I decide to run with this good fortune. I snatch the dress and sneak up the stairs. As I pass Scarlett’s bedroom and make my way to the third floor, an uneasiness nibbles at me. As I close the door to my bedroom and tuck the tag into the inside of the dress, that feeling I had at Viola’s dress shop prickles over me again. The one when Nancy and Mom decided on ballet flats without even checking to see what kind of shoes I would want for the party. The uneasiness lingers as I zip up the dress and pull my hair back into a low ponytail. Only when I call out, “See you guys in a bit! I have my cell!” does it float away. I hate when I can’t pinpoint my emotional reactions.
I have a Scarlett Levin plan in place: I stash pajamas in a bag under an Adirondack chair. At midnight, I’ll walk around the back of the house, grab my PJs, change in the darkness of the patio, and come inside. I grab a little black sweater from the front closet. I think it might even be Mom’s. I send Andrew a text.
ME: Where did you say this party was?
ANDREW: Are you coming!?
ME: Maybe. Trying to get out of family stuff.
ANDREW: Break Away Café. Want me to get you?
I can’t tell him to leave and get me yet. Scarlett could be there and I have to try to scope it out first. Break Away is the bistro that overlooks the runway at the tiny Orleans airport. It’s literally about four blocks away. It’s definitely walkable.
Crap. I forgot the actual restaurant is on the second floor. I won’t be able to scope it out first to see if Scarlett is there. Whatever. I’ll improvise.
I tiptoe over the gravel in Nancy’s driveway. It crunches beneath the flat bottoms of my sandals.
I move as fast as I can in this tight dress.
I turn onto Mooring Street, where the Break Away is located. I pass by a group of girls sitting on top of a picnic table outside of the country store. I know those girls. I recognize the one with the long black hair. These were the girls in the Seahorse. They wave at me, so I stop. I could go over—they’re smiling.
I pull my sweater over my shoulders and the click of my sandals on the pavement stops at the edge of the sidewalk.
“I like your dress,” one of the girls says. She is small with a shock of short platinum hair.
“Did you ever get that necklace?” the girl with the black hair asks. I’m surprised that she remembers me.
“Thanks. It’s my sister’s. And no, not yet. I want that necklace, though; it’s amazing, right?”
“Definitely.”
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“Meeting up with some guys we talked to on Nauset Beach.”
I could see myself hanging out with them.
“Nice,” I say. The girl with the black hair seems like she can talk to boys on the beach without needing to wear her sister’s American flag string bikini. She probably has her own.
“I’m meeting a friend at a party,” I say. “Well, I guess he’s more than a friend.”
The girls ooh and ah. “Have fun. . . ,” they say nearly in stereo.
I would love more than anything to invite them. I want to be that girl, one time, the one who has an invite to an awesome party, the one who has all the backstage access.
“I’d invite you, but it’s not my party . . . ,” I say.
“That’s okay,” the girl with the black hair says. I start to turn away.
“You should come out with us this weekend.” I turn back. She gestures to the other girls at the table.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she says, and stands up. “Give me your phone.”
“Great!” Too enthusiastic. Calm down. “I mean, that would be cool.”
She types in her number. “I’m Claudia.”
“Sarah,” I reply and give her my cell phone number.
“I don’t leave until August, so I’m, like, begging them to stay.” She nods to her friends.
“Me too!” I say. “I mean, I’m here until August.”
“Perfect. Maybe I’ll have one friend who’s here for the whole summer.” She smiles at me and it hits me that I am potentially this friend.
I glance at the time—10:06.
“Crap. I have to go.”
“Have fun!” they all call. I wave and head off toward the Break Away.
I have to do these tiny running steps all the way to the restaurant parking lot. I get there by 10:10 and scan for Curtis’s Jeep, but I don’t see it. I don’t know what kind of car the bartender from the Lobster Pot drives, so I have no idea if Scarlett is inside. Some people are idling out front smoking cigarettes and I approach a girl with long dreads. I don’t have a choice. I can’t go up there and risk it in Scarlett’s dress. I walk up to her and throw my shoulders back—another Scarlett trademark.
“Have you guys seen Scarlett? Blonde? Ballerina.” Pain in the ass, I want to add.
The girl with the dreads turns to one of the guys next to her, who I didn’t recognize at first. It’s Tate from the Lobster Pot.
“She left with Curtis, I think,” he says. I immediately take a step back. Maybe he won’t recognize me all dressed up. My hair was down at dinner.
“Like five minutes ago,” the girl with the dreads adds. “Do you have her number?”
“Oh yeah. Definitely. Thanks,” I say casually and keep checking to see if Tate tries to place me. “I’ll text her. You know. On the phone.” I back away before I keep rambling on nervously, but they don’t seem to care because they’re back in a conversation and don’t look up at me again.
Freedom! I can go into the party and I don’t have to worry. Happy Birthday to me!
I head up the stairs. I wish I could tell Andrew all the good news about my birthday, that I am going to see Gran and that I got a car. But I can’t, so I will have to settle for telling him the next best thing: that in five days the comet will be mine. I take another step and on cue, Andrew walks out onto the darkened stairs. The light from inside the restaurant highlights his frame. He is wearing jeans and a blue button-down shirt that really brings out his tan, and has a jacket slung over one arm. He looks incredible.
He hurries down the stairs but stops abruptly, looking me up and down. He shakes his head a little. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he asks.
Andrew extends his hand to me in his now familiar way. When I take it, he draws me to him and kisses me gently. As we head upstairs, the music swirls out the second-story windows and across the tiny airport.
“What’s the point of watching people take off in airplanes to go somewhere that you’re not? Seems like a tease,” I say.
I want to fly. Get in a plane, feel the engines rumble beneath my seat, and take off and see the world. Explore all the places I want to go.
Upstairs in the restaurant, there’s a huge buffet in the corner and the smell of barbecue, dressings, and corn on the cob fills the room. People are everywhere: eating, dancing, and ordering drinks. A live band plays in the corner; the music is so loud it makes the floor shake.
I wonder if anyone can tell I’m officially sixteen. My hair is coiffed up in a clip. Ettie seemed to think it would make me seem older.
Andrew hangs his jacket over a chair once we get inside. This is his boss’s fortieth birthday party and banners surround the room. YOU’RE OVER THE HILL, TERRY! I wish that it could say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SARAH!
“It’s open bar for wine or beer,” Andrew says.
Crap. What’s open bar?
“Whatever you’re having,” I say.
“I’m having a Coke because I’m driving. I hear the wine is pretty good,” he says.
I wonder how many other decisions he makes every day because of the accident. I immediately wonder how many decisions I have made because other people have pressured me in my life. I don’t like it, but I think people are more influential on me than I’d care to admit.
“You okay?” Andrew asks.
“What?” I say, and Andrew places a couple of dollars in the tip jar.
“You’re frowning.”
>
“No, I’m totally fine,” I say and shake myself out of it. On a positive note I figured out that “open bar” means free.
I take the glass of wine and sniff the contents. I’ve never had alcohol before and hopefully Andrew can’t tell.
What would Scarlett do? Scarlett would have some wine and relax. She wouldn’t immediately be able to recount the police officer’s statistics when he came to school to discuss drug and alcohol abuse. Even though that is exactly what is humming through my mind.
I sip.
“Ugh,” I say and pull away. “The ethanol alcohol ratio is really very high. At least eight percent. Like sour grape juice. Why do people drink this crap?”
Oops.
He breaks into that same big teddy bear laugh that I heard on the phone the other night.
I clear my throat and toss my hair back. “I mean it’s a bit more bitter than I realized. I’m a beer girl myself.” Not that I ever had beer either.
“Wow,” he says. “That is exactly why I like you.”
“What? What is?”
“You, Star Girl.” He pauses then adds, “You.”
Andrew’s hand links around my waist and we enter into the fray of the party.
He asks me to dance and we do. I keep trying to sneak a peek at his tattoo, but his shirt is covering it. Our bodies fit and Andrew can definitely move to the beat. He doesn’t make me feel like I should worry what I look like when the dance floor is packed with people. But, either way, after forty-five minutes or so of dancing, I should check out my hair and makeup.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Andrew. A line of sweat rolls down my back as I walk down the hallway to the ladies’ room. The satin of the dress moves softly against my body, and my hair is coming out of its updo in long tendrils that curl on my shoulders. I catch a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I feel gorgeous. This is exactly what I needed after the debacle at Viola’s.
I come out of the stall a couple minutes later and check my makeup. There’s a girl at the mirror already. She’s got a black bob and bright blue eyes. Her sundress is a pretty, deep green. She didn’t do it up for tonight, like me.
“I like your dress,” I say and open my little bag.
She puckers her mouth and applies a lip gloss.
“Thanks,” she says with a quick glance at me. “Don’t I know you?” she asks.
Oh no.
“Yeah, you work at the Lobster Pot, don’t you? I heard tips suck there this summer,” the girl says.
“No. I don’t work there. I—”
She blots her lips together and clicks her purse closed.
“Not like last summer,” she says, talking over me. “We were raking it in at the Blue Oyster. Still early, though.” She reaches into her bra and hikes up her boobs to show more cleavage. “See ya,” she says and blows past me.
“See ya,” I say, and once she leaves I lift my boobs up just like she did. Yikes, I don’t think they need to be pushed up any more. I push them back down and leave the bathroom to join Andrew. When I sit down at the table of Andrew’s friends, he immediately takes my hand. One of his coworkers, Susie, leans across the table toward me.
“Sarah, is it? Our friend Andrew here is the best secret keeper on all of Cape Cod. He won’t tell us anything about you.”
He wipes his brow with a napkin; we’re both sweaty from dancing. “She’s going to MIT in the fall,” Andrew says. “There—I told you something.”
My gut tightens to hear the lie from Andrew’s mouth. I wish we could pretend I never said anything and that somehow it could be spontaneously erased from Andrew’s mind. I forget sometimes that I even lied about my age. We haven’t really talked about it since that first day at Nauset.
I wonder immediately if Susie knows Scarlett. I am thankful yet again as I look across the table at Susie that Scarlett is going to be gone for a month. Somehow whenever anyone but Andrew asks about my “future” I get tongue-tied. Looking into the eyes of someone you are so blatantly lying to feels wrong.
Except when I lie to Andrew.
He likes me dressed in Scarlett’s clothes. He wants me to be going to MIT in the fall. I explain to Susie that astronomy is my passion and perhaps I’ll go on to work at NASA or SETI one day. Susie leans her chin on her hand.
“So interesting,” she says.
“There’s a meteor shower next month,” I say, happy I can actually keep talking about something that is patently true. “Perseid,” I explain. Susie’s skin is weathered. Even though her eyes tell me she’s younger, I see what hours upon hours in the sun have done to her skin. She asks me questions about the comet and my experiment. I glance at my cell—it’s 11:30 p.m.—the girl from the bathroom approaches the table.
“Hey, Suse,” the girl in the green dress says, but she’s looking directly at Andrew.
“Maggie!” Susie’s voice almost squeaks. She sounds like Mom whenever someone buys her a gift she really hates. “Sarah was telling us about a meteor shower next month.”
Andrew sips on his Coke and leaves his hand around my chair.
“Oh really?” Maggie looks me up and down. “We met in the bathroom. Did you buy that dress at Viola’s?” she asks me.
“I brought it from home.” Another lie, but it just flies out.
“Oh, you’re a tourist,” she says and crosses her arms. “Classy, Andrew.”
Her eyes narrow and I’m reminded of the popular girls at school, Becky Winthrop’s friends. Mean girls are apparently not included in the category of people influenced by the Scarlett Experiment.
“What was the name of the meteor shower again?” Susie asks me.
“Perseid,” I say, but it is hollow.
“. . . Fascinating,” Maggie drones. “Did you guys come from an event before this?” Maggie asks.
“No,” I say. Something is going on. Who is this girl?
My hands lie in my lap and Andrew’s fingers intertwine with my own. Maggie’s shoes are flip-flops with little blue gems.
Maggie is also in a summer dress.
So is Susie.
My cheeks warm. No one else is dressed like me. Oh my God. Scarlett says being overdressed is more embarrassing than having toilet paper stuck to your shoe. And I’m completely overdressed for this party.
Maggie smirking at me with her eyebrow raised.
A rush of heat throttles me.
Images rush through my mind:
Becky Winthrop.
Tucker.
The comet and that cupcake dress and a car for my birthday.
She needs more interests.
Change. Become someone else.
You gotta get a stronger backbone or people will walk all over you.
“Is this what girls do?” I blurt out. “To each other?” My words are short.
Maggie’s smile falls. I stand up and snatch my purse. Andrew stands up too. I almost take a step away, but I stop and ask Maggie, “I’m curious. Do you guys have some kind of online forum? Or newsletter that you send out? Because you’re good. You’re all the same. You know exactly how to make someone feel like complete shit. You’re like every single girl in my high school.”
Susie snickers and nudges the woman next to her.
“Excuse me,” I say and walk away.
“You’re a bitch, Mags,” Andrew says.
There’s the scrape of his chair and Susie says, “Andrew, give her a second.”
My whole body rattles. I’m vibrating head to toe as I march from the table and out of the Break Away.
I pull the sweater a bit tighter over my shoulders, but it’s not enough to stop the chills. Once I get to the parking lot, I catch a reflection of myself in a car window and roll my eyes. I lift my purse up to cover my cleavage.
I want to call Mom and Dad. It’ll make them feel better when I’ve asked to stay out so late. Maybe if I call them it will make me feel better to hear their voices.
“I told you I didn’t want
to see or hear from you, Maggie,” I hear Andrew say from the top of the stairs. His anger makes his words sharp.
“Whatever, Andrew. That girl is a tourist. Who dresses like that for a summer birthday party?”
I step farther into the parking lot and take out my cell. The phone rings a couple of times on the other end.
“Hello?” Mom says.
“Hey, it’s me, Bean.” I exhale away from the mouthpiece of the phone so she can’t hear my voice shaking.
“Beanie?!” She’s either surprised or angry, I can’t tell which one. Oh boy—here it is, I should have brought the damned telescope. She somehow knows I lied.
“Just wanted to remind you I’ll be out late tonight. You said I could stay out a little later? For my birthday? Remember? Like eleven? Eleven thirty?” Making excuses seems safe. I wish I hadn’t called.
Mom yawns.
“I thought you were home already,” she says.
“But—” The rest of my words stop at my teeth.
“Be careful,” she says.
Mom always says, “Be careful.” She says it to everyone, even when they go to the grocery store. She hangs up.
She thought I was home?
I immediately dial Tucker’s number without thinking but click end at the first ring. Ugh. That means he’ll see the missed call. A tiny voice wonders if he’ll call back. I don’t want to answer it either way. I can’t tell him about my humiliation tonight at dinner or here at the Break Away in a dress that’s too fancy for the occasion. Tucker’s not mine to call anymore. He’s not the same. We’re not the same.
I can’t call Ettie, either. She’s at an overnight for band camp.
“Sarah?” Andrew calls my name from the middle of the stairs.
I thought you were home already.
I won’t go back to the party. I never want to go in there again. Who dresses like that for a birthday party?
It’s actually really hard to think someone is home when they aren’t. People make noise—even in a big house.
“Sarah?”
“Yeah?” I call, but my voice squeaks.
Andrew’s footsteps move to the asphalt.
She thought I was home?
Radium, potassium, neon. My bottom lip trembles. Crap. Constellations. Name the constellations. Cassiopeia. Ursa Major.