Between Us and the Moon (25 page)

I don’t mention that’s it only for a few more weeks.

“God! Don’t you get it?” Scarlett yells, and I take a step back from my sister. “Andy hasn’t been in high school for two years. He’s had experiences you can’t even imagine yet. You live in two different worlds.”

“Not
that
different.”

“Yes, that different. And you’ve been lying to him this whole time.”

I know that but I’ll never own up to it in front of Scarlett.

“I can’t believe you would do something like this. You’re Miss Logical. Miss Math Club. Miss Scholarship. You overthink your entire life.”

“Exactly!” I cry. “That’s exactly right. And for once, I didn’t, and I loved who I was!”

“You always do what
you
want. You’re so selfish, you don’t even care about Andy.”

I gasp and my cheeks flush.

“It’s
Andrew
and of course I do. I know what I’m doing.”

Scarlett puts her hands on my shoulders but I don’t want to look her in the eyes. “He’s a really nice guy. Do you—”

Scarlett takes a breath, seemingly steeling herself for this conversation.

“Bean, do you have any idea how unfair this is to him?” Scarlett puts her face in her hands. “I can’t believe this. Thank God you’re leaving in a week.”

Thunder smashes around us. Both Scarlett and I flinch. Scarlett even hunches a bit and covers her head.

“Is that why you defended me? Is that why you lied for me to your friends? For Andrew?”

Scarlett doesn’t answer. I know she’s right about lying—it’s wrong,
of course.
But that’s why she defended me, so Andrew could save face. It wasn’t even for me.

“They’re all talking about it. Andrew and your sister. Inseparable this summer. It’s so wrong. I shouldn’t lie for you. I’m not a liar.”

“You’re no saint, either, Scarlett. You go out with Curtis and he’s a murderer.”

Her porcelain face seems to crack. Her blue eyes soften. The wind whips again and tiny specks of rain fly through the air.

“The least you could do is defend me. Your sister. I’m flesh and blood, remember?”

“I didn’t defend Andy, I defended you,” she says, and her eyes lift to me, her mouth turned down in a distinct frown. “But you made up this whole life that isn’t real.”

“It feels real,” I say quietly. “It’s me he’s with. And I’m going to tell him. I was about to when you came to get me.”

“Oh right.”

“I actually was. Not like you care or believe me.”

“No. I don’t.”

A crash of thunder explodes again. People around us scream and then break into laughter. The guys holding the tent start ushering people to the house.

The rain does not hesitate. There is a blast of lightning and the water comes down in a thick sheet.

I turn on the spot, leaving Scarlett by the side of the house. I walk directly into the fray. The band races past me, nearly running me down with their rain-soaked instruments. Guests make a dash for the stairs so quickly. The various catering managers steer people inside, and the party planner holds an umbrella for some of the ladies from the DAR.

“Tell him the truth, Bean,” Scarlett calls after me, though it is a soft warble through the rain, like a bird song. I turn back and Scarlett hasn’t moved. She doesn’t even hide her face from the rain. Her hair is already stuck to her skin and mascara is running small lines onto her cheeks. “Tell him.”

“Sarah!” Andrew’s voice calls out to me from the chaos.

Dad helps Nancy waddle to the house before me. She cries out, “Don’t light the candles, you twit! Get some of those brute waiters to bring the ice sculpture inside!”

The valets help to run platters of desserts to the house. The caterers have to walk in teams of four as they balance silver platters of food. The precious apple meringue cakes Nancy paid top
dollar for are soaked. One apple, which I think was garnish, falls from a silver platter to the ground and rolls by Curtis and Tate, who jump over it and race up the patio stairs.

“Sarah!” Andrew’s voice calls out again. Mom, Nancy, and Dad are already on the patio. Scarlett must have gone inside because the space under the stairs is empty.

Andrew runs up the path to me; he is completely soaked.

The wind and rain crash onto the party. I snatch my bag from the back of Dad’s car where I had left it earlier in the night.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Andrew cries. Without a glance back, we escape out onto the street.

ANDREW PARKED ALMOST AT THE END OF SHORE
Road. He’s unbuttoned his bow tie and his shirt clings to his body. We jump into the truck. The rain is so strong it runs down the windshield and blots out anything on the street.

I hold my bag in my lap. Inside is a much-needed change of clothes. I keep shivering. Andrew starts the car but doesn’t go anywhere just yet; he drops his hands to his lap.

“So the party tonight,” he says, “was for Scarlett. Because she’s going to Juilliard.”

“Yep.”

“But not for you.”

“No. Not for me,” I say.

“Why didn’t you have a going-away party? You’re going to college in the fall,” he asks.

“Oh,” I say, working up my nerve. “I guess I’m not really a party person.” We drive toward Andrew’s house. Lies are like water. They ripple out, the details slip through; they’re hard to contain.

Shame keeps my eyes to the floor. The guilt is so easy to push aside when the love I feel for Andrew is so real. I can’t imagine him knowing the truth. Who am I kidding? I can’t imagine even saying the words: I am sixteen.

Andrew doesn’t say anything else about the party and I suppose he’s just trying to be polite. We pull up to his house and run to the patio. The rain has lightened up momentarily, but a flag on the top of the house makes the same
thwap
sound as Nancy’s too-expensive tent.

He turns from unlocking the door and lifts an eyebrow. “I bet I can convince you to get out of that wet dress.”

“I would take that bet,” I say with a smile, but it’s hollow inside. That uneasiness I haven’t been able to place settles over me again. As I step into the house, I finally identify the feeling. It took me all summer, but I can finally confirm the emotion.

Disappointment.

I am disappointed.

Andrew flips on the lights and places his keys on the table. I run through Scarlett’s party in my mind: the delicately scrawled place cards, the twinkle lights, and brass band.

I step past the kitchen and Andrew’s question runs through my mind a second time:
Why didn’t you have a going-away party?

Why
didn’t
I have a party? I was number one in my class; I never received anything less than an A in my life. I turned sixteen this summer. Why didn’t I ever ask Mom and Dad to celebrate?

Andrew makes himself a drink in the kitchen, and there are two clinks of ice in a glass. He is making one for me too. I walk to the window. Outside, it’s dark but the leaves on the trees whip and snap.

Andrew stands at his computer, scrolling through some music. Out the window—the leaves make tiny cyclones. I imagine Nancy’s backyard and the decadent linens swirling and spinning over the perfectly manicured lawn.

A melodic but slow acoustic song trickles out of the computer speakers.

“Do you know what dorm at MIT?” I hear from behind me. But it’s a punch to my gut.

“No,” I sigh.

Words from the summer, voices from fights, and discussions filter through my mind.

You stop me, Star Girl. You make everything I see . . . better. More interesting.

Let Dad proofread your essay.

Backup your back ups.

It’s all so clear to me now: why I’m not allowed to have my cell phone on the table. Why I’m lying to this perfectly beautiful boy who has no idea I’m sixteen. Why I told the lie in the first place.

And why, all summer, there was never a light left on for me.

I place a palm on the glass and I’m surprised how cool it is.

“Sarah?”

In my mind, Mom checks her cell phone, wondering and worrying about Scarlett.

Dad’s reading. Dad’s working. Dad’s watching TV. Dad’s constantly absorbed with an article.

I am not there.

I am not there.

I wanted them to see me, understand me, but they haven’t been paying attention. They haven’t
wanted
to see me. I found myself all on my own, here in this house and on the beach with Andrew, but they haven’t even paid attention.

“Sarah? Are you okay?” Andrew asks.

A flush of heat circles in the apples of my cheeks. Andrew stands before me, but in my mind, he is at the water’s edge. The sunset falls over him and he’s about to dive into that icy cold ocean, where we first kissed, where it all started.

“You know, tonight at the party,” I say, “I watched my life from the outside. I walked through those people; I’m not one of them.”

My palm drops from the window smearing long finger lines against the foggy glass.

Andrew’s lips are tight; he lightly touches my shoulder. “I don’t think anyone really knows the real me,” I say with a shrug, “I let them tell me who to be. I let them dress me up.” My voice cracks and I try to hide it by clearing my throat. “But you,” I say, though it’s hoarse. “You see me.”

He lets his hand drop from my shoulder.

I clear my throat again, shaking my head and the threat of tears away.

“Want to know what my nickname is?” I ask.

“Sure . . . ,” he says gently.

“Bean. The little small thing you push around on your plate that you don’t even really want.”

All these truths are not the right one. They aren’t the one he needs to hear.

Andrew takes a step to me, reaches behind my head, and unclips my barrette. My hair falls, the clip drops to the floor, and Andrew kisses me deeply. He’s kissed me like this all summer. At the beach, at parties, in my driveway. I kiss him back. This kiss is to say I’m sorry. Sorry that I had to construct a whole false life, to create a stage where I could stand.

“Come on,” he says once he pulls away. We move down to the carpet. He lies on his back in the middle of the floor. We lie side by side and listen to the music. Andrew holds me and I wonder: why is Scarlett so angry with me all the time? Is it because Mom and Dad are never worried about me? Does she envy my invisibility? I would give anything to have them consider me dangerous, a kid they have to worry about.

I refocus on the aerial photographs. Jagged geography trapped inside a frame.
I’m like that
. Most people aren’t close enough to see all the parts of me. Or maybe it’s Scarlett I’m thinking of. Before I can think anymore Andrew’s hand is running up my side and soon he’s pulling me back up. Andrew takes my hand and we’re dancing.

A new song plays on the stereo, another slow acoustic. The guitar strums a melancholy melody. We spin ever so slowly. His chin is close to mine and I breathe deep, inhaling him. He’s salty
and smells a little like suntan lotion. His hands run over the straps on the back of the dress, up and down, again and again. We keep dancing.

“Sarah,” he whispers. I lift my eyes to his. “I love you.” This just makes my face hot and my lips tremble. “I love you,” he whispers again. The song picks up and it’s so sad—the guitars, the drumbeat—and I know that I absolutely love him. I run my thumb over the tattoo I was so obsessed with all summer long. Swimming to the moon, swimming through the stars; it’s just a wish. Like all of the lies I told this summer.

His finger loops under the strap of my dress—he slides it down my arm. His eyes fix on the other strap. His index finger hooks under the fabric and he pulls ever so slowly, down. He unclips my bra so that my shoulders and breasts are bare. The air in the room is warm, but I shiver anyway. My teeth chatter like I’m back on Nauset Beach in June. He lifts me up, my legs wrap around his waist and my chest presses against his chest. Only this time we’re not in the water. Up the stairs we go, step by step, I kiss him, legs wrapped around his waist.

Thunder crashes outside and the wind howls against the side of the house. He places me down and we’re standing in the middle of his bedroom with the shades drawn and the queen bed unmade.

The dress drops down around my ankles. My feet sink into the soft carpet. I curl my toes into it. I slip off my underwear. I want him to see me, know me.

Andrew comes down to his knees. I come to my knees too.

“I really want to do this,” he whispers. We still don’t touch
yet—we’re so close. I can feel his breath on me.

His expression darkens in concern.

“You’re shivering,” he says and touches my shoulder.

“I think it’s because I’m happy,” I say, though my teeth chatter.

“I’m going to take your hand,” he says. “Then I’m taking you to the bed.”

Shudder.

Only tiny snippets of thoughts run through my head once Andrew pulls me on top of the bed. He slides off his dress pants and boxers so he is completely naked.

He extends a hand and together, we lie down. His head moves from kissing my lips to my breasts to my thighs. My legs spread, his mouth moves to me.

No comet can touch this.

When he moves back up and kisses my mouth, he pulls away. “I love you,” he says it again and again.

Love.

Love.

I repeat the word over and over in my head until the hollow slide of a wooden drawer brings my eyes to the bedside table.

He takes out a condom. Andrew leans back on the pillow.

How many ways are there to stare?

Blond hairs run over his knees. There’s a sheen of red, a burn from where he’s missed suntan lotion. I want to run ice over it. I see these details in the bruised moonlight. The thin condom wrapper splits so easily in his hands. Andrew lifts his eyes to mine. He sits back against the wall with his knees bent a little.
His penis is hard and it’s not science telling me, it’s me. I want his body, want to put my mouth all around him, and I do. There’s a pulse through me. A star racing across the sky.

He touches me on my shoulders, stopping me, and I lift my head up. My lips pulse with my heartbeat.

“Is it okay?” I ask.

“Yes, I just need you to stop. Or . . . ,” he says.

“Oh!” I say, and we share a smile. I know what he means.

“You want to do this?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say in an exhale. “Yes.”

The condom remains poised in his hand. I wonder if he wants me to reach out and put the condom on him myself. But he does it; a slow roll. He crawls toward me. Every time his palms touch the sheet it leaves an indentation like a handprint in the sand.

He slides on top of me, his hands curl over my shoulders, and Andrew breathes softly on my lips. When his mouth is on mine, he enters me. I open, I widen. Andrew thrusts his body and something deep inside me tears just a little. I gasp and my hands tighten on his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he says, pulling back.

The pain dissipates, rippling away. Andrew’s eyes move from my parted lips to my eyes. “Sarah?”

Andrew leans forward and runs his lips over mine. He doesn’t kiss me. He skirts over my mouth with his own so an electric wave rolls over me all the way down to my toes.

“Are you okay?” he asks again.

“I’m perfect,” I whisper. Andrew starts to move again.

And only as his mouth touches mine, tasting of salt and
sweat do I realize that yes, I am fine.
I
am fine. Me. The girl he has grown to love is here. I’m here, I am here, I think, as his body moves with mine again. I’m here and I love you.

I
love . . .

“Don’t leave in a week. Don’t leave . . . ,” Andrew whispers in my ear.

He cups the back of my head with his palm and whispers it again. These whispers are the bay breeze in the morning through an open window.

“Don’t leave,” he says again.

They are tiny waves rippling onto the shore.

Oh, Andrew, I want to say as the rhythmic timing of our bodies quickens.

I’m already gone.

Sixteen—eighteen—isn’t it all the same? Boston College, Scarlett, bonfires, lawn parties, and beaches.

Andrew is on his side, stroking my hair. Sweat slides down my temple and my heart beats between my legs.

They say that the light from a star takes four years to reach Earth. Four years ago, I was twelve. I liked my bed. My toys. The Boston Planetarium. Four years from now, I will be twenty, Andrew’s age. When the light leaves the nearest star, right now, from the moment Andrew and I made love, it will take four years to reach me again. Somehow, this comforts me. This amazing moment can be relived.

“What am I going to do without you until school?” he says in a growl. The early morning makes his voice hoarse. “I know,”
he says with a lift to his voice, “I’ll move you into MIT. It’s like twenty minutes away from me on the T.”

Something cracks apart inside my chest. Like a bone or a muscle.

“I’ll show you around Boston. We can do it together.”

I take a breath. “Yeah . . . ,” I say. “That sounds perfect.” And it does.

He pulls me toward him as the tropical storm blows everything around outside and the branches knock on the windows. I curl my body into myself and rest my head against Andrew’s chest. He immediately brings his hand to it and strokes me lightly. We let the storm do the talking, the rain lashes the windows and the wind rattles the house.

Scarlett’s words swirl through my head.

You’re sixteen!

I grip gently onto Andrew’s forearms. I hate being sixteen.

But that’s not really true. I hate wanting to be going to MIT in the fall and knowing that there would be this whole life for me if I actually were. And this here, this moment, is just another part of that life.