“See you soon!” Scarlett calls, and it singsongs through the hall. I guess that’s a no on the hug good-bye. She’s not big on public displays of affection, especially with me.
The rain hits the panoramic windows and skylights above in a steady, increasing rhythm. I place my cereal bowl down. I cannot stop replaying last night at the Alvin in my mind.
Rain comes down even harder and smacks the windows. The metal of the patio furniture clangs in the wind.
The phrase swim to the moon has been running through my mind for days. I haven’t asked Andrew what it means, and Mom took her computer with her to go to a coffee shop after dropping off Scarlett, so I can’t look it up.
Out the living room window, the rain comes down sideways.
No star gazing tonight. I glance over at the desk in the living room with Dad’s copy of the Waterman Scholarship folder sitting on it like dead weight—the blue of its glossy cover mocks me. After I steam clean the dress, I’ll go to the library and get started on how to format my essay in proper MLA format. Thank goodness for Sunday summer hours. Maybe I’ll even figure out what Andrew’s tattoo means while I am there.
I snatch the dress to start the steam clean routine and head upstairs.
The rain splashes around my ankles and the bottom of my flip-flops, making my feet slip and slide. I run up the cement steps of the Orleans library and when I grab for the silver handle, my slicked hand slips as another hand reaches for the door.
Curtis.
“American flag string bikini,” he says. Is that what he’s going to say every time he sees me?
We step into the darkened foyer and I wring out my hair; long strands stick to my back and I shiver when icy raindrops trickle down my spine. I’m standing in the library with someone who definitely knows Scarlett. I cross my arms over my chest.
The light above us flickers and makes a blinking sound. There’s a line of windows at the back wall of the library. The sky has darkened even more.
Cumulonimbus clouds, I think. We’re about to have some—
CRASH!
Thunder.
“You been having fun with Andrew?” Curtis asks.
“Yeah, he’s nice,” I say and shake my head again, sending droplets flying into the air. The white scar on Curtis’s collarbone crisscrosses up to his neck. I need to deflect the direction of this conversation and of my eyes. I don’t want him to know that I know about the accident.
“So . . . ,” I say, thinking about Andrew’s tattoo and that this is quite possibly the most expeditious thing I can do to change the subject. “Swim to the—”
Curtis leans a hand on the wall and crosses one ankle over the other.
“You’re a nice girl,” he says and draws out the word “nice” so it’s a hiss. “A good girl. Too good for me.”
I take a step out of the foyer and into the library.
A nice girl. Why does that sound dirty to me? Sexual?
The lights flicker again over the wooden tables and a sign on a desk reads REFERENCE LIBRARIAN. Curtis’s eyes linger on mine and his tongue sticks out the side of his mouth a little bit. But he’s smiling.
I inch backward toward the librarian’s desk and my flip-flops squeak against the floor.
“See ya, Nice Girl,” Curtis says and meanders down the aisle toward a computer table at the far end of the library. Great. The Orleans library has only two computers. That means I have to sit next to him at the computer if I want to access the card catalog.
Another huge crash of thunder outside makes the lights above the computers shake. There is a line three-deep for one reference librarian. It’s summer! What the hell does everyone need the library for? I need to look up the MLA reference books for my Waterman essay, aka the most boring thing I have ever had the misfortune of being assigned. Andrew’s tattoo floats through my mind too. I am not letting Curtis get in my way.
I sit down next to him and pull up the Orleans library database.
“Keeping me company?” he asks.
He can’t know I’m searching the phrase of Andrew’s tattoo. I start with the location of the writing reference books.
“If you must know I’m completing an essay, so I’m researching.”
He keeps his eyes on his screen and I sneak a peek. Meeting locations: Alcoholics Anonymous of Cape Cod.
Oh.
I type a few things but exhale through my nose. My shoulders hunch a little and the muscles in my back release.
“People are damaged sometimes,” Gran always says. “But you can’t let their damage walk all over you. You gotta be there for them. Help them pick themselves up and brush off the dirt but you’ve got to protect yourself, too.”
I keep my head pointed toward my own screen and decide that Curtis is disgusting, but he is trying. He seems like he’s brushing off the dirt. Maybe he’s just a guy who made a really bad choice.
“Andrew has an interesting tattoo on his arm,” I offer. I try to sound very casual. I write down the call number of the MLA books on a small piece of paper, which also allows me to turn my head even farther from Curtis’s computer screen.
“Oh, The Doors lyric? You a fan?”
“Of Andrew?” I ask. Curtis looks at me funny.
“Of The Doors,” he clarifies.
“Oh. Yeah. Completely. Thought you might be too.”
What the hell am I even saying?
“Nah. He’s the sensitive one.” Curtis clicks out of the browser and stands up. “See you later, Miss America.”
“See ya,” I say quietly, even though he is out of earshot. He leaves without explaining anything to me, not that he needs to or that it’s my place to know.
Still, as Curtis walks away, I have an overwhelming urge to call out to him. To tell him that Andrew misses Mike too and won’t have a drink because of what happened even though he wasn’t even in that car. I want to tell Curtis that he’s not alone in his grief. I want to tell him I’m sorry and that we all have to live with the ripple effects of our choices. Even me—a girl who lived in her sister’s shadow way too long.
I’m sorry for both Andrew and Curtis.
Sorry for their loss.
The Doors. I think I’ve heard of them or something. Within ten minutes, I’m sitting in the back of the library with three books in front of me and all of them are about the 1960s. One is open to a picture of a band. In the center is a guy in the tightest pair of leather pants I’ve seen since Mom took me to a Broadway play in New York City.
He’s hot, too. If you like that longhaired, tight pants, amazing mouth thing. Tucker does not have any of that. Actually, neither does Andrew. Well, except for the amazing mouth.
“Jim Morrison!” Mom says later that evening. She sits next to Dad and her tea steams next to a book on résumés. “I was too young, but Gran loved him.”
“Gran?” Granny Levin likes dried herbs hanging upside down in her kitchen and tie-dye T-shirts.
“Yeah, Gran went to a bunch of their concerts.”
It is necessary I speak to Gran about “swim to the moon.” I think she’ll like that phrase. I can tell her a little about Andrew. Just like I did with Ettie, I’ll leave out the part about his age.
I am supposed to call her and Gracie once a week. But because she’s been at her silent meditation retreat, I haven’t been able to. The fact that she’s spent seven days not speaking to Gracie seems impossible to me.
As I walk to the telephone to call Gran anyway, Mom’s phone chimes.
I am dialing on Nancy’s portable house phone when Mom says, “Looks like Tucker isn’t coming to the party. You’ll get your wish after all.”
I freeze and draw a quick breath. I grip the phone hard. My index finger hovers over the last few digits of Gran’s number.
So that’s it. Tucker really isn’t changing his mind about us breaking up. I hate that in some sick way, I thought he would and I was, even for a second, excited about it. It’s like Tucker’s decision not to come to the party is another jab to
hurt me. Coward. He doesn’t want to see me and have to own up to what he did behind my back. He probably thinks I’m still crying. He’s probably pitying me right now.
“Beanie? Did you hear about Tucker?” Mom says.
“It’s completely fine,” I say and clear my throat. “Totally and completely fine.”
I dial the last of Gran’s number with a slam of the keys.
“Fine, huh?” Mom says with a slight smile.
I head out to the patio and close the door so she can’t hear me.
Even though Gran has a couple days left on her retreat, when she gets home, she’ll listen to her messages and call me and we can talk about Andrew. I want to hear her voice even if it’s on a message machine.
It rings three times and I hear Gran’s familiar honey tone.
“This is Jean and Gracie. I hate these things.”
“We hate, dear. We,” Gracie’s voice says.
“We hate these things, so make it quick. If you’re selling something, our answer is no.”
“Gran,” I say into the receiver. “It’s Bean. When you can speak again we gotta talk Jim Morrison. I have discovered him and his leather pants. Call your granddaughter.”
I don’t say anything about Andrew on the message because if Gran hears me mention a new guy, that might mess up her silence. I don’t want to tempt her back into the world of noise.
I head up to my room for Comet Jolie position charts. My math must be exact to impress the scholarship committee—each epoch marks a moment that the comet has traveled. Consistency is key. I will punch in the coordinates and the telescope will slew to that spot in the sky. If it doesn’t match the exact location I determined—even if it’s a mere degree higher than what I calculated—all of my observations will be for nothing.
Everything I’ve been working for will be on the line out on Nauset Light Beach, the night of the perihelion.
This scholarship is my ticket out of Nancy’s vice grip. My ticket to show Tucker that he can’t win.
Maybe this is actually my ticket to a real future at MIT. Maybe one day, my lie will be my real life.
That night, after downloading a Doors album, I lie down in the darkness and listen to “Moonlight Drive.” I rub some of Mom’s lotion over my legs. My bed is comfy, the rain taps the skylights, and I stare up at the thousands of drops running down the glass. Scarlett has perfect skin. She’s always putting on some lotion or cream, so they must do something.
Let’s swim to the moon . . .
Beep. I think I hear something over the music in my headphones. Beep. Oh! It’s my cell phone.
ANDREW: Breaking into any more buildings?
Must be strategic. What would Scarlett do? She would make a joke, be cool.
ME: All the time.
ANDREW: You like all this rain?
ME: I do, but my comet trajectory does not.
ANDREW: Friday night?
The Stargazer points out the bay window fogged up with rain. The weatherman said it would clear Friday night but I will make Dad drive me to clear sky if I have to. After all the work I’ve done, I. Will. Not. Miss. The. Comet. Jolie!
During the day tomorrow, I’ll have to work on the final research and the comet trajectory and double check a few more mechanical things on my school laptop. A borrowed, sad laptop that can only sign on to the school science website and record my telescope data. Over the next few days, I have to make up for the time I’ve been spending with Andrew. I text back.
ME: Yep. Friday. Nauset Light Beach.
ANDREW: Okay. BTW Saturday night there’s a Fourth of July party on Town Beach. Huge bonfire.
I visualize Scarlett’s bus pulling into the terminal at Penn Station.
She’s gone. No one will recognize me.
I can go wherever I want! No one has to know that we’re related or that I’m only sixteen. I may have to juggle this with my plans with Claudia. Andrew believes I’m eighteen but I don’t know if he would believe Claudia is too. I can’t ask her to lie for me.
I’ll work it out.
ME: Wouldn’t miss it.
I put the phone down and press play on my music player. I let Jim Morrison take me away to sleep.
A few days later, it’s Dad, Mom, and me inside the house. Nancy is somewhere out in the backyard with the party planner. Mom’s in the kitchen packing up to go home for the day because she has a job seminar.
Outside, the sun blasts the white patio furniture. It’s sunny, but the morning thunderstorms mean the sand will be wet until tomorrow.
Dad goes over my calculations at the table.
“I’m impressed, Beanie. You have a very small margin of error, which is inherent to the instability of comets.”
“Oh, thanks,” I reply. I smile and nod at the binder, but I’m thinking about Andrew.
I read last night that Jim Morrison died when he was really young, at twenty-seven years old. Maybe that’s why Andrew feels so connected to him.
I run a hand over the plastic cover of my binder as Dad talks.
“What do you have left to do?” he asks. Dad stands and gathers his briefcase. I refocus my thoughts and sit up straighter in my seat.
“I’ve got to clean the optics on the Stargazer, and I have to organize my bag for the viewing.”
“Excellent,” Dad says. “Call me if you need anything,” he adds as Mom’s cell phone rings.
“Gerard, wait. It’s Scarlett. Hi, honey,” Mom says to the phone. Dad pauses with one foot out the door.
With the exception of the kitchen staff, it’s almost like normal. Mom leans her elbows on the kitchen counter and rocks on the balls of her feet as she listens to Scarlett go on and on.
“Scarlett won a competition at school!” she cries to Dad. “Oh wow, honey,” Mom coos into the phone. “Tell your father about the photographer.”
Dad comes back in and places his briefcase down.
“Congrats, honey,” Dad calls toward the phone.
Mom and Dad stand at the island, cell phone poised between their ears.
“Do you want to talk to your sister?” Mom asks me. “She won an award.”
“Caught it the first time!” I say while walking backward toward the stairs.
Mom shakes the phone at me. She’s trying to tell me that Scarlett is saying hello, but I can’t remember a time Scarlett has ever asked to talk to me on the phone. Maybe part of me feels guilty, I don’t know. All I know is she’s the last person I want to talk to.
I can’t say for sure what Scarlett would say to me or what she might want to know about my life. I only know about her life because I’ve been wearing her shoes. I could ask questions now, but until this summer I couldn’t relate.
I guess I don’t really know her and she doesn’t really know me.
JULY SCHEDULE
IMPORTANT DATES:
July 3rd Comet Jolie reaches perihelion! Track comet. Kick ass. (Wear cute outfit. A is coming.)
LOOKING AHEAD:
Organize for Waterman Scholarship: due date August 8th.
☐Application (16 pages, must be handwritten and snail mailed into scholarship board.)
☐Compile data, finish organization of calculations.
☑Online registration—due June 26th (Birthday!)
☑Comet Data, compiled in duplicate.
☑Letter of Recommendation from the East Greenwich Observatory
☐Personal Essay UGHHHHHHHHHHHH
VARIOUS:
☐Cute clothes for various dates with A? Maybe some earrings from town?
☑Find out about Tuck and his RSVP to the party.
☐Ettie b-day gift?
SEVENTEEN
STARGAZER? CHECK. LED FLASHLIGHT? CHECK. Approximately 524 bubble gum jelly beans? Check. And a cell phone. I am supposed to use the cell, according to Nancy, if I witness any “drunk townies” down on the beach. Mom and Dad laugh and laugh like this is a preposterous scenario.
As I get to the foyer, Mom and Dad are in the kitchen watch
ing a show about barnacles on the Discovery Channel. Dad sits up straight in his chair and points at the monitor.
“They’re going to reference me!” Dad says. “Wait for it . . .”
I’ve seen that episode about four times.
Scarlett brought that red sundress with her to New York, but she left a short blue one with little white polka dots. I admit, this isn’t the most practical outfit for comet gazing on a chilly beach, but I’ve envisioned it: Andrew and me at night, comet high above, and wind playing in my hair.
“Want me to drive you?” Dad asks.
“No,” I say, “it’s okay. I should do this without any help.”
“Good luck!” He waves from the lounger and tiny hairs sway in the central air. It’s good I caught him before a new episode of Deep-Sea Creatures on PBS at ten thirty.
Once I leave, I’m halfway down Shore Road, eating my fifth jellybean, when a red pickup pulls up next to me.
Andrew rests his arm in the window. Is he wearing a blazer? I rise on my tiptoes to peer into the car. Is that a bow tie? Wait a minute . . . he’s pushed up the sleeves of a tuxedo!
I gasp a little, the cracks in the pavement look like they’re winking.
“Nice outfit,” I say.
Andrew is almost giddy he’s so proud of himself.
“Where’s your ball gown?” he asks.
Scarlett would have thought to play up the joke. Scarlett would have worn a gown to make up for any indiscretions the other night. So instead I say, “It wouldn’t match the telescope.”
“You know, you could drive to the beach instead of lugging all your crap.”
How do I explain this one? Confidence. Scarlett confidence.
“I’m a slave, remember?” I put my hand on my hip like I’ve seen Scarlett do countless times. “My parents have control of the car this summer,” I say, which is halfway the truth and halfway lying. “And this could be considered stalking,” I say, trying to channel my sister.
“You never said where to pick you up. I was going to be a gentleman and knock.”