Between Us and the Moon (20 page)

“It’s just bruised,” I say.

“Do you want to get it looked at?”

“No,” I say and back away again. Andrew stops walking to me. “It’s not that bad.”

Andrew stands by his car with his keys just hanging there in his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. He doesn’t act like that usually. Since the accident he’s been . . .” Andrew hesitates. “. . . different.”

“I know,” I say, even though I don’t. I haven’t experienced grief and death in that way before. I hear about people dying all the time, but it’s always stories on the news or someone’s grandparents.

“Call me when you get home?” he asks.

I nod and head as fast as I can down the street.

I don’t even bother to look at my phone. My wrist throbs in smaller intervals as I walk and when I get to Shore Road, I slow my steps. It smells like salty air and somehow, even though
the beach is almost a mile away, sand scatters throughout the asphalt. Every street on the Cape somehow has sand on the road. I could search for a scientific reason, I could make sense of it in some factual way, but I don’t want to, not right now. Logic isn’t making me feel better right now.

I stop before Nancy’s house and it’s dark. No front porch light, no evidence that anyone inside is awake.

I go up the front steps, inside, past the kitchen table, and stop at the stairs. The crystal is in its place for breakfast—the silverware, too.

No one left me a note or anything. I slip my cell phone out of my pocket and make sure it’s on silent.

Before I head up the stairs to my room, I stop at the long hallway that leads from the stairs to Nancy’s wing of the house. I’ve only been down here a couple times. The hallway seems cast in silver from the snowy track lighting above.

Dozens of framed photos line the walls. I stop at the first one. It’s oversized, like someone paid extra to make an old photo enormous. In the photo are Nancy and Uncle Raymond, her husband who died before I was born. They stand in their wedding attire before an archway of white flowers.

Dad doesn’t talk very much about his uncle. Neither does Nancy, now that I think about it. I guess it’s easy to leave out painful subjects from conversation.

I move from picture to picture. In one near the end, Nancy and Uncle Raymond sit on a sailboat. She wears a 1960s high-waisted swimsuit. She’s older than she is in the photo with Gran, but I don’t know how much older. She doesn’t have the wrinkles
on the sides of her mouth like she does now. She always looks like she’s frowning even when she’s not.

Or maybe she is. Maybe Nancy is frowning even when she’s smiling because she’s had to be alone in this house for twenty years.

You weren’t there that night. You’re never there
.

How do we let go? I never understood that phrase. Let it go. Grief haunts. This summer I’ve seen it haunt Curtis, Nancy, and even Andrew, who wants to live his life for someone who’s dead.

I walk away from the photos and stop at Mom and Dad’s room. Through the partially open door, I peer inside. They sleep back to back. As usual, Dad snores like an idling motorboat. Mom is a small lump under the quilt.

When I get in bed, I pull the covers around me tight. Within a couple seconds, the phone vibrates and I jump, fumbling for it in the darkness.

ANDREW: I’m so sorry. Did I mention this?

ME: How is this your fault? I’m just freaked out.

ANDREW: Definitely talk tomorrow.

I keep seeing the angle of Andrew’s elbow as he raises his arm and punches Curtis. I’m not even sure Curtis saw Andrew in that moment, or anything at all. As I lie there, I think for once in my life, I understand the power of grief. Like all scientists I have witnessed its power through empirical evidence. Grief scares me. For once, I wish I wasn’t so adept at seeing things from the outside.

THE NEXT MORNING, THE CARPET BARELY SQUISHES
under my feet as I step down the stairs. I figure the less noise I make, the better, after last night’s fight with Nancy at dinner.

How can Andrew’s best friend be someone like Curtis? Someone who accidentally kills his friend because he was drinking but then continues to drink. Why doesn’t anyone say anything?
Do
anything?

I cross the living room to the kitchen. Nancy sips her coffee but doesn’t acknowledge me.

“I don’t know how we’ll get everything done in just a few weeks,” she says to Mom. They sit at the kitchen table together.

A few weeks? It’s July 8th; I
have
to start the essay for the Waterman Scholarship.

I also
have
to tell Andrew I’m Scarlett’s sister. I sit down at the kitchen table and rest my chin in my hand. Like I said, I just have to find the right moment. Last night at the party certainly wasn’t a prime opportunity.

“Ahem . . . ,” Nancy says.

I look up. Nancy has been watching me. Dad’s reading the paper on the couch and Mom is flipping through an education magazine. God. I know I have to apologize though I’m not sorry—not at all. I want them to apologize to me. I want them to respect my feelings.

I get up to pour some cereal; my spoon clanks against the bowl. So many times when Scarlett was bitchy, Mom and Dad sat her down and made her talk it out. They’re acting like everything is fine. Like I wasn’t just screaming at our meal ticket.

When I sit back down Nancy asks, “Don’t you have something to say to me, Beanie?”

Beanie. I wish I could sigh really dramatically.

I suck it up because I don’t want to deal with this for the day and I’m not going to get what I want from Nancy. Not ever. I have no idea how to give her what she wants.

“I’m sorry,” I say and attempt to sound convincing. “Just had a bad day yesterday.”

Nancy nods once. She sits there in her nightgown, sipping on her coffee.

Mom winks at me when she thinks Nancy isn’t looking,
but Dad keeps his eyes on the newspaper. A squeaking noise comes from behind me. A maid is using cleaner on the massive windows.

Nancy scoops another bite of eggs.

“It’s a beautiful day. What’s your schedule?” she asks me.

“Work on my essay for a while then maybe go to the beach,” I say. Yes, let’s pretend we’re having a normal conversation.

“You could go with me to the salon if you’d like.”

Oh boy. This could be Nancy’s weird way of trying to make peace. It could also be a hint. I smooth my hair and wince from the soreness in my wrist. I almost forgot.

“What’s wrong?” Nancy asks and frowns.

“I fell last night. It’s just bruised.”

She takes another bite and I conveniently pretend to watch the news on the TV so I don’t have to tell Nancy that going to a salon is my own personal version of hell.

“I’m happy to see you’re not going to WHOI every single day,” she says.

“I love WHOI,” I say immediately. “I just haven’t had the time to go as much as I’d like.”

I don’t want Dad to be hurt. I dare to look at him but don’t think he heard me.

“And I told you at the barbecue, I met a friend,” I offer, and as the words are coming out of my mouth, I immediately regret it. “The girl I hung out with on the Fourth? Her name is Claudia,” I add.

“That’s right,” Nancy says. “I thought that was just a story to shut me up.”

“I didn’t lie,” I say, but my cheeks burn.

“You could invite her to the party if you want.”

Then Claudia would have to see me in the cupcake dress and I’d have to look like a complete loser on multiple levels.

“I think that’s great,” Nancy adds and eats her eggs with her pinkie finger up. I had no idea that people could actually eat this way successfully. “It’s good you’re getting your head out of the clouds.”

“She’s on top of it, Nance. Give her a break today?” Dad says gently and puts down the paper. He grabs his WHOI briefcase and kisses me on the head as he heads for the door. Thank goodness I showered before coming to breakfast. My sheets still smell like beer.

“Did you ever find out if that boy Tucker is coming to the party?” Nancy asks Mom.

I am suddenly not very hungry.

“Well, he said he wasn’t coming, but I think Carly is insisting, which really isn’t necessary.”

Mom avoids my eyes when she says this, but if I were Tucker I wouldn’t want to go either.

Am I Andrew’s girlfriend? Curtis said I was, but Andrew and I haven’t exactly discussed it. It’s been less than a month; I’m not sure if that’s the right time to ask. I’m not usually in this position. If Tucker does show up, I don’t want to explain that Andrew is my “sort of” boyfriend.

“They need to behave like adults,” Nancy stresses, and I leave the conversation to go up to my room.

Is it wrong that I want to make it official? Is it wrong that I
want Andrew to say I am his
girlfriend
? I put on a Scarlett bathing suit, a black one-piece with a very low plunge in the neckline. I almost wish Nancy and Mom would see me in it, just to make them notice me. My phone beeps.

ANDREW: Dune riding at sunset. You in?

Do these people ever work? I text back as much.

ANDREW: Yes, Star Girl. But the key word there was sunset.

Once I pack up my beach bag for the day, I text Claudia to see if she and Chelsea want to meet me at Nauset. Turns out she’s solo again because her friend had to go home.

She agrees to meet me at Nauset and once we’re on the beach, I know I have to explain about the Fourth of July. Within minutes of getting onto the sweltering sand, we’re rubbing in sunscreen.

“Gabe left yesterday too. But we’ll stay in touch . . . I think,” she says with a shrug and slides on dark circular sunglasses. I’m wearing a cheap pair of aviators I got in town at the local pharmacy. I’ve seen Scarlett wear that style before.

“I bet you will hear from him,” I say. “He seemed really into you.”

“Every summer I meet a guy and I think we’ll stay in touch, but we never do.” She slides down her chair, crosses one leg over the other, and brings a hand to her chest. She says in a very heavy Southern accent, “As the leaves change color and fade away, so does summer love.”

I laugh. “Hey! That was pretty good!”

She sits back up. “
What
the hell happened when you left the
other night? Did you break it to that guy that you’re not into him?”

I can hide my eyes behind my sunglasses, but my nose scrunches up when I say, “I kind of . . .” I roll my eyes at myself even though Claudia can’t see it. “I just said all of that stuff in front of you guys . . .” I groan and hide my face in my hands. “I didn’t mean it. I was nervous or something. It was so stupid.”

“Nervous about what?” she asks.

“That you wouldn’t like me or something. So I just showed off. I am actually
completely
into this guy.”

“He’s hot,” she says. “Who wouldn’t be?”

The sound of families talking and kids yelling from the shore fills the uncomfortable silence.

“Why didn’t you think we would like you?” Claudia asks.

I chuckle but shake my head at myself. “I’m not—I’m not the most popular girl in school,” I finally say. “I have friends and everything, I just don’t have anything to say to
those
girls.”

The name Becky is on the tip of my tongue.

“You thought I was one of
those
girls?”

Dad’s words about me assuming people don’t like me swirls through my head again. I don’t want Claudia to be offended.

“No. No. I don’t mean a snob or anything. I just thought you seemed—cool. And I wouldn’t know how to hang out with you.”

“Girlfriend!” she says and leans forward to me. “I
am
cool.” We share a laugh.

“You don’t think I’m lame?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I never know what to say to people. I just act all dramatic, quote plays and movies, and try to be funny so I
don’t have to try to think of original things to say.”

It seems amazing to me that Claudia would be worried about how to fit in with other people. She seems so confident. I like that we both have no idea who to be all the time.

“So . . . ,” she says and sips on a water. “Tell me what the hell happened! What’s his name? What’s he like?”

“Well,” I say. “His name is Andrew . . .”

I tell Claudia the whole story but purposefully leave out the lie about MIT and my age. Just like I did for Ettie, I shave off two years so she doesn’t know Andrew’s real age. As I talk, she leans in, laughs, and asks me to tell her how he kisses. This is like having Ettie here, but different because Claudia has already dated a few guys. I wouldn’t trade Ettie for anything but Claudia is great too.

We finally get to the part about Curtis and last night.

“How’s your wrist now?” she asks.

“Okay, it’s just a little sore.”

“If I were there I would have kicked his ass for you.”

We laugh again and split some homemade sandwiches.

“Are you going to be okay?” she says.

“Yea, I just need to think it through more.”

“I would too,” Claudia says.

As I bite into my ham and cheese, I think maybe, just maybe for real this time, I’ve made a new friend.

THAT EVENING, RIGHT AROUND THE TIME THE
traffic leaving the beach is over a mile long, I slide into the passenger seat next to Andrew.

“Am I your girlfriend?” I ask plainly.

Andrew nearly spits out his soda. He swallows and looks over at me, laughing.

“I don’t know; do you want to be?”

“You beat up your friend. You punched him because of me. One would logically deduce that I am your girlfriend.”

The smile is gone instantaneously.

“I punched him because no one in their right mind should ever grab another person the way he did. No one should talk
to you the way he did.”

Oh.

“And because you’re my girlfriend. I mean, if you want to be?”

“You know I do.”

He leans in and kisses me, and I can taste the Coke. His lips are cold from the icy soda can.

“So,” I ask, “where are we going dune riding?”

“Curtis has a bunch of buggies from his grandparent’s place. There’s about ten of us, and five buggies, so you can ride with me.”

Curtis? Seriously? How can he
want
to spend time with Curtis? Especially after last night? And to be honest, how could he expect me to want to spend time with Curtis?

“How’s your wrist?”

“A little sore, but it’s better.”

I can’t put this together.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I was just thinking that some of the dunes are on conservation land and no one is allowed to ride on that sand,” I lie.

“Don’t worry, Miss Scientist, we’re heading to Provincetown beach. It’s not conservation land there.”

We drive and the music plays. It’s The Doors again, but I don’t know the song. I don’t ask, either, I just try to figure out what I am going to say to Curtis when I see him today. If we’re going to ride dune buggies with him then he and Andrew must have made up. A couple small cuts run across the knuckles on Andrew’s right hand. The scrape on his cheek is a faint red line.

We pull into the parking lot of Sandy Neck Beach and
Andrew kills the motor. “I’m such an idiot! You don’t want to be around Curtis after last night. I’m used to him, but you’re not.”

My shoulders relax and I nod.

“I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out why you’re being so quiet. I’m a dumbass. Let’s go somewhere else. Anywhere,” he offers.

I shake my head and look out at the parking lot. It’s emptying out, but there are a few families packing their chairs and umbrellas in their cars. Mom, Dad, Scarlett, and I used to go to this beach. Dad liked to swim and I would hold on to his back. We haven’t done that in a long time. Years, actually.

“Why doesn’t anyone stop Curtis from drinking?” I ask.

“He’s got to make his own choices.”

We get out and stand by the side of Andrew’s truck.

“Let’s go,” he says. “Screw the buggies. Anywhere you want.”

“I’m not afraid of Curtis. I’m sad for him,” I explain.

“He probably won’t remember most of it today. The fight with me he will, but not what led up to it. He never mentioned you this morning.”

I would never be able to be best friends with someone who could just forget the violent events of the night before. Not to mention that he got into a fistfight with his best friend. Ettie would never give someone a dirty look let alone hit a person. Tucker wouldn’t either. I have to ask. The question is going to drive me insane until I get it out.

“How can you be
best
friends with someone who would treat people like that?” I ask.

Andrew hugs a backpack. He considers his answer and his
shoulders slump. He focuses on the group in the distance. Someone yells, “Andrew,” and it’s like the prince has arrived. That’s how it always feels to me, anyway.

“Because he’s been my best friend since we were nine. Mike was like our brother.”

“But he’s an alcoholic,” I say. “I’m not saying get rid of him because he drinks too much. But whoever he was before, he’s not now. He’s dangerous.”

There’s a kind of sadness in Andrew’s gaze I can’t quite figure out. He seems to stare at nothing.

“Yes,” Andrew finally says. “Yes, he’s dangerous now.”

My cheeks warm from the drop in Andrew’s voice.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. “I can be too pushy sometimes.”

“Nah,” he interrupts me with a quick shake of his head. “You just said what I haven’t been able to.”

Across the asphalt are five neon-colored dune buggies, which really look like matchbox cars with huge wheels. Imminent death should be their name. Not dune buggies—deathmobiles.

We walk toward the group and I wonder if everyone will be talking about last night. I avoid Curtis’s eyes and he seems to be doing the same. Whenever I check, his back is to me.

Andrew slaps the hands of his friends and they do a kind of handshake I’ve seen them do before. I want to know this handshake too. I watch, and Tate, the bartender from the Lobster Pot, catches me. I look away and when I do, Shelby, the girl with the dreadlocks, smiles at me. Smile = good sign. No need to break that down and test it.

“Sarah. You need a nickname,” Tate says.

“I do?” I say, and Andrew hands me a pair of leather gloves with the fingertips missing. I want to ask him if he is aware it is eighty degrees out. I don’t.

“What’s your last name?” Tate asks.

In this entire time, this entire summer, not one of his friends has asked.

“Levin,” I say, panicked that I didn’t have time to think of a lie. I haven’t mentioned my last name to Andrew since we first met.

“Levin?” Tate says and cocks his head. I’m waiting for it. I can so easily imagine him saying, “Scarlett’s last name is Levin.” Or that he’ll tell me he already knows a Levin, that name is taken and I should know better. Or something.

“Levin needs to know the handshake. If you’re about to dune ride with us on the beach, you must know it.”

“Then I must know it,” I say and widen my stance like I’m about to run a football play. I’m ready.

We shake, we catch fingers, we snap, and he does some weird thing where he shakes his fingers around. I try to mimic it but fail. We try again. “See,” he says with a big bear laugh again, “you catch on.”

I’m about to ask him to do it again—maybe I should be writing down symbols? For practice? A helmet plops down over my head.

“Come on,
Levin
.” Andrew’s gentle humor makes my last name sound less like a swear, and I immediately wonder what Scarlett’s nickname is with this same group.

“I think I prefer Star Girl,” I say from beneath the hot helmet.

“That one’s ours,” Andrew says and points at a blue buggy with big black wheels. Andrew gets on the bike first then pulls his helmet on, and I climb on behind him.

“It’s gonna be really bumpy,” he says, turning his head so I see his profile. “Hold on tight.” And I do. Our engine revs. One by one, like little gunshots, so do the rest of the buggies. The smoke billows from engines and—
boom
—Curtis is the first to dart off the parking lot asphalt and onto the trails of dunes. We climb slowly up huge sand hills and I dig my helmet into Andrew’s back. The whole group yelps, hoots, and hollers as we pop up and down the rolling dunes. Ahead, Curtis revs his engine and his buggy jumps in the air.

The force of the bike is too much over these hills. It’s not like a regular bike, there’s high velocity. There’s force
and
speed. Why didn’t I listen more during the aerodynamics lecture? Oh boy. We could go down hard! There’s no cushioning.

“Sarah!” Andrew yells over our motor. “Look up! You’re missing it.”

I raise my head higher. In the distance, the great ocean is sparkling away.

I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss anything else again.

We race past hills of dunes and tall, green beach grass. The hot summer sunset burns my face. I remember to keep my mouth closed.

The buggies, like toy cars, jump over the last few rolling hills. Whoops and yells sound out around me. Andrew yells too as we
jump over a big hill. We hit the sand almost in unison. Curtis rides next to Andrew and me. Through the opening in his helmet, a black ring circles his right eye. His eyes linger on me and maybe—or maybe I just want this to be true—they say they’re sorry. He pulls ahead just as we crest another hill and I scream from the loop my stomach is doing when we come back to earth.

More yells and more screams of happiness echo over the dunes as we ride. I love this. All of us, rising and falling, again and again—together.

A couple of hours later, I’m sitting cross-legged watching a bonfire crackling away and I haven’t even thought to check my cell. I hold the display up to the firelight: Of course, no one’s called. I tuck it back in my pocket. Andrew and a couple of other people have driven the buggies back to the parking lot while the rest of us stay on the beach. He’s put Shelby on Curtis “drunk-ass” watch while he’s gone. Curtis keeps away from me; I think he remembers more than he lets on. I sit with my beer in my hands as the sun descends over the beach. Shelby sits down next to me.

“You’re eighteen,” she says, but it sounds like a question.

My stomach swoops like I’m back on the buggies again.

I nod—it’s better than saying it out loud. Out loud makes it more like a blatant lie.

“You look younger,” she says.

I pinch at the sand and try not to meet her eyes. Empirically, I know this behavior expresses that I am nervous.

“I get that sometimes,” I say and take a swig of the beer. A few weeks ago I never would have touched the stuff. It’s not like
I’m about to become a beer drinker or anything, but it’s nice to relax and have fun. I’m not used to it.

“You know, Scarlett’s little sister looks a lot like you. I’ve seen her before.”

“I’m not Scarlett’s sister,” I say and sip on the beer again.

Shelby raises an eyebrow.

Where is Andrew?

“I’ve met your aunt Nancy. That woman is a piece of work.”

I face Shelby directly.

“Wait a minute. You didn’t have dreads last year!” I say and slap my hand over my mouth. Damn.

“How old are you really?” she asks.

“I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. I’m, like, eleven months younger than Scarlett.”

“Does Andrew know?”

“No. Scarlett doesn’t like to admit we’re close in age,” I say, really trying to convince her. “And in a few weeks it won’t matter.” Shelby raises an eyebrow again. I wish I were telling the truth more than I can possibly express.

“I shouldn’t have lied. I know that,” I add. “But, please keep this between us?”

“Okay, I get it,” she says. “I knew I had seen you before.”

I can’t confess the real truth to Shelby. I want to. I want to tell someone so badly.

Deep down where the truth is hiding I know I can’t tell Andrew I am Scarlett’s sister. I thought my lie about Scarlett was independent of the one about my age and MIT. I assumed that somehow it would be easier to confess that I was Scarlett’s
sister—that it was safer somehow. I see now that all of these lies are connected. If Andrew finds out I’m Scarlett’s sister, he’ll tell Curtis, who will definitely tell Scarlett. It will get back to Andrew how old I am and everything will unravel.

Scarlett won’t back me up. She would never protect me.

“Why didn’t you tell Dickwad that you’re Scarlett’s sister? He’d kiss the ground you walk on,” Shelby says and nods to Curtis, who’s now standing by the shore.

I sip on the beer again. “I’ve lived in her shadow long enough.”

Andrew walks down the steep dune that leads from the parking lot. I turn to Shelby. I am sure my expression reflects that I mean what I am about to say, because my heart certainly does.

“I really don’t want to be associated with my sister,” I say. “It’s hard enough being almost the same age as her. She hates it. She hates me. So, if you could keep this between us, it would be, well, good for me. Me and Andrew,” I add.

Shelby’s eyes warm. “I have a sister too,” she says and pats my knee. “I get it.”

Andrew plops down on the sand and pulls me toward him, so I lean against his warm chest.

He kisses the nape of my neck and shivers rush down my arms. Across from us, Shelby joins Tate by the water. She picks up a shell and glances back at me. She winks, and I take this as a sign that she won’t tell.

The whole beach is lit in an orange twilight. The tops of the dunes are spotted with stars. I could walk up one, in a dream perhaps, all the way to the crest. I would stand up tall and proud and take one of those stars from the sky. Andrew’s arms squeeze
around me almost as if he is reading my mind and telling me that yes, we’ll do that someday.

We’ll take a star from the sky together.

I hope there can be a “we” for a long,
long
time.

That’s all I can do—hope.