Between Us and the Moon (12 page)

“IT’S NOT LIKE THEY HAVE TO HIDE IT. LIKE THEY’RE
celebrities or whatever,” Ettie says that evening on the phone. I am out on the patio sitting in an Adirondack chair. The sunset falls over Pleasant Bay and skirts the tops of the trees.

The cupcake dress is wrapped in plastic in my bedroom closet and hopefully soon will be the victim of a horrible spontaneous closet fire.

Mom is blow-drying her hair up in her room, and Dad is tinkering with WHOI paperwork in the living room. Next to him are Mom’s résumé and about fifty cover letters.

“I haven’t seen them since Hilltop,” Ettie says.

In my head I am kissing Andrew in the ocean.

“Let him come,” I say and shake my hair back over my shoulders. “I’m tired of being upset about Tucker.”

“This new optimism wouldn’t have anything to do, per se, with a guy named Andrew, would it?”

She’s finally getting to what I know she has been dying to talk about. “How is he, anyway?”

Ettie thinks Andrew is seventeen. I shaved off two years when she asked. Whatever. I’m sixteen (okay, barely); he’s nineteen. It’s not a
huge
deal. He’s still a teenager, technically.

A small voice, deep down, asks,
then why are you lying about it?

That small voice replies:
And what’s worse? He doesn’t know the truth.

Scarlett joins Dad at the table. They examine a subway map of New York City. I ignore Ettie’s question and switch subjects.

“The dress they bought me for Scarlett’s party looks like a frosting factory exploded on some pink fabric.”

I glance to see if anyone is checking up on me. I’m far enough away at the end of the patio, but I whisper anyway.

“And next time I see Andrew, I’ll wear the dress Scarlett got. It’s short and black.”

Ettie’s silent.

“I have to tell my mom I need to stay out until midnight. I’ve never had to worry about a curfew before. I don’t know how many times I can convince Andrew I have to ‘do something in the morning.’” I make air quotes even though Ettie can’t see them.

I know what it means when she’s so quiet. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, though I can tell it’s something.

“Spill it, Ettie.”

“Seems like a lot of stuff to be manipulating just to see a guy.”

“He’s not
just
a guy, and I’m not manipulating him.”

“Do you know what will happen if Scarlett finds you in her clothes again? She’ll kill you and you’ll never see Andrew again. You got away with the bikini, but how are you going to pull off a fancy dress?”

I thought about showing up to that party at the restaurant in the cupcake dress. I wouldn’t even look sixteen. I’d look twelve. If I wore the black sandals I have and Scarlett’s dress, that would look perfect. I’d look older. More sophisticated. And I could continue the Scarlett Experiment.

“Bean?” Ettie says.

“Yeah,” I say, coming back to the moment.

“Did you hear anything I said for the last two minutes?” I’m quiet, and Ettie sighs.

“If you do wear it, steam clean it in the bathroom when you get home,” she says. “Hang it up and run the shower. It’ll get rid of any smells or wrinkles after you wear it.”

“Since when are you a stealth mode expert?”

“Movies. TV. Summerhill girl’s bathroom.”

“Excellent.”

When we hang up, my plan is set.

I can’t stop what is going on with Andrew, I don’t even know how it started.

And either way, I don’t want to.

I head upstairs to get dressed before we go to the Lobster Pot for dinner. I’m zipping up my jeans when Scarlett steps into the doorway.

“Ahem . . .” She dangles by her fingertips a small brown bag with lime green paper handles.

“Yes?” I say and cross my arms over my chest. I still hate her for not defending me at the dress shop.

She comes in and sits on the bed. She lifts the brown bag.

“Happy Birthday,” she says.

I sit down too and face her directly.

“You got me something?”

“Don’t I always?”

Well, yeah, now that I think about it, she does.

I scoot next to her and take the small bag. I reach in and wrap my fingers around a slim glass bottle.

“Wow. I should get you stuff more often. Look at that smile,” Scarlett says.

The crystal bottle of Egyptian Musk lies in the palm of my hand.

“Your perfume,” I say, my cheeks warm. Mom must have told her about the other night. “I only wore it that one time.”

“What time?”

Oops.

“The other day,” I admit.

She sighs. “Ask me when you borrow my things, please.”

“How did you know I liked it?” I ask.

“You smelled it at home, like, ninety times. And I do live with you, dork.”

I didn’t know she saw me do that. I didn’t think she noticed me very much at all.

“I ordered it online and had it sent to me. I didn’t think it would come in time.”

The perfume bottle glints from the track lighting above.

“Thank you,” I say and curl my fingers around the little vial instead of hugging my sister. I think she might embrace me, right then. But she doesn’t. She gets up instead, leaving the scent of Egyptian Musk trailing behind her—it smells better on her, more exotic.

“Don’t worry about that dress,” she says, stopping at the door. “The one for the party.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It’s mostly going to be my friends, anyway. You won’t even know most of the people there.”

“Tucker will be there. Maybe he can take a picture and send it to Becky for a laugh.”

“Stop it,” she says, still lingering at the doorway. “Who cares what he thinks?”

She leaves and her soft footsteps descend the stairs toward dinner.

“Me,” I whisper when she’s out of earshot.

I set the perfume on my night table and hurry down the stairs after my sister.

Lobster carcasses sit on each of our plates—well, all except Scarlett’s, who only ordered a garden salad with grilled chicken. Silver tongs and discarded tails litter the table. Butter stains my paper napkin. Scarlett’s bowl of salad is empty with only dregs
of vinegar left behind. If it were me, I would dip pieces of bread into the salad dressing. Scarlett doesn’t do that . . . ever.

I love the sweet smell of the hand wipes after a great seafood meal. It means dessert is coming. Lobster Pot chocolate cake is on its way. The frosting is about ten inches thick. Mom and Dad lift a blue box from under the table—it’s as big as a cereal box but way wider. How did I not notice it? Dad must have gone back to the car when I was ripping my lobster to shreds. They send it down the table to me.

“Scarlett!” Dad calls.

She hangs on the bar talking to a bartender but saunters back to the table.

The blue present makes its way to my seat. Attached by a piece of tape on top of the blue box is a white envelope and another box, but this one is magenta and much smaller. I definitely know who the pink box is from—Nancy.

I tear open the white envelope. I expect a card, but there is only a ticket. A
plane
ticket.

“San Francisco!” I cry. “I’m seeing Gran?”

“She sent it earlier this week,” Mom says with a huge smile.

There is a folded note inside that says,
See you Labor Day weekend, XO, Gran and Gracie.
There’s a P.S. in Gran’s sturdy handwriting:
We’ll let you drive Gracie’s Jetta.
In Gracie’s slim writing beneath that it reads:
But you might not ever want to drive again!

Scarlett sits down and I pass her the note from Gran.

“Wow, lucky,” she says.

I can’t help but notice that Nancy has one lone eyebrow raised.

“Right before school starts?” she asks.

“Okay!” Dad chimes in quickly. “Open ours.”

I pull off the thick blue paper and find there are a few items in the box. A set of sticky stars for my ceiling.

“These ones are accurate to the New England sky in March,” Dad says, because he knows me too well. Beneath that package is a small box and another envelope. Inside the small box is a set of silver studs in the shape of stars. I place them in my ears right away.

“She should clean the—”

“Too late, Nancy,” Dad says.

Inside the other card envelope is two hundred dollars cash.

“Dad . . . ,” I say. The envelope sits in the palm of my hand. “This is too much.”

“That’s to see Gran,” Mom says. “And to have fun.”

Nancy squirms in her seat and I know she wants to say hundreds of things.

She purses her lips as the chocolate cake is brought out. Little candles flicker on top of the cake and Nancy stops her tantrum to sing.

“Happy Birthday to you . . . ,” our table sings, and soon other people in the dining area sing too.

Scarlett’s tiny voice chirps over the crowd. She texts on her phone while she sings along. The waiter lowers the cake to the table in front of me. Mom, Dad, Nancy, and Scarlett all smile as their rousing rendition comes to a close.

“Make a wish, Beanie,” Mom says.

As the little flames flicker, I do wish:

I wish I could be who I am when I’m with Andrew—but all the time.

I blow out the candles, and as the swirls of smoke curl to the ceiling, I pray that birthday wishes come true.

Slices of cake are passed out as I open Nancy’s box.

A set of keys sits inside on a bed of pink tissue paper.

Car
keys.

No way. My jaw drops. “These are . . .”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s my car. The Volvo, which means it won’t be brand-new.”

“Are you kidding me?” I cry. Nancy has never done anything like this, ever. She never got Scarlett a car! I’m ready to jump up and hug—

“You can really expand your horizons with this car. Get some new hobbies. You could even come down here on some off days from school.”

Visit?

Scarlett keeps texting, but her lack of response tells me she’s surprised. Her all-too-casual reaction is a clear giveaway.

“This will be very helpful for you to do things outside science. Scarlett loves to dance, but she also loves movies, art, and all kinds of things. You could do that too.”

“Can I go?” Scarlett asks without a glance up from her phone. I close the lid on the box with the car keys.

“Mom.” Scarlett finally looks up from her phone. “I need to go home and change. I can’t go to the party in this.”

“Hold on, Scarlett.”

“I
leave
tomorrow, shouldn’t I get to do what I want to?”
Scarlett says, though this time it’s a whine. “I stayed the whole dinner.”

Gee, thanks. Feeling the love here.

“Oh, go, Scarlett.” Mom turns back to Nancy. “This car is too much.”

“I have to get a new one anyway!” Nancy says. “And it’s too late, I already signed over the title.”

It’s 7:48. Andrew texted earlier and said he was going to the party around 9:30. I want to be with Andrew. I want to be with someone who sees what I wish everyone else would see.

Scarlett tucks in her chair. “See you guys,” she says.

“Where are you going?” Mom asks.

“To a party with Curtis and Tate.”

She motions to the bartender. Except now, he’s not in his red Lobster Pot shirt. He’s waiting for her in a T-shirt and jeans. Now that I look, I think I recognize him from town the other night. I make sure to keep my head turned away in case I see him out with Andrew sometime. I don’t want him to recognize me.

My stomach sinks. If Scarlett is meeting Curtis, I can’t go to the party to meet Andrew. Scarlett will probably be there. I won’t get a chance to see what she’s wearing, but knowing Scarlett, it’s tight and short.

“Happy Birthday, Bean,” Scarlett adds before leaving.

Dad gets the check and Mom cleans up all the wrapping paper. Her cheeks are red.

Nancy is still squawking away about how good the car will be for me and all the interests I should and shouldn’t have. I want
to be anywhere else but here. For the first time in sixteen years I actually wish I could go do something else instead of our mini-golf tournament.

“Ready to beat your old man?” Dad asks. He leans a hand on the back of my chair. I smile because I would never disappoint Dad. He could never guess that I would rather be meeting an older boy at a party than playing mini-golf.

“As always!” I say and follow my family out the door.

I WIN BECAUSE DAD ALWAYS THROWS THE MINI-GOLF
game on my birthday. Within fifteen minutes of getting home, Dad is snoring on the couch and Mom is reading in their bedroom. Nancy is in her room getting ready for bed.

I knew what I was going to do the second I hit the eighteenth hole at the windmill. Even though Scarlett is potentially going to be there, I want to go to the party. I’ll peek in and see if she’s there. If she is, I’ll go home, and no one will know. If by some shred of a miracle, she isn’t there, I can text Andrew and pretend I got out of my “family obligation” early. Andrew said it was kind of formal, so it’s the perfect occasion to wear the black dress. First, I have to make sure Scarlett isn’t wearing it.

Asking for a later curfew is a risk, but I’m trying it anyway. I need to think of an excuse to go out tonight, and no one can see what I am wearing. I don’t feel so bad lying about this. I’m doing what Nancy wants me to do—I’m pursuing other interests. It’s just not on her terms. This is on my terms and they wouldn’t understand.

“Mom,” I say gently as I stand in the doorway of her bedroom. I make sure to dress in jeans and a T-shirt to avoid suspicion.

“Yes?” she says, turning a page.

“I have some star charting to do and, well, I was kind of hoping to head down to the beach. I know it’s late, but it could be an important night.”

Mom shrugs. “Sure,” she says.

Seriously? That’s it?

“Great!” I say. “And I was sort of wondering if I could come back a little later. You know? Like, eleven?”

I check the clock: 9:40. Scarlett’s barely been at the party an hour.

Mom is quiet, her eyes focused on the page. She’s considering this so I talk fast.

“Because the darker it is, the better the view of the night sky. And I’ll bring my cell phone and—”

“Bean, make sure to put your presents up in your room?” Mom asks, her hand on the next page of her book. She still hasn’t looked up at me for more than a few seconds. I blink a couple times. She isn’t considering my curfew—not at all. “I don’t want to hear it from Nancy,” she adds.

The moonlight shines through the panoramic windows and
all I see is the harbor in the distance. I don’t want to look at Mom because I don’t want to see her
not
looking at me.

“I think it’s fine if you research tonight,” she says.

“I’ll make sure to be here at eleven. On the dot.”

“See you then,” Mom says, nose still in the book. She isn’t coming up for air, she and Dad have that in common when they are engrossed in something they like.

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.