Between Us and the Moon (15 page)

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 3rd Comet Jolie reaches perihelion! Track comet. Kick ass. (Wear cute outfit. A is coming.)

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

       
☐
      
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?

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 watching 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.”

I get into Andrew’s pickup and hold the Stargazer bag in my lap.

“I’m ready to see some comets,” he says, and we drive toward the beach. When we pull into the parking lot, Andrew takes the telescope bag from my lap and his hands graze my thigh.

“Wait,” I say as he moves to get out of the car.

“This is a very serious scientific experiment. I have to get everything right or there could be catastrophic consequences.”

Andrew is smiling, but he stops and furrows his eyebrows.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are here as an assistant.”

He salutes me in his tuxedo and my heart nearly explodes he’s so cute.

“Let’s go,” I say.

I adjust the backpack, and we head to the steep stairs leading down to the beach.

“So why the comet?” he asks as we pass under a street lamp. Andrew has paired his tuxedo dress pants with flip-flops. “Why the obsession?”

I almost say it’s for school. For
high
school. I want to tell him every last detail about the scholarship. Instead, I gulp the truth away and choose my words very carefully.

“It’s good to have a specialization when you’re studying at MIT. You know, to come into school with a research project.”

I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds right.

“Nice,” Andrew says.

You’re a nice girl.

“Nice . . . ,” I say, lingering on the word as we step deeper onto the sand and closer to the shore. “I hate that word.”

The farther we walk down the beach and away from the parking lot, the darker it gets, which is exactly what I need. Some people fish at the shoreline. A couple watches the ocean and the waves crash lightly onto the sand.

I stop down the beach at approximately a thousand feet from the parking lot and I look up. Andrew carries the Stargazer and I’m able to get situated much faster. Expected conditions, low-grade light pollution. There’s the constellation I need, Orion. I place my backpack on the sand and take the telescope from Andrew.

“What’s wrong with nice?” Andrew asks.

“Nice is what you say when you get an A on a science exam,” I say as I set up. “It’s what I say to my mom when she asks what I think of her outfit.
Nice.
”

Andrew takes one end of a blanket and spreads it out. I unfold four smooth stones from Nancy’s backyard.

“You brought your own
stones
?”

I cock my head and let my expression tell Andrew to shut up.

“Okay . . . ma’am. What next?” he says.

I take out my red LED flashlight, which allows me to see my equipment without affecting the night vision. I grab my star chart, unzip the bag, and set up the Stargazer. I unfold the plastic base that comes with the telescope. It ensures that no matter where I am, I have a flat surface. I unearth my level. By the
lamplight, I make sure everything is even.

I get ready to start the exposure on the telescope. I check my watch. Eleven thirty. Twelve minutes.

“If my calculations are correct,” I explain, “the coordinates of this comet will be directly to the left of that star up there. Tonight’s the first night you can see it with the naked eye.”

Andrew looks up to the sky. “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“I’ll show you.”

No, this eyepiece won’t do. I switch them out. Yes, that’s better.

I type the coordinates into my ancient Summerhill laptop, hit enter, and the coordinates locate the comet based on my previous calculations.

“Why do you have your old high school computer?” Andrew asks.

Oh hell.

The sticker across the top says:
SUMMERHILLSCIENCELOANER2
.

“I bought it from them,” I say quickly. “They sold it to us cheap senior year. I only use it to collect data. I need a newer one for the fall.”

I don’t want to lie, but I can’t focus on that right now. I have to make sure everything is lining up accurately.

“Wow. You look really professional,” Andrew says.

“Please be right,” I whisper as the Stargazer focuses on my right ascension and declination. “Please be right.”

Silence . . . silence.

Both Andrew and I stare at the laptop.

“I programmed it to beep if the coordinates are a match. So if it does, it means my calculations are exact.”

“We need that beep,” Andrew says. “It’s going to,” he adds. We both stare at the Stargazer. “Any second . . . it has to.”

“You have no idea how any of this works, but thank you for the support,” I whisper without moving my eyes from the damn telescope.

“Anytime, babe.”

BEEP.

“Yes!” I cry.

“Thank God,” Andrew says, and he, too, exhales heavily. Without the telescope, I point out the white, fuzzy ball creeping across the sky. It’s funny to see it up there while I stand down here with Andrew. It’s just been the Comet Jolie and me for eleven months.

I record the right ascension and declination. I know it’s accurate, but I keep checking my coordinates and the position of the telescope.

I did it. I’m radiating.

“Look at you, Star Girl. I haven’t seen you smile like this before.”

“I didn’t need those damn computerized predictions, Andrew. I worked it out myself. Month after month! My science teachers said it was silly. Because look at that!” I point at the telescope. “It’s perfect.”

Andrew cracks his knuckles and kicks off his flip-flops.

“All right, step aside, little lady. I gotta see this comet.”

I can’t help smiling even more.

Andrew leans forward, presses his eye to the lens, and squints
the other. He doesn’t say anything, just puts his hands in his pockets and looks through my Stargazer up at my comet.

I hold my hands in front of my waist and grip them tight. I don’t know what Scarlett would say right now. I don’t know how to be her right now because she would never be in this position. She soars across a stage; people watch her; they clap. She was born for the stage. I wasn’t born for that kind of life. This, right now, sharing this with Andrew is the real me. Even though I am not eighteen and I’m not going to MIT, he’s really seeing me. I know it for sure now: I don’t have to be scared to show myself to Andrew. The Scarlett Experiment may have caught his attention, but he likes
me
.

Andrew pulls back from the telescope and points at my Stargazer.

“That,” he says, “is fucking cool.”

A warmth radiates down my chest to my stomach. “Cool isn’t exactly the most scientific word, but it is really extraordinary and
rare
,” I say. Andrew links his arm around my waist.

“What does the Perry Hation mean?”

I don’t correct him because the mispronunciation is really cute.

“When the comet is closest to our sun, it breaks up and melts away. The Comet Jolie is the brightest comet in a century. I’ve tracked it since the University of Hawaii discovered it eleven months ago. Back then it was seventy million miles away.”

“I won’t even ask how they found it,” he says and kisses the nape of my neck. I draw in a little breath from the softness of his lips. He pulls away, but I want him to do it again. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Andrew lies down on the sand and holds his hands behind his head. My summer dress barely falls to my knees, and I conclude this is not the most convenient ensemble to have worn. Andrew squints up at the constellations above and the comet streaking across the sky. I squat down to record other observations: the tail, the brightness, and environmental factors.

“Want to know how it works?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, but it’s polite, distracted. The sudden detachment in his tone makes me nervous and of course, I start stuttering.

“The telescope will take a series of pictures of the comet. When I’m done, I’ll go home, upload them to my computer, analyze all the other nights I tracked its coordinates. If I was right—well, I don’t know,” I finish lamely. “It could help with grants, scholarships.”

I put down the pen, snap off the red light, and let the stars do the rest of the talking. I lie down on the cool sand next to Andrew.

“Are you okay?” I ask after a couple of silent moments. “You’re suddenly kind of quiet.”

Andrew’s eyes still look up to the sky. Soon his warm hand is on top of mine. “I’ve never seen a comet before,” he says.

“Cape Cod has some of the best viewing conditions on the East Coast.”

“I feel like I have to tell you something.”

He is on his side looking at me again just like on our first date.

“Does it involve tutoring a girl named Becky or any girl for that matter?”

“No . . . ?”

“Continue.”

He raises one eyebrow but shakes his head seemingly to refocus.

“I—” He hesitates and pinches some sand between his thumb and index finger. He lets it drizzle back to the ground. “I—took a leave from school.”

“From BC?”

He nods. “I’ve been living here all winter. I’m supposed to start back up in the fall. So I sort of . . . lied to you about being in school right now.”

“Why?”

“What I told you the other night at the
Alvin
. I need to work for Mike’s family. Lobstering. With him gone, they need someone.”

“But that’s not what you want. You said so.”

“I owe it to them.”

I shake my head. Like Andrew’s guilt about the accident, this decision also seems illogical to me.

“You’re frowning,” Andrew says.

“No. No, I’m not.” I shake my head quickly.

“You can’t see your face. Wow! Now look!” He laughs and I cover my face with my hands.

“Stop,” I cry, and despite the serious moment I laugh at my palms.

“Sorry. I know we haven’t known one another that long. But I thought I should be honest with you about the fall. I’ll be here on the Cape, it’s only an hour away.”

“Did they ask you to do that?” I ask. “Work for them?”

“Who? Mike’s family?”

“Yeah.”

“Not exactly.”

I sit back on my elbows. “Are you asking me my advice?” No one except Tucker has ever asked for my advice. “I’m probably not very good at giving it,” I add.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“I proceed at my own risk.”

I could be Scarlett. I could be aloof, throw my head back, and tell him not to worry. But that’s not what
I
want. He showed me tonight when he looked through that telescope that he gets me. The supreme, logical, hyper detailed me.

“Let’s talk about probability. Let’s pretend you were at the party, but you didn’t get in the car that night. Let’s also pretend that you told Curtis and Mike to go, but you didn’t want to drive with someone intoxicated.” He shifts. I know that changing positions or deflecting your gaze to an object instead of someone’s eyes are all signs of being uncomfortable. “Forget it.”

“No. Keep going.”

I exhale. “Look, I don’t need to get into a deep discussion of Bayesian probability or quantum mechanics.”