“Well—welcome,” my dad said, giving Brooke a smile. “We’re very happy to have you.”
“I, um,” Brooke said, turning around and reaching into a paper bag, which she’d set down by her feet. She stood up, holding a very ugly-looking plant in her arms—it mostly looked like someone had put a bunch of twigs in a decorative pot. “I brought this for you. Danny’s told me so much about your garden, so I just thought . . .” She held out the plant toward my dad.
“That’s not a Parrot’s Beak?” he asked, patting his head, then bringing his glasses down to look at it more carefully. “Truly? How unusual. Thank you so much.”
“Apparently it takes a while to bloom. But if you plant it now, by this time next year, it should be in flower.”
There was a silence in the kitchen, as my dad looked down at the plant. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s a nice thought.”
“You can always plant it in your new garden, right?” J.J. asked, his tone more upbeat than usual.
“I’m sure that . . . wherever I end up, I’ll have a garden there. And I’m sure it’ll look lovely.” He shot Danny a look, but it was over before I could read into it.
My parents hadn’t yet bought another house—they said they were waiting until the escrow closed. But I also hadn’t asked them any questions about where we’d be moving or what the house would look like, mostly because if I didn’t talk about the fact that we were going to leave this house, maybe it wouldn’t happen. Talking about it—about logistics and specifics—would make it real in a way I didn’t yet want to deal with. There was a piece of me that knew this was elementary school logic, but I couldn’t help it. And even though I knew rationally that I couldn’t blame her, I found myself glaring across the kitchen at Brooke—she had brought up the one thing I really didn’t want to think about this weekend.
“Anyway,” my dad said, setting the plant on the counter and walking over to the alarm panel, “did this go off again?”
“Yeah,” J.J. said, shaking his head. “And we really need to have a talk about what you picked for your alarm code.”
“It’s twelve thirty-four,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”
“Just think about it,” J.J. said. I did, and realized what he was talking about a second later.
“The alarm code is one-two-three-four?” I asked my dad, who just shrugged.
“You mom and I could never figure out how to change it.”
“Did I hear Danny?” my mom called as she came inside and hugged my brother. “How was your flight?”
“No complaints,” Danny said, ducking out of the way as she tried to fix his hair.
“Hello,” my mom said, looking at Brooke, a question in her voice. She glanced at Danny. “I thought you promised you weren’t going to bring your assistant with you again.”
“That’s Brooke,” Linnie, J.J., and I all said together.
“Danny’s girlfriend,” Linnie said.
“We’ve totally heard about her!” J.J. added.
“She does not,” my dad jumped in, “sell cookies on the Internet.”
“Danny’s mentioned her,” Linnie said.
“Oh, yes, of course,” my mother said after a small pause. She exchanged a glance with my dad, who gave an exaggerated I have no idea shrug. It made me glad that my parents weren’t responsible for keeping state secrets, since they weren’t very good at subterfuge. “Welcome,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite mask her confusion.
“I brought this for you,” Brooke said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a cellophane-wrapped basket of soaps. She held it out to my mom. “To thank you for your hospitality.”
“My . . . hospitality?”
“I was thinking we’d stay in the Blue Room,” Danny said as he crossed back to where Brooke was still standing in the doorway and picked up his rollerboard.
“Brooke is coming to the wedding,” Linnie said, meeting my mother’s eye, even as her tone remained upbeat. “Isn’t that great?”
“I thought that you knew,” Brooke said, her face flushing a dull red as she glanced at Danny, “I thought . . .”
“It’s all good, right?” Danny asked. “We have rooms to spare here.”
“Well, not this weekend,” Rodney said. “My aunt Liz is already in the Blue Room. And my parents are going to be in the Ship Room. . . .”
“We had you in your old bedroom,” my mother said. “But that was when it was just you, staying with J.J. We didn’t realize . . .” She stopped herself and glanced down at the basket of soaps.
“Well, then, we can just stay in Mike’s room,” Danny said. “Since Mike’s staying at Jesse’s. Right?”
“Bridesmaids are in there,” I said, shooting him a grimace.
“What, the three of them?” Danny asked, his eyebrows flying up, and Linnie nodded. “So we no longer care about the house burning down?”
“They’ve promised to behave,” Linnie said.
“What about Dad’s study? J.J. could stay in there, we could take my room—”
“Max is in there,” Linnie said.
“Max is staying here?”
“He’s the best man, and he’s officiating the ceremony,” Linnie said, starting to sound annoyed. “We thought the least we could do was offer him a place to stay.”
“And who’s in the Ship Room again?”
“My parents,” Rodney reminded him.
“And your aunt can’t stay at the Inn?”
“No,” Rodney practically yelled, and we all looked over at him. “Uh,” he said more quietly. “There’s . . . kind of a family feud happening with my aunt Liz and my uncle Jimmy. They can’t really be around each other. So it’s best if they’re not in the same hotel.”
“What’s the feud about?” J.J. asked.
“Well, this is just great,” Danny said, dropping his suitcase with a loud sigh. I could tell he was getting frustrated—which was the last thing I wanted. We were all supposed to be having fun this weekend, after all.
“You can stay in my room,” I volunteered.
“Charlie,” my mom said, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have to give up your room.”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “Really. I can stay in J.J. and Danny’s room.”
“Great,” Danny said, smiling at me, looking instantly more relaxed. “You’re the best, Chuck.”
“Well—okay,” my mother said, nodding, sounding like she was trying to regroup. “If you’re sure.”
I nodded, and Danny mouthed Thank you to me. You owe me, I mouthed back to him, and he laughed. “I’ll just get my room ready.”
“I’ll help,” Danny said, following me to the kitchen stairs.
“Race you up?” I asked.
Danny shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’re not—”
But I took off running, and sure enough, a few seconds later, he was racing up the stairs next to me.
* * *
“So,” I said as I shook out the fitted sheet and looked over at him. “I . . . didn’t realize you were bringing anyone to the wedding.”
“Yeah,” Danny said, and he gave me the tiniest of eye rolls as I tossed his half to him and we pulled it over my mattress together.
I arched an eyebrow. “Stage-five clinger?”
He laughed, and then cleared his throat, like he was fighting to be more serious. “No. Brooke’s great. She’s super great.” We tucked in the sheet, then the top sheet, and pulled the comforter over them, then tossed the pillows onto the bed. I straightened them out and gave them a quick fluff and decided that was probably as good as it was going to get.
“Good enough?” I asked, and Danny nodded.
“Good enough.” He wandered over to my desk and sat down in my wheelie chair, spinning himself around once. “But I’m sorry for springing her on you. We’re still going to hang out this weekend, just you and me. Right?”
I grinned. “Right.”
“Knock-knock!” I turned and saw that Bro
oke was standing in the doorway, not actually knocking. “I came to see what I can do to be of assistance.”
“I think we’re all set here,” Danny said, giving her a smile. “You should just relax.”
“I’m happy to help out.”
“We’re good,” I said. I got so little time with my older brother, I didn’t necessarily need Brooke intruding on it—and in my own room, no less.
I heard a buzzing sound, and Danny pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I should get this,” he said, pushing himself up to standing, already heading toward the doorway. “Be right back.” He crossed the landing, and I could hear his voice getting fainter as he went downstairs. “Yeah, I’m here. Walk me through what’s happening.”
With Danny gone, it was just me and this girl, who I didn’t know at all, looking at each other across my room. The silence between us seemed to expand and stretch out, and I was suddenly aware, in a way that I hadn’t been just a few seconds earlier, that my room probably looked stupid and childish to her—the posters on my walls, the photos of me and Siobhan pinned up on my corkboard, the jewelry in a heap on my dresser.
“So!” Brooke said brightly, giving me a smile. “What can I do?”
“I really think we’re all set. I just need to grab a few things.” My dresses for the wedding and the rehearsal dinner were hanging in my closet, but I could get to it from Linnie’s room. I just needed a few odds and ends to get through the weekend—I wasn’t sure how much access I’d have to my room once Danny and Brooke settled in. I pulled a canvas bag off my doorknob and crossed over to my dresser.
“I’m happy to help if I can.”
“There’s nothing to help with,” I said, then wondered if I’d been too sharp. “Really. This is a one-person job.” I grabbed a clean pair of pajamas from my drawer and tossed in some underwear and a few T-shirts.
“I’m really sorry to put you out of your room,” Brooke said, twisting her hands together. Her nails, I could see, were long and perfectly painted a dark shade of pink.
“It’s fine.”
“I guess I just thought—I mean, I had no idea that you wouldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. I knew I should probably say something—lie, like Linnie and J.J. had done, pretending we’d known who she was and that she had been coming. And she clearly wanted me to tell her that I didn’t mind at all being displaced out of my own room. But I wasn’t about to do any of that.
An awkward silence fell as I looked around, trying to figure out what else I would need for the weekend, so that I could get out of here as quickly as possible.
“Are these from your college?” I glanced over to see Brooke standing by my desk, looking at the blue Stanwich College folder.
“Yeah,” I said, not liking at all that she was going through my stuff. “But don’t—” But Brooke had already picked up the stack of shiny, brightly colored folders and was flipping through them.
“Oh, College of the West is a great school,” she said, stopping on the orange one. “I almost went there.”
“Oh yeah?” I was trying to fight being interested, and leave it at that, but my curiosity overruled me. “Where did you go?”
“USC,” she said, flipping open Northwestern’s purple folder. “For med school too. You got into Northwestern?” she asked, sounding surprised.
“Yes,” I said, feeling my defenses start to go up. This girl didn’t even know me; why was she surprised at my college acceptances? “Why?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, setting the folder down again. “Sorry. I just . . . When Danny told me you were staying around town, going to the local college here, I guess I just assumed . . .” Her voice trailed off, but it was like I could practically see the words she wasn’t saying floating in the air between us. I assumed you didn’t have any other options.
“It’s not the local college,” I said, hearing my voice rise. “It’s a hugely respected liberal arts school that just happens to be in this town.”
“Right,” Brooke said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Not everyone has to go away to school,” I continued. “There’s nothing wrong with staying close to home.”
“Not at all,” she said, nodding a little too emphatically. She looked at the folders on the desk, then back at me. “So . . . I guess you don’t need these anymore, huh?”
“Just leave them,” I said, not liking at all the look on her face, like she understood something about me that I didn’t. “I still need to let the other schools know I’m not going, that’s all.”
“Right.” She stacked the folders in a neat pile on my desk, then turned to me. “I’ve no doubt Stanwich is a great school too,” she said, a note of false cheer in her voice.
“Yeah,” I said shortly, pulling open my top drawer and looking around for the necklace I wanted to wear tonight. The last few minutes had confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that I didn’t want to come back in here—or deal with Brooke in any way—unless I absolutely had to.
“Oh my gosh!” she said, and I turned to see her picking up the picture that I kept on my nightstand, the one of me and Danny that had run in the newspaper, him at eighteen, me at six, leaning back against his dented ancient Volvo, both of us in sunglasses, arms folded across our chests. “This is the greatest picture! This is when Danny won that contest, right?”
“Right,” I said, fighting the urge to walk over and take the frame back from her.
“He told me all about it,” she said, still looking at the picture with a smile on her face. “I couldn’t believe it. Like, who does that?”
“Yeah.” It wasn’t like this was a secret—most articles that were written about Danny had it in there somewhere. It was a human-interest detail, a fun fact about the successful venture capitalist. But I still, somehow, didn’t like this girl talking about one of my favorite memories like she’d been there.
It was the summer after Danny’s senior year, and Coke was running a bottle-cap contest—find the winning cap, win up to a quarter million dollars. Danny had figured out what the winning cap would say, and also that by tilting the bottles at a certain angle, he could see just enough of one letter to tell if it was a winner. And since I was six and didn’t exactly have pressing summer plans, I rode shotgun with him as we crisscrossed the tri-state area, going into every supermarket and CVS and convenience store, Danny working his way up and down the aisles, tilting the bottles and buying us candy that we would share and keep between us on the front seat. He’d found the winning cap—the one worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—on a Diet Coke bottle, in August, but I would have been just as happy if he’d never found it, if it had just been me and my brother, driving through New Jersey, windows down and radio on, singing along as the sun set behind us. Danny gave me twenty thousand dollars of it—much to the shock of my older siblings, who felt that a first grader didn’t need that kind of money—which my parents immediately took and invested for me. Danny used his remaining money to start a fund out of his Princeton dorm room, and of course my mom put the whole thing in the comic strip. And the next year, Coke changed their rules so that all you could see under the cap was a code.
“Such a great story,” Brooke said, setting the picture down and smiling fondly at it.
I finally found my necklace, and dropped it into my bag. “You should be all set,” I said, already heading for the door.
“Oh, great,” Brooke said. “Thanks so much, Charlie.”
“Uh-huh,” I said as I left my room. I could feel resentment bubbling up, even though I had volunteered my room and it wasn’t like I hadn’t understood what would happen. But as I looked back and saw Brooke pick up her suitcase and set it on the bench at the end of my bed, tucking her long hair behind her ears as she did so, I was annoyed anyway. I wouldn’t have cared if it was just Danny in my room, but somehow this girl was upending everything.
I walked straight over to J.J. and Danny’s room and knocked on the door—it was ajar, and it swung open. “I’m coming i
n,” I called through the open door, giving my brother fair warning. When I didn’t hear anything, I walked in, my eyes adjusting—I always forgot that my brothers’ room didn’t get as much light as mine. It was pretty close to what it had looked like when they had been in high school—cleaned out a little bit since the tag sale, but with the same decorations in place—Danny’s trophies, J.J.’s plaques, the chair in the corner shaped like an oversize baseball glove, and the decade-old posters on the wall of actresses in bikinis, all of whom now had cookbooks and lifestyle websites.
And filling the entire back wall were the Grant Avenue signs. I sometimes forgot just how many of them there were—some with just the sign, some with the sign and signpost, and some with only portions. RANT AVENUE, for instance, had a place of distinction toward the top.
In my mind, it was always blurred—what had happened with the Grant Avenue saga in real life, what had happened in the comic strips, and what had become family legend. But everyone agreed on how it started. When Danny was a junior, Linnie was a sophomore, and J.J. was still in eighth grade, the Grant Avenue sign started disappearing with some regularity. By the third time it happened, people—like the residents of Grant Avenue and the police—were starting to pay attention.
Both my parents denied that they knew it was going on, but I had clear recollections—even at five—of being in my brothers’ room and seeing the stolen street signs. Linnie had had one as well, propped up by her mirror. We were not the only Grants in Stanwich, so I’m sure focus wouldn’t have turned to us, except for the fact that my mom started featuring it in her comic strip.
Whenever the subject of the signs came up, when we were all sitting out on the back deck, our dinner long finished but nobody going in yet, or all of us in the family room, with books and board games, my mother would ultimately be the one who was blamed for what happened. “I wasn’t the one who stole them,” she’d point out, which was a word all three of my siblings took umbrage with.
But a few weeks after the first articles appeared in the paper about the missing street signs, a similar story line started in the version of Stanwich that existed in two dimensions in the comics section. She teased it out, with Donny and Lindsay having a secret, and A.J. eventually finding out about it—and then the reveal, on a Friday, of Cassie opening the door to Donny’s room and seeing the purloined street signs.
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