Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood

by Abby McDonald

  “How’s Theodore?” Hallie asked with a mischievous smile at the end of the next week. It was dinnertime, or at least what passed for dinner those days: Grace throwing cheese and toppings on some store-bought pizza bases while Hallie dumped a couple of bags of salad into a bowl.

  “He’s fine.” Grace shrugged, doling out the pepperoni slices. Hallie reached over to grab a handful of chopped olives. “Hey!”

  Hallie danced back, tossing the olives in the air and catching them in her mouth. “You guys have been spending a ton of time together . . .”

  “Sure. I guess.” Grace didn’t want to tell her that it was better than sitting around the house all evening, waiting for Hallie to saunter home or their mom to finally emerge from her attic studio, too distracted to hold a conversation. “He’s fun, once you get to know him.”

  “You know, he could be kind of cute,” Hallie mused, “if he lost those preppy shirts . . . and changed his hair . . . and did something about those glasses . . .”

  “What, you mean, got a pair of those stupid big hipster frames and grew a mustache?” Grace replied, laughing. “Sure, like that’s cute.”

  “You need to move past this generic standard of hotness you’ve been indoctrinated with,” Hallie told her airily. “The whole Abercrombie dumb jock thing is so over.”

  “Theo isn’t a dumb jock!”

  “Aha!” Hallie grinned. “So you do like him.”

  “I never said I didn’t.” Grace finished assembling the pizzas and carefully slid them into the oven. “He’s nice. You should come hang out with us sometime.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “On what?” Grace turned, and found Hallie wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “No!” Grace yelped. “You don’t think . . . ? Hallie, that’s ridiculous!” She hurled a tea towel at her, but couldn’t keep from blushing furiously.

  Hallie ducked, laughing. “You like him,” she teased, singsong. “You want to kiss him!”

  “He’s our stepbrother! Or stepuncle,” Grace managed, stumbling for words. Her, and Theo . . . ? “Whatever he is, he’s related!”

  “Not by blood.” Hallie grinned.

  “You’re crazy,” Grace said firmly as their mom wafted in. She was still wearing pajamas, braids splattered with a gruesome pattern of red paint.

  “Who’s crazy?” She blinked at them, as if they were slowly coming into focus from very far away.

  “Nothing,” Grace replied quickly. “Hallie, can you help at all? Set the table, or something.”

  “Grace’s got a crush on Theo,” Hallie said, collapsing at the table, so Grace was left to set out silverware and dishes alone.

  “I do not!”

  “Do too.” Hallie stuck her tongue out.

  “Real mature.”

  Their mom joined Hallie at the table. “Theo, Theo . . .” she mused, as if trying to place him. Then she brightened. “Oh, yes, he’s a sweet boy. Very polite. You two would be good together.”

  “Mom!” Grace cried.

  Hallie giggled. “She’s right, you do match: you’re both as boring as each other. You’d just sit around apologizing: ‘No, you go first.’ ‘No, you,’ ” she mimicked. “Be still my heart.”

  “Now, sweetie, don’t say that,” their mom chided her. “I’m sure Grace and Theo have a sweet little romance.”

  Grace ignored them. Arguing was futile once Hallie got a notion in her head, so instead, she pulled out the real-estate section she’d marked earlier, and deposited it on the table.

  “We only have a couple of weeks left,” she reminded them. “I circled some apartments to check out. You can call the Realtor tomorrow.”

  Hallie glanced at the first page. “Oakland? Emeryville? Grace, you can’t be serious!”

  “We can’t afford to stay around here.” Grace sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time.

  “But these places . . .” Hallie screwed her face up as she scanned the page. “Above a Chinese restaurant . . . Fourth-floor walk-up . . . Two bedrooms?” She gasped. “I need my own room!”

  “You need a pull-out bed for when you’re home from college,” Grace corrected her.

  “But what about my studio?” Their mom frowned. “I need good light, and space too. Maybe we can find somewhere with an annex in the garden. . . .” She flipped through the listings. “Ooh, this one sounds nice: three-bedroom cottage, wood floors, a conservatory out back . . .”

  Grace looked over her shoulder as she passed. “Gee, and only four thousand dollars a month.”

  “That’s not too bad.” Their mom circled it with a pen.

  “We can’t afford that!” Grace cried, but it was as if she’d never spoken.

  “And what about this one?” Hallie bent her head closer to their mom’s, pointing out a new listing. “Charming Victorian, wraparound porch, original fireplaces . . .”

  Grace stifled a groan. “Please, be serious . . .”

  “Oh, go call Theo.” Hallie rolled her eyes. “Maybe a few hours making out with him will get you to lighten up.”

  “For the last time,” Grace cried, “there’s nothing going on!”

  “Sure there isn’t, sweetie.” Their mom patted Grace’s arm absently. “But be careful. Use protection.”

  Grace tried to forget Hallie’s teasing. For years, her sister had been on a diet of weighty Russian literature and heartbroken poetry; obsessed with the idea of true love. She was forever seeing secret romances where there were none to see: Mrs. Martinez (their aging housekeeper) and Kingston (neighbor, midforties, gay); their (happily married) principal at school and the barely out of college math teacher; and now, it seemed, Grace and Theo.

  But she couldn’t shake it. Toting Dash around Fisherman’s Wharf with Theo the next afternoon, Grace couldn’t help but wonder: if Hallie thought Grace had a crush on him, did that mean other people did too? And — oh, God — what about Theo himself?

  “You want me to take him?” Theo interrupted her panicked thoughts. “You’re looking kind of flushed. He gets heavy, I know.”

  “Oh, right, sure.” Grace passed Dash over, and took possession of the empty stroller in return. Theo settled the baby easily on one hip.

  “Time to stop wearing Auntie Grace out,” he told Dash. “You’re too chunky.”

  “Just chunky enough,” Grace corrected quickly, opening a granola bar snack. “We don’t want him growing up with an eating disorder.”

  Theo laughed. “This kid? No way. He’ll be sneaking candy behind Portia’s back as soon as he’s old enough to walk.”

  They paused by a guardrail overlooking the bay. A middle-aged tourist couple was taking photos with Alcatraz in the background, and stopped to coo over Dash; neon fanny packs strapped around their waists. “Your son is adorable!” The woman beamed.

  Grace choked on her granola bar.

  “Thanks,” Theo replied, straight-faced. “We’re very proud of him.”

  The couple moved off; Grace smacked his arm. “Why did you say that?” she cried, flushing. “They probably think I’m some kind of teen mom!”

  He grinned. “Hey, that’s not a bad career move. You could get a reality TV show, get in some magazines . . .” Theo stopped, seeing Grace’s expression. “I’m sorry. I figured it was the easiest way to brush them off, you know? If we’d said he wasn’t ours, they’d have asked where his parents were. . . .”

  “No, you’re right.” Grace tried to relax. She shouldn’t overreact, just because Hallie had been teasing her. And what was it they said about protesting too much? “It was just weird. I mean, us, together!” She gave an awkward laugh.

  As they strolled back toward the street, Grace’s gaze slid over to Theo. Hallie was wrong about his hair. It was cute the way it always stuck out slightly, as if he’d absently run his hand over it in the wrong direction; better than those boys in school with their side-swept bangs they were constantly brushing across, like they were trying to be a teen pop superstar. And his glasses weren’t that dorky ei
ther, she decided: plain gold wire rims that framed his brown eyes, a kind of absentminded professor look. She could picture him in twenty years in a patched tweed jacket, hiding out in a book-lined study grading papers.

  “How’s the apartment hunt?” Theo ventured. Grace had shared some of her frustrations when it came to her family and their rose-tinted view on reality, but the topic was still edged with tension; Portia always lurking, unspoken, at the back of every conversation. “Have you found anywhere you like yet?”

  “No.” Grace sighed. “I don’t know what Mom and Hallie expect to happen: that some fairy godmother’s going to conjure a place out of nowhere. I’ve started packing up our stuff,” she added. “It’s such a big house, I don’t want to leave it to the last minute.”

  “I could help,” Theo offered immediately. “I’m a master packer. Trust me, I was the envy of the whole school come the end of the year. Advanced special awareness.”

  “Fancy!” Grace bit her lip, thinking. “There is a lot to do. I’m not even halfway through the lounge yet. . . .”

  “Then I’m in,” Theo declared. “I’ll come by on the weekend, bring some takeout. Make a party of it.”

  “Either you’ve been to some lame parties, or Portia won’t let processed foods in the house.” Theo looked bashful. “Knew it!” Grace laughed.

  “It’s all organic, raw stuff. I’m wasting away!”

  “Then fine,” Grace agreed. “But you’ll need to earn it. Bring duct tape.”

  When Grace returned home, she found Hallie in the middle of one of her fits: clutching a letter on the stairs, while their mom tried in vain to calm her.

  “It’ll be OK, sweetie.”

  “It won’t! He’s ruined everything!” Hallie screamed. “I hate him, I hate you all!” She turned and stormed upstairs in a whirl of black, her door slamming a moment later.

  Grace shrugged off her jacket. “What is it this time?”

  Their mom looked drained. “Juilliard. They can’t hold her place without the next tuition installment.”

  “But . . . Dad set up college funds for us!” Grace gasped, “Portia can’t take that too!”

  “Your father had investment accounts,” her mom corrected. “Portia’s lawyers say he could have meant that money for anything.”

  Grace felt a surge of rage, and fought to keep it back. Getting mad wouldn’t solve anything. It was done. “Can she apply for financial aid? Scholarships?”

  “Not for this year. And with her grades . . .”

  They shared a look. Hallie may have excelled when it came to theatrics, but as for regular math and science? Not so stellar. “Poor Hallie,” Grace said. “She was so happy to get in.”

  Their dad had been happy too: taking them out for a fancy dinner at Hallie’s favorite French restaurant, and boasting to every waiter who’d listen about his brilliant daughters and what amazing colleges they’d attend.

  Portia had been otherwise engaged that night.

  The phone began to ring down the hall. “I’ll get it,” her mom said quickly. “You go see if she’s OK.” She hurried away before Grace could object — as if parenting were a simple matter of claiming “Not it!” first.

  Grace climbed the stairs and tapped awkwardly on Hallie’s door. There was no reply, so she pushed it open. The room was dim, light barely filtering through the thick velvet curtains onto dark walls pinned with pages from fashion magazines and framed art deco advertisements. Hallie was crumpled in a heap on her bed, sobbing loudly.

  “Hey,” Grace began, carefully picking her way through the clothing and magazines strewn across the floor. “Mom told me. I’m really sorry.”

  Hallie lifted her head, eyes smeared with running mascara. “How could he do this to me?”

  “He didn’t mean to,” Grace murmured, perching on the edge of the bed. “It’s not his fault.”

  “Would you stop it!” Hallie cried, bolting upright. “God, I’m so sick of you making excuses for him. Can’t you just be angry for once?”

  Grace sighed. “Why?”

  “Because he left!” Hallie’s voice cracked. “He turned around and left, and didn’t even care what would happen to us —”

  “Hallie, you know that’s not true.”

  “Is it?” Hallie glared at her, defiant. “If you care about someone, you look out for them. You write a freaking will!”

  This was useless. Grace stood. “I’ll go make you some tea. We can talk about it when you calm down.”

  “There you go again!” Hallie leaped up. “ ‘Calm down,’ ‘he didn’t mean it,’ ” she mimicked. “When will you just admit you hate him too?”

  “I don’t,” Grace told her firmly.

  “Right,” Hallie said, her voice scathing. “And Portia’s just doing what she thinks is best, and Mom will get her act together soon, and you aren’t sitting around all day pining over your precious Theo.”

  Grace hardened. “So what do you want me to do — throw tantrums like you?” she shot back. “Use up all my energy weeping and wailing, like that’s going to make a difference?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “You always do this!” Hallie clenched her fists. “Make me feel like I’m crazy for having feelings. It’s not fair! I’m allowed to grieve!”

  “Grief is one thing,” Grace told her, patience finally worn out. She’d been indulging Hallie for too long. “Wallowing in denial doesn’t solve anything.”

  “It’s not supposed to!” Hallie yelled. Her voice was hoarse now. “It’s about expressing! How! I! Feel!” Hallie punctuated every word by hurling something at Grace: a handy magazine, a pair of pants, a vase from her nightstand.

  Grace ducked. The vase smashed against the door. “You’re insane!”

  “And you’re a robot with no heart!”

  “Well, which is it?” Grace yelled. “Either I have no feelings, or I’m repressing them!”

  Hallie threw herself down on the bed again and screamed into her pillow.

  “See? This is why I have to keep it together,” Grace told her, furious. “Someone has to be the grown-up in this family, and apparently, I’m the only one left!”

  She whirled around to leave, but their mom appeared, blocking the door. Grace flushed, guilty. “Sorry.”

  Her mom blinked. “For what?”

  “She started it!” Hallie’s voice was still muffled, facedown in her comforter.

  But before Grace could even begin to explain, their mom continued. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, her expression brighter than Grace had seen in weeks. “I found a place for us to live!”

  The house — well, guesthouse — belonged to Auggie Jennings, a cousin of their mother’s in Los Angeles who had made a name for himself producing scandalous true-crime TV movies, and now wanted nothing more than to offer his riches and real estate to his poor, impoverished family.

  “Apparently, he’s rattling around some huge mansion with his twenty-two-year-old wife,” Grace told Theo as they transferred the contents of the lounge into packing crates.

  “Twenty-two isn’t so young,” Theo argued. “My parents got married right out of high school.”

  Grace fixed him with a look. “He’s in his fifties.”

  “Ah.” Theo laughed. “OK, that is kind of weird.”

  “Not as weird as packing up and moving to a whole new city to live with a man we’ve never met.” Grace’s relief at the answer to all their prayers was dampened by what she didn’t know about their new favorite “Uncle.” Namely, almost everything.

  “Of course you’ve met him,” her mom insisted, breezing in. “He came to your birthday party, when he was in town one year. The one with the cowboy theme.”

  “I was four!”

  “And clearly, you made a great impression.” Her mom beamed. She’d been wafting around on a cloud of joy ever since Uncle Auggie (as he insisted they call him) had been in touch, thrilled by the thought of a dedicated studio and all that Southern Californian light. “Or maybe
it was the portrait. I painted his dogs for Christmas last year,” she explained to Theo. “Matching shih tzus. So cute!” She sailed out.

  Grace sighed.

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Theo offered. “A fresh start. Or it could just be temporary, until you figure something else out . . .” He trailed off with a guilty look. “I’m sorry. I know I keep saying this, and it doesn’t make a difference, but . . . I’m sorry. I never thought Portia would take it this far.”

  So far, in fact, that Portia had already sold the house to one of those condo developers. The demolition was scheduled for next week; Grace was glad she wouldn’t be around to witness that, at least.

  “I know,” Grace reassured him. “It’s not your fault. It’s just the way things are.”

  She surveyed the half-packed room, full of crumpled newspaper and the objects that had, for so long, made up the background fabric of her life. Generous as Auggie’s offer was, there wouldn’t be room for the Westons plus all their worldly belongings; half the house was going into storage, and thanks to Hallie and her mom’s inability to part with so much as a used ticket stub, it was down to Grace to decide which half.

  “Come on,” she said, trying for a brighter tone. “I’ve got a ton of old textbooks that need to go to Goodwill. You can break your back as penance for Portia’s sins.”

  Theo laughed. “I don’t love her that much. A muscle strain, maybe.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  They spent the rest of the morning dismantling her bedroom; Grace trying to ignore the pangs of loss with every photo she peeled from the wall, and every book she stashed away in the “storage” pile. She should be grateful. Hallie’s fairy godmother had appeared in the form of a balding distant cousin with a mysterious sense of family loyalty. Without him, she knew, she’d still be wrangling her mom and Hallie into a fifth-floor walk-up on the other side of the bay. But Grace couldn’t help the apprehension that bubbled up every time she thought about leaving town. Beverly Hills may be only six hours away on the freeway, but it seemed like a world away from home, her school, her friends . . .