“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.”