” he tells Cluny.

  “That’s fine,” she says. “As long as they end up in a good home.”

  It’s about twelve thirty when I get a call from Peter telling me he’s here. “But they’ve got us in a tent,” he says. “And they’re not letting anyone in but the judges.”

  “Wow. Serious business.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, guess so. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.”

  It’s close to two when he calls again and tells me the results are being tallied. I arrive at the tent to find dozens of people assembled there. The front flaps of the tent are parted to reveal a long table inside, strewn with the remains of about twenty-five pies. Some of the pie plates are empty, but most still have a few slices on them, and the variety is impressive—traditional crusts, latticework crusts, crumbly toppings instead of crusts, and crusts with decorations made from dough, like apples and leaves, red stripes and blue stars.

  I spot Peter talking to some people by another table, farther inside the tent. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, dark-denim jeans, and a blue blazer. I’ve always been a sucker for a blue blazer, and my heart does a little jump when I wave and he waves back.

  “Hey, Gracie girl.” He walks over and gives me a kiss.

  I glance at his hair where he’s got that little wave, and I’m dying to touch it. “You look so handsome in your blazer.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I thought I should dress like a judge.”

  “Yes, you’re very judicial looking. All you’re missing is the white wig.”

  “That’s only for pie contests in England, Grace.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot.”

  A tall woman with strawberry-blond hair emerges from the tent and raises a microphone. “We have our winners,” she tells the group, which closes in around her, people holding cameras and cell phones in anticipation. A bearded, pot-bellied man from Channel 22 News stands in the front with a video camera, ready to capture the moment. “First place goes to Meredith Leonard, for her three-apple pie,” the woman announces to loud applause.

  Peter steers me away. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ve had about all the pie I can take for one day. I may never eat apple pie again. Or even apples.”

  “Oh, don’t say that.” I think of all the trees in Miller’s Orchards, all the restaurants in Dorset, each putting its own particular spin on an apple pie in order to lay claim to having the best in town, all the residents who entered their pies in the contest. “It’s almost like saying you’ll never come back to Dorset.”

  He gives me a quizzical look. “I didn’t mean it that way, Grace.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good.” We meander down the street. “So, what’s going on? Are things better? With the movie?”

  “There are always ups and downs. But overall, things are better. The rewrites are going well, and we’re back on schedule. That keeps the studio happy, anyway.”

  “I’m glad.”

  We pass a poster listing the day’s events. “Hey.” I tap his shoulder. “Look at this. The Tara Jones Dance Studio is going to perform in a few minutes. Maybe we should watch.”

  He grimaces. “No, thanks. She always yelled at me for turning in the wrong direction. I used to get my right and left mixed up. She’d come at me with those long, spindly fingers.” He raises his hand, extending his index finger. “You, young man. Turn the other way! I can’t believe she’s still teaching. She must be a hundred by now.”

  “She always did say dancing keeps you young,” I remind him with a smirk.

  “All right, folks. That ends the egg toss. Let’s get ready for our next event.” Peter and I stand at the edge of the village green, where a stout, sunburned man with a microphone is speaking to a group of about twenty people. A banner over the gazebo announces that the Zip Roddy Quartet will be performing at four o’clock. In anticipation of the event, some fifty people have already set up collapsible chairs and spread blankets on the grass.

  “Okay,” the announcer says. “I’ll need everybody who wants to do the three-legged race right over here.” He looks around, waving in the stragglers at the edge of the group. “Don’t be shy, folks. Find a partner, tie two of your legs together, and run the length of the field and back. Nothing to it.”

  “Grace!”

  I turn at the sound of my name. Cluny and Greg and the girls are walking toward us.

  “Hey, Peter,” Cluny says. “How was the pie contest?”

  “I survived, although I might need to run a couple of miles later to make up for it.”

  “We still have room for a few more teams,” the announcer says, a hopeful note in his voice. The crowd of onlookers is growing.

  “You could run right now,” Greg says. “In the three-legged race.”

  Peter glances toward the green, where the teams are assembling along a horizontal chalk line drawn on the grass. He turns to me. “Yeah, how about it?”

  “The race?” I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t.

  “Sure, we could be a team.”

  I can’t believe he’s serious. “No, no.” I cross my arms. “That’s not my thing. I mean, you know I’m not very athletic.”

  “Oh, come on. For old times’ sake. It’ll be fun.”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, Grace,” Cluny joins in. “For old times’ sake.”

  “What old times?”

  Peter nudges me. “We did a three-legged race once at a party. Don’t you remember?”

  “That wasn’t a three-legged race,” I remind him. “It was a wheelbarrow race. And you ended up steering me right into the Rickenhouses’ pool.” I can still feel the chill of that water. End of September. Pool heater off.

  He glances across the green as though he’s trying to recall the event. “Well, it was dark. You can’t blame me for not being able to see. And it was still fun.”

  “Maybe for you,” I say. “But, putting that aside, look at those two ten-year-old boys out there. They’ll crush us.”

  “All we have to do is walk fast,” Peter says. “And stay in sync.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Gracie girl. Where’s your sense of adventure? And nostalgia?”

  I’m racking my brain to come up with an alternative activity—the school choir performance, the vintage cars, anything—when a familiar voice joins the discussion.

  “I’ll do the three-legged race with you, sweetie.”

  The Southern accent, the sultry tone. It’s Regan. Her smile is outlined in bright-pink lipstick, and she’s showing off her tan size-zero legs in black cutoffs so skimpy, I’m not even sure they qualify as shorts. I can feel my jaw muscles tighten like vise grips.

  “I’ll take him off your li’l ole hands.” She smiles and puts her arms around Peter like a lion about to drag its prey into the lair.

  Peter shoots me a look that makes me think he’s asking for help, but then he laughs. “You’re going to run a three-legged race in those?” He points to her platform sandals, which are at least four inches high. “This I’ve got to see.”

  “Oh, no, I’ll just go barefoot, darlin’.” She strokes his cheek.

  I can’t stand to see her touch him. “No, you won’t.” I grab Peter’s hand. “He’s doing the race with me.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Regan says with a wink. “’Cause I promise you’d come in first with me, Petey.”

  Petey? Nobody has ever called him Petey. Cluny and I look at each other, horrified.

  “Last call for the three-legged race, folks,” the announcer says.

  Peter takes off his jacket and hands it to Cluny. “Would you mind holding this?”

  Then he takes my hand and leads me to the starting line. A dozen other teams are already lined up—adults, children, and teams of adults and children, which could prove to be the most dangerous of all. The orange pylons on the far side of the green seem as though they’re miles away, and I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.

  “Here you go,” the announcer says, handing Peter a cord to tie around our ankles. He steps closer, and I can feel the muscles in his leg, the warmth of his body, as we stand side by side, his blue jeans against my white ones. He ties his right ankle to my left.

  “Okay, now, here are the rules.” The announcer takes a few steps into the field. “You and your partner have to cross the green and go around your pylon.” He points and makes a little loop with his finger. “Don’t go in front of it, or you’ll be disqualified. And if you fall down or the two of you get separated, you’ll be disqualified. The first team back to the starting line wins. Everybody got that?”

  I nod nervously and stare at the stretch of lawn in front of us. Around the pylons. I trace a straight path with my finger, adding a little loop at the end. Don’t fall. I look down, at my left sneaker and Peter’s right sneaker, and I think about the walk we took so long ago, after our dance at the Cinderella Ball, on the docks behind the yacht club, where a round, blue moon hung over the water.

  As we passed the boats, we called out their names and made up silly stories about how the names came to be. Reserved Seating from Dover, My Girl from Dorset, Insomnia from Dorset, Lickety Split from Port Jefferson, Time Out from Block Island. And that was when he kissed me, in front of Time Out. He tasted like mint gum, and the summer that was almost upon us. He traced his finger along my bare arm, and I felt a current soar through me. Looking at Peter now, his leg pressed firmly against mine, I can still feel that sixteen-year-old hand on my arm.

  The announcer raises his microphone. “Just a second, folks. Looks like we have one more team.” I look over and I can’t believe what I see. It’s Regan. And she’s found herself a partner: Mitch. He takes the cord from the announcer, and he and Regan walk to the empty lane to our left. There’s only one team between us.

  Mitch ties their ankles together, and he and Regan laugh, and there’s something about this little scene I find irritating. Maybe it’s the way Regan always manages to manipulate the men around her into doing her bidding. I would have thought that Mitch, of all people, was above this. Mitch, who seems to have radar for phonies.

  “No, your left leg,” he says, and Regan laughs again.

  “Hey there, Grace,” she calls as she links her arm in Mitch’s. “Don’t we make a great team?” They’re almost the same height. Physically, they do look as though they go together, but I’m not about to admit it out loud. “Sorry to hear about your breakup,” she says, a false note of sympathy in her voice.

  “My what?”

  She smiles and glances at Mitch. “He told me.”

  I’m about to say Told you what? And then I realize what she’s talking about. She still thinks the two of us were dating. And he told her we broke up!

  Peter gives me a puzzled look. “What’s she talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just a joke.” But as I glance back at Mitch and Regan, I get a queasy feeling in my stomach.

  Peter swings his arm around my back and pulls me close. I put my arm around him. “All right,” he says. “Let’s focus here. Remember, step together. Just think right leg, middle leg, right leg, middle leg. That’s the key.”

  Someone yells, Peter Brooks—go, Hollywood! and a roar of laughter erupts from the crowd. The announcer raises a starter’s pistol, and with a loud crack, the race begins, Peter and I sprinting away from the starting line. He’s a horse that wants to gallop, and I’m a rider who wants to trot, and I struggle to keep up with him.

  “Slow down or I’ll lose my balance!” I yell, our middle leg feeling like the limb of a badly constructed robot.

  Peter slows down, but not by much, and I soon realize why. We’ve gotten a good start, but Regan and Mitch are coming up on our left—Regan, all legs, with her black minishorts, and Mitch, the muscles in his arms flexing as he guides her smoothly over the grass.

  I stumble over a dip in the ground, but Peter catches me. Right leg, middle leg, right leg. Now Regan and Mitch are breezing along next to us, their strides so in sync, it’s almost eerie.

  “Good luck catching us! You’ll never win!” Regan yells.

  “Oh, yes, we will!” I yell back. “Come on, Peter, faster!” He tightens his grip on me, but we’re struggling to keep up. I can’t stand the fact that she’s ahead. If I can’t beat her with athleticism, maybe I can at least outwit her. “Hey, Regan,” I taunt. “Do you sell SparkNotes at the bookstore?”

  “What?” she screams, her eyes blazing.

  “Let’s go, we’re winning,” Mitch says.

  “You heard me!” I yell back. Right leg, middle leg. “SparkNotes. That’s all you knew how to read in high school.” Right leg, middle leg.

  “That’s not true!”

  “Oh, yes, it is. And how about Grover Holland? Are you going to deny that, too?” Right leg, right leg. Oh, no, I’m goofing up here.

  Regan glares at me. “Who?”

  “Come on,” Mitch tells her. “We’ve got a race to win.”

  “Twelfth grade!” I yell. “You stole Grover Holland from me!”

  “Let’s go,” Peter says, lurching ahead as two teams pass us.

  Fall, fall, I chant as Regan and Mitch navigate the orange pylon. But they don’t fall. And now they’re on their way back.

 
Peter and I approach the pylon and hobble around it. “Come on, Grace,” he says. “They’re ahead of us!”

  They’re way ahead of us. In fact, they’re ahead of everybody now, moving so elegantly, they make it look like a dance competition rather than a casual picnic game.

  “Damn! They’re going to win!” I say as three other teams gain on us.

  Peter pulls me forward as if he’s shifting into high gear. I almost lose my balance again. The crowd is screaming and cheering. I don’t know where Cluny and Greg and the girls are. I can’t see anyone. It’s all just a big, loud blur. Then I see Regan and Mitch cross the finish line, followed by all the other teams but one, a mother-and-son duo.

  “Faster, faster,” Peter calls as we barrel ahead, nearing the finish. “Let’s not come in last.”

  “I’m trying,” I say, but I can’t make my legs move any faster.

  In an effort to save our second-to-last place, Peter attempts to leap over the finish line. “No!” I yell as I lose my balance and fall, taking him down with me. We lie in the grass, his arms around me, our ankles still bound by the cord, the finish line under us.

  “I think we lost,” I say, panting. “Sorry. I told you I wasn’t athletic.”

  He doesn’t move. He just looks at me. Then he says, “I don’t accept your apology, Grace. I’ll only accept this.” He slides closer, and I gaze into his eyes. They’re blue, like sea glass, with darker blue around the outside. He reaches out and touches my hair, and then he kisses me. His lips are warm and soft. The kiss keeps going and going, and, even though I’m not standing, I feel a little weak in the knees, a little dizzy. When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me in a kind of dreamy way. I think he’s about to say something. And then I hear a voice above us.

  “Well, that was quite a finish.”

  I look up. It’s Mitch. He’s holding a trophy with a little gold cup on it. I can feel my face turning red.

  “Hey, Mitch,” I say as I struggle to untie the knotted cord that binds my leg to Peter’s. “Congratulations.”

  “Here, I’ll get that,” Peter says, and a moment later we’re separated and we stand up. I brush the dirt off my clothes and look around. In the gazebo, the Zip Roddy Quartet is setting up their instruments. A couple of children walk by carrying ice cream cones. Cluny and Greg and the girls come toward us. I look around for Mitch, but he’s gone. He’s vanished into the crowd, as though he were never there.