Between Us and the Moon

by Rebecca Maizel

  My wrist pulses in pain and I rub at it to dull the ache.

  “You weren’t there that night. You’re never there,” Curtis says, just on the edge of tears.

  I can’t pull my eyes away from the fight. My heart is pounding and I can’t help but feeling that somehow this is all my fault.

  “I was driving Mike to your house!” Curtis yells.

  There’s a huge crowd behind me now.

  “You weren’t there,” Curtis slurs. More spit flies out of his mouth and into the air. “You think you’re better than everyone. Better than me. With your slutty girlfriends like Maggie and that wannabe—”

  “Don’t say it,” Andrew warns. “Don’t do it.”

  Curtis gestures to me. “I don’t need to say it.” He pauses. “Slu—”

  Andrew throws a punch and the hard smack of flesh against flesh echoes.

  I push through the crowd to get out of that house.

  “Sarah!” Shelby calls after me, but I maneuver through the bodies to the front door.

  I escape to the front yard. Low tide and cigarettes permeate the air. I rub at my wrist; it’s sore and I might even have a bruise in a couple of hours. I rub at it again—it really hurts.

  I stand on the lawn imagining all the different ways I could have stopped the fight. Maybe I should have jumped on Curtis and brought him to the ground. I wanted to, but I didn’t know I wanted to until this second. It makes sense to me now that his parents kicked him out. Maybe he is this violent and drunk all the time. What about AA?

  “Sarah!”

  I spin around.

  Andrew hesitates in the doorway and runs outside. A red scrape swipes up his cheekbone. He opens his arms to me, wrapping me in his smell. His shirt is wet from sweat and his heartbeat slams against my head.

  “Holy crap, I’m sorry,” he says, and I can hear his voice vibrating through the tight hold of his body.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says, but his breath is still labored. “Mike. The accident, I think. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I think—I think I want to walk,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you,” he offers. “It’s my fault we’re even here right now. I thought it would be a good time.”

  I need to think through what just happened in that house, what I saw, and why I’ve never seen anger and pain coupled with such violence before. Not in person, anyway, not with my own eyes.

  I back toward the street. “I kind of want to be alone,” I say.

  “You’re hurt,” he says, and the concern in his tone makes me want to cry. He gestures to me. I’m still cradling my wrist but didn’t realize.

  “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.

  TWENTY-TWO

  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 re
al this time, I’ve made a new friend.

  TWENTY-THREE

  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.”