Between Us and the Moon (21 page)

ANDREW’S CAR DOOR SLAMS AND I SLIDE OUT
too. The party left me with my head buzzing and my feet light. We’re at Andrew’s house. I step out of the truck before a traditional Cape Cod house: two stories, small, blue shingles.

“Not Seaside Stomachache,” I say.

“Star Girl, you can’t make fun of my humble abode. We’re not on Shore Road here,” he says.

“No. No. It’s perfect. Your house is perfect.”

I’m not drunk, just warm. Buzzed. Andrew’s house has a front porch with a grill sitting on it and a bunch of potted plants—most of which are dead. He unlocks the front door. I follow him inside and plop right down on a floral-patterned couch.

There are stuffed birds, ancient radios, framed vintage newspapers, and creaking floorboards, just like at home. On the walls are aerial photographs of the Cape Cod shoreline and what I assume are portraits of Andrew’s family. There are no lighthouses or white wood paneling like at Nancy’s house. No invitations organized in shoeboxes, linen patterns, or silver teapots. There are definitely no cupcake dresses hanging in closets.

“This house,” I say, “is great.”

It occurs to me: There are no parents here, no one telling Andrew what he can and can’t do.

Water runs in the kitchen, shuts off, and Andrew joins me on the couch. He hands me a cup.

“How many beers did you have?” he asks.

He smells like sweat and boy, which I can’t place my finger on but I think is cologne or deodorant. “You smell like boy,” I say aloud.

“Drink,” he says. I do and gulp down the whole cup of water.

“Three. Three beers,” I say.

Andrew’s kitchen is basically a fridge and stove. Above the couch is a picture of Curtis, Andrew, and a tall blond guy with a great barrel chest I haven’t seen in their group of friends before. Each of them rests a long lacrosse stick on a shoulder.

“Is that Mike?” I ask and gesture to the photo.

“Yeah,” he says. “My dad took that at the BC/Hobart game last spring. He had it framed last summer. You know . . . after.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and slide to the floor. I turn myself around to face Andrew who remains on the couch. “I’m sorry your friend died.”

“Me too,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know anyone my age who’s died,” I say.

I place the glass next to me.

“I hope you never have to,” Andrew says. He doesn’t move his eyes from the floor. I want to take away his sadness and I don’t know how.

I pull him to the floor with me and wrap my legs around his hips. Andrew lies on top of me and I kiss him, wanting him, needing him to know how sorry I am that all of this has happened and how much I wish I could take his pain away. He returns my embrace and runs his hand up my back. His hips start moving in a rhythm and I try to match it. His breathing is getting heavier. He slips my shirt over my head.

It’s off, it’s on the floor, I’m wearing just my bra, and an overwhelming urge takes over me. I want his body near me more than anything in the world. His lips are on my neck, my lips, and on my neck again. I’m fumbling for the button of his shorts and he reaches in and takes out his penis with his right hand. I’ve never seen anyone do this and all I want to do is hold him, make him feel as good as he does me. He moves his hand and I see how much thicker and larger his penis grows. I hesitate. I don’t know what to do exactly. I don’t want to be wrong.

“What?” he says gently, his breathing hard. We’re both shirtless, me in a bra and him with his khaki shorts unbuttoned. “Is it—what’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” I say. “I’m not . . . ready. I mean, I am, I just need some time. I want to know what to do.” My cheeks must be so red because a flush of heat runs through my chest and face.

Andrew sits up quick and buttons his shorts. “Come here.” He opens his arms to me. I lay my head on his chest. His heartbeat is familiar to me now.

“The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable,” he says.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable. Ever.”

I say something, which is so painfully true it’s a relief to say it aloud.

“It’s just that, school and science. That’s my life. I’ve never gotten so close to someone,” I say. “Not like this. I don’t want to screw it up.”

“Never,” he says.

He strokes the side of my head again and again. I could fall asleep with our skin on skin, and my cheek warmed by his body heat.

“You don’t get into MIT and track comets by dating every guy in the world.”

Half of that sentence rings true within me, half of it is the right thing to say. The other half breaks me apart a little. This lie is now in every thread of our conversation. It’s everywhere.

“Will you wait a little? For me?” I ask.

“As long as you want, Star Girl.”

My bottom lip trembles and I bite at it so it stops. I wish I could tell him everything. Tell him all of it, the whole truth—from the night with Tucker until this moment. Instead, I lie there and when the silence is still nice and the warmth of his body could lull me to sleep, I say, “I think I should get home.”

He pulls me up and kisses my head. My hands wrap around
Andrew’s and as he leads me outside, I want to tell him the truth.

I want to believe that in some strange scenario we could make it work.

Over the next two weeks, I have to work on the application and every time I start the essay I delete immediately. It’s all so cheesy. I want to say something I mean, something true about me. My procrastination is getting out of hand and August 8th is approaching fast.

I came to WHOI today to spend some time with Dad, but also, it’s seal feeding day.

I
love
seal feeding day. It’s the one day they let Dad and me help the marine biologists feed the seals at the aquarium. We can sit on the edge of the pool with the trainers and help drop fish into the water. One of the seals, Bumper, is blind. I love Bumper. Have since I was twelve.

But for now, until 9:30, I must sit at this desk in Dad’s office and finally focus on this stupid essay.

The Waterman Foundation is the oldest astronomy scholarship in the country. Please explain in 1,000 words why your experiment successfully represents who you are as a scientist and how the execution of your experiment reinforces your educational goals.

I don’t even know how to begin. Why is tracking the comet part of who I am? Because it’s all I think about? Because I’ve stood outside on Friday nights with long-range binoculars while
the rest of my class was out having fun, just so I could see the dusty tail of some silly comet? No. That’s not good enough. I don’t think the scholarship committee will care about how the comet impacted my social life. The essay needs to be academic and professional. I need to wow them. Who am I as a scientist? Who am I?

I don’t want to write this essay right now. Everything else is done. It’s the only thing that’s left. Fourteen days is more than enough time.

That reminds me. I glance up at the calendar. It’s July 25th. That means I also only have fourteen days until Scarlett comes home.

Fourteen days until all my lies come crashing down on me. Ever since I realized that Andrew was invited to Scarlett’s party, it comes back into my head on a delayed loop. The last ten days or so I’ve just been on autopilot. But when I’m alone for five minutes, it will sweep through, unwelcome, haunting me. The beach, the party, Andrew’s house—again and again.

Why did I have to pick a boy who knows my sister?

The radio echoes in Dad’s office and he turns it up to hear the DJ.

“Tropical storm Lola is heading across the ocean toward the East Coast. It’s too early to accurately decipher if she’ll be a hurricane. Keep it here for updates on 96.3 the Rose.”

There’s the squeak of his chair and he stands in the doorway.

“It’s 9:45, kiddo,” he says. “Make any headway?”

“Tons,” I lie.

Dad combs his hair to the side to cover his bald spot. Once he puts the comb in his front pocket, we lock up the office.

“Looks like we might all blow away at your sister’s going-away party,” Dad says as we walk from Building 40 to the seal aquariums.

“Maybe we can position Scarlett for the strongest gust.”

“Come on,” Dad says with a laugh. “I’ll let you feed Bumper first.”

Bumper and Lu Seal turn and spin, uninterested in the walls holding in their tank. I’ve dropped a few fish into the water, but it isn’t holding the same thrill that it usually does. Dad asks all kinds of questions about the temperature of the water and the seals’ daily maintenance. Bumper and Lu Seal don’t need to do tricks for their food. I love their little whiskers and tiny mouths. Bumper’s eyes have a milky film over them—they’re not deep brown like Lu Seal’s.

In the distance, down the street filled with tourists, the Martha’s Vineyard ferry blows its low horn.

You don’t get into MIT and track comets by dating every guy in the world.

Lu Seal’s little flippers propel her down the long length of the tank. I focus on the ripples in the blue depth of the water.

I am running out of time, I know that. Either I leave early and never speak to Andrew again or I say something. The truth is going to come out at the going-away party. Maybe I can invent some reason for Andrew to miss the party altogether.
I
have to go
to the party, what am I talking about?

I groan but cover it up with a cough so Dad doesn’t notice. That’s ridiculous.

I want to dive in there with those seals. Bumper twists and turns in that water even though he can’t see a thing. I wish he knew how beautiful he looked.

Scarlett used to come to seal feeding day when we were little. We would come here and afterward go on the Fort Hill Walk. It is a trail that leads through the Eastham woods. A boardwalk snakes and curls through hundreds of moss-covered trees. It was magical to me then, a place with great but silent power.

We always went every year at the beginning of the summer and then again at the end. That reminds me that I have junior year orientation in a few weeks too. Summer goes by too fast. Everything I’ve done, all the places I’ve gone and people I met will slip away soon, just like the warm weather and salty air.

I have to go back to Rhode Island and back to my life. My life where I get my driver’s license this year and start prepping for the SATs. I don’t want to stand here anymore. Seal feeding day isn’t making me feel better like I thought it would. I walk over to Dad, who is still chatting with a couple of scientists.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” I say. “Just go think for a while.”

“That essay’s got you distracted from Bumper and Lu Seal,” Dad says.

“You got it!” I lie, but manage a smile.

“Bean’s applying for the Waterman Scholarship . . .” Dad
starts on his whole spiel about the comet and me. Some of the biologists wish me luck.

I say thank you and head out.

“Eleven months of calculations!” I hear Dad say before entering back into the main building. “A hundred percent accuracy.”

Even though I know the
Alvin
is not assembled, I head to the tool shop.

I keep thinking about the night of the party at that airport bistro. The night I wore that ridiculous dress. Mom thought I had been home but I had already been out for
hours.
That gnawing doubt I felt that night, that tidal pool churning in my stomach, swirls again.

I make it back to Building 40 and push through the double doors of the tech shop. I walk directly to the spot where the
Alvin
would usually stand, but the floor is bare.

It’s only been a minute, but Rodger stands by my side.

“You look like someone stole your puppy.”

“Mom’s allergic to dog hair.”

Rodger’s hand gently cups my shoulder. “You know, the
Alvin
is just the vessel,” he says. “It’s the scientist inside that counts.”

He leaves to do something important, like all the scientists do. Was the comet experiment important? Yes, I know in my heart the execution of that experiment was huge. I can track comets. I can track them from millions of miles away.

The Scarlett Experiment was important too. But it’s not that important anymore.

I stare at the floor where the ghost of the
Alvin
stands.
Scarlett would never find beauty in the deepest sea. She barely likes sand on her toes.

Jim Morrison said, “break on through to the other side.” He said it over and over. Break on through, break on through, break on through. I text Andrew before I chicken out.

ME: I want to try out the Fort Hill trail. Want to come with me?

ANDREW: Never been. Totally game but stuck with work for the next few days.

ME: Perfect.

Andrew will be blindsided at the party. The time has come. And I’m doing it as soon as possible, before I can’t, before I break apart and fade away too.

“HOW IS IT THAT I’M A LOCAL AND HAVE NEVER
been here?” Andrew asks a few days later and slides out of the truck.

My heart is pounding so hard I’m nearly out of breath. This is it. The moment. We stand in the upper parking lot at the entrance to the Eastham, Fort Hill trail.

“I used to come here with my family,” I say and lean on the hood of the car. The trail leads through the Nauset marshlands, but across the bay, the ocean waves crash onto the outer beach, Nauset Beach. All I can do is stay focused.
Tell him the truth and don’t chicken out.
I’d been practicing in the mirror for the last day or so but could never look in my eyes when I said the words aloud.

“You know,” Andrew says, taking his place next to me, “you can drive from the outer beach almost all the way out there.” Andrew points to the farthest tip of sand.

“Where we were for our first date?”

“That’s a lot farther but the same basic idea,” he says and gestures to the path that leads down into the Fort Hill boardwalk. He takes my hand. “Ready?”

“Steady” is on the tip of my tongue, but it feels so silly now. I can’t believe that was a “thing” Tucker and I ever said to one another.

We walk out of the marshlands and onto the boardwalk that leads through the forest. The sunlight fades the deeper we get into the woods.

“Wow,” he says, ducking under a massive tree trunk that arches six feet above the boardwalk. “You’d never know the beach was behind us.”

I inhale the familiar, earthy smell of the moss and bark of the red cedar trees. I just need the right moment or a logical transition. Everything in my body feels tight, from my forearms to my jaw. The pressure to tell him is hardening my muscles. This cannot be good for me.

“So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Andrew says. “You hardly said anything in the car.”

“I’m sorry. Here it is. It’s just, my aunt, the one we stay with every summer? She wants me to be just like my sister.”

Do it. Say it. Say it. Just say, like my sister, Scarl—

He has that look again, that concerned, “I am here for you” look and I want to scream.

His expression eats away my words.

“My sister has a lot of different interests and I guess I’m more . . .” I search for the word. “One-note,” I say.

I can barely stop myself from cradling my head in my hands as I walk.

“You’re not that way at all,” Andrew says and takes a hold of my hand. “You’re the opposite of one-note.”

“My sister spends all this time with my aunt during the year. And they can talk to each other, really talk, you know? My aunt doesn’t know how to talk to me. She thinks I need to be the same as I was before. . . .”

“
Wait, Scarlett! Wait for me!”

Scarlett runs ahead, follows the curve of the boardwalk, and disappears around a bend. Her laughter curls into the air.

“Beanie, look at this tree,” Dad says. He stops and Mom follows after Scarlett. Dad touches an ancient limb of a tree. The moss is soft and I run my fingertips over it again and again. “Feather flat moss,” Dad says. “It means the forest is old.”

Dad holds on to my hand as we keep walking. We finally catch up to Scarlett and Mom. Scarlett pirouettes and leaps down the boardwalk.

“You try it!” Scarlett calls to me, and I try to jump too. I don’t land as quietly as she can. Our laughter ripples into the air.

I refocus on the boardwalk. Andrew walks quietly by my side. He doesn’t press me to talk. That’s a nice change from Tucker, who always told me how I was feeling before I had the words to articulate it.

We’re not far from Dad’s tree; it’s right up ahead. I recognize
it from the specific twist of the gnarled branches. This one has a massive branch that arches overhead too. It’s much higher than the last one and only the tips of Andrew’s fingers can graze the bark.

I stop at the tree and run my fingers over the green moss. Andrew steps behind me and kisses the nape of my neck. Chills rush over me. I’m going to try again.

“My sister is the perfect one,” I say. “She’s older than me.”

“How old?”

“Closer to your age.”

Tell him. Tell him now.
Frustration gnaws at me. Maybe I can hint at it now and then really explain it to him the night of the party. That way he won’t have time to talk to his friends about me and find out about my age. I can contain this a little if I parse out the truth over time. My back aches from holding my breath.

“You should be yourself,” Andrew says, and that only makes my muscles even tighter.

“But you,” I say. “You’re still working out your life too so that’s comforting.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you work for Mike’s family. You live his life, you said so on the beach.”

Andrew frowns.

“No. I said I’m working for his family because I owe it to him. I’m living my life, Sarah.”

“But you’re not,” I say. “You should be in school pursuing your criminal justice degree.”

Andrew stops. “That’s not true.”

Up ahead is the last bit of the boardwalk, the sunshine beams where the dense trees stop and the dirt lane begins again.

“Yes, it is. You’re fishing when I know you want so much more. You’re not pursuing your dreams, you’re pursuing Mike’s, and he’s dead.”

“What the hell do you know?”

He walks ahead toward the exit and I follow after.

“That’s a fact, Andrew. He’s dead.”

Andrew whips around.

“I know he is!” he yells to the trees, and I jump backward. I’m glad we’re alone on the trail. Andrew immediately dips his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t yell.”

I don’t say anything. Andrew’s face is red and he has both hands on his hips.

“You don’t get it. You’ve never been through anything like
this
,” he says and flings his arms out. “I am living the life I want. It’s the life I owe to Mike. I should have been there that night and I wasn’t. I told you this. You couldn’t understand.”

“I understand. Believe me. Do you know what I hear every single day? You can’t wear that! You should be working on your essay. You should have more interests. You’re just a little girl. Get your head out of the clouds. Get a backbone—”

The name “Bean” catches in my mouth and I stop it.

“No one else but you should define the life you want to live,” I say.

“Next year, in college, you won’t have to worry about that anymore. You’ll be living your own life,” Andrew replies.

Anger surges through me. I’m angry that I’m not actually
going to college next year and angry with Andrew for believing what he is seeing and not asking any questions. I almost wish he would catch me at this point.

I stride past him toward the exit and once I’m beyond the dense trees, the sun blasts the sandy pathway.

“Sarah, wait,” Andrew says, his footsteps padding after me. I stop and look up to the top of the path at the parking lot above. A couple of cars have pulled in, but no one is coming down the path yet.

“I just have to do this for now,” Andrew says as he catches up to me. “I can go back to college later in a couple years. We can still be together.” I bring my hands to my face. A sob runs through me and it vibrates against my hands.

College.
College.
Damn it. I’m seeing red—seeing blue—seeing nothing but how mad I am.

“You wanna throw your whole life away?” I cry. His hazel eyes seem dark and his jaw is set tight. “Fine. Why don’t I do that too! Why don’t I take a page out of Andrew Davis’s book and I’ll skip the scholarship. I’ll take more shit from Nancy when she has to pay the tuition. I’ll be just like you and throw away my whole future!”

I’m not looking where I’m going and I am thrown forward. I’ve tripped on a rock and my palms hit the gritty ground.

My skin stings when I push up from the ground. “You don’t even know me,” I say. “Or what I am capable of.”

Andrew takes a step and eyes my red hands. He wants to help me but he, just like everyone else, has no idea how to do that. Only I can. This is my fault. No scenario I’ve presented will
work. I’ve come to the end of my options.

Andrew follows me up to the parking lot.

“I’m walking home,” I say.

“It’s, like, four miles.”

“I need to be alone,” I explain.

“I don’t know what to say,” Andrew says as he stands by his car. “This is really surprising me.”

I turn. Maybe it’s dramatic. Maybe it’s silly to say, but I’m mad at him for being perfect and for being exactly what I need.

“You wanna live Mike’s life, be my guest,” I say. “Then you might as well be dead too.”