Between Us and the Moon

by Rebecca Maizel

  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.

  There was so much more to me. I never knew. So much more than that American flag string bikini. More than a closet full of clothes that weren’t mine and a telescope pointed up to the sky and away from the earth.

  I grip Andrew’s forearm even harder, not to hurt but because I fear he’ll slip away like the outgoing tide, undetected, and I’ll never feel him again.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ANDREW’S CHEST RISES EVENLY AND HIS BREATHING is quiet; I’ve been watching him since he drifted off. When a rim of light outlines the two windows across from the bed, I know it is at least five thirty in the morning. My arm aches from holding it in one position for so long. Andrew’s shaggy blond hair skims over his closed eyes.

  I’ll move you into MIT.

  I try to close my eyes and drift off. Just relax, I tell myself.

  Star Girl.

  I stare up at the darkened wood ceiling. The rafters make horizontal lines.

  Lines make sense. Left to right, I stare at those rafters. I count the lines in the wood until I lose count.

  Don’t leave. Don’t leave.

  Who was he talking to? Bean? Sarah? Which one? My breath catches in my chest and I hold it. I turn on my side so my back is to Andrew. His hand cups my hip and sadness flies through me like a steel weight on a fishing line. I touch my hip, let the warmth of my fingers rest on the skin.

  When Andrew made love to me, I was Bean. I was a girl who loves astronomy. Who can’t wait for the science fair at school, and who is looking forward to debate team. But I was Sarah, too. I was proud, confident, and funny. I am unafraid to dance in a crowd now and I can tell jokes to strangers without fear. I don’t know how to choose, or how to be just one or the other. I find comfort in facts, but the only fact I know as I lie here staring at the wall is that I am sixteen.

  And a liar.

  This isn’t about the lie I told on the beach that day. This isn’t about an experiment that made me feel better about myself. I brought Andrew into this with me. This is about who I have become—the kind of girl who would completely manipulate someone.

  I have to go home. I have to walk in that door and be Bean. I exhale, but the breath is rattled.

  I have to get out of this house. I am a liar.

  I slide off the bed very slowly and sweep the dress from the floor. I hesitate, holding the black material to my chest. Andrew’s back muscles clench and he moves so he’s stomach down. He grips his pillow and hugs it.

  He reached inside my heart last night.

  I tiptoe downstairs, scrawl a note, and leave it on the table.

  Last night was one of the most important nights of my life. So important, I didn’t want to wake you up. See you later.

  —Sarah

  I stuff the black dress into my bag. I slip the T-shirt over my head, change into my denim shorts, and try not to make a sound.

  Shoes . . . shoes . . . where are they? I shove my party shoes in the bag and dig out my flip-flops.

  I bend over and slip them on, just as the mattress upstairs creaks. I freeze.

  Wait. Don’t move. Wait . . . silence. I sling my bag over my shoulder, tiptoe over the carpeting, and open the front door.

  Without a word, I sneak out.

  I had almost forgotten there was a tropical storm. When I step outside, I see that a couple of oversized branches have fallen on Andrew’s porch. They haven’t done much damage, but one cracked a flowerpot. I step over the scattered soil, off the patio, and down to the street. A few overturned trash cans litter the road.

  I walk from Andrew’s street and quickly turn onto Main. The shops are empty, dark, and the sun is barely a glimmer in the sky. As I walk, I pass the empty Goosehead Tavern. Many of the shop owners had taped their windows, so large X’s cover the massive glass fronts. I pass the still unopened Bird’s Nest Diner. Inside, one waitress places a filter in an oversized coffeemaker. I stop just past the diner and look up the long street where I first talked to Andrew. Mike’s jersey still hugs the tree.

  I know the intimate details of Andrew’s life.

  He will never get to know mine.

  I close my eyes, just for a second.

  Andrew’s hands run over me in languid movements, up and down my body as though he is sweeping up from the bottom of the ocean. He could be swimming, taking long strokes to break the surface. He kisses my mouth and says my name again and again and again.

  I open my eyes to the empty street.

  The thought of Andrew’s face makes a rusted hook pull at my belly, sending a jab through me. The hook snags and makes my stomach uneasy and I try to swallow a couple times. I need to get home. I pass by the library, Viola’s Dress Shop, and the penny candy store.

  I can’t count periodic tables anymore.

  Or the constellations, either.

  I keep walking to the end of Main Street, where a truck of town workers arrives to clean up debris from the storm, but it is just some leaves and branches.

  I stop in the middle of the street again and something occurs to me that hadn’t occurred to me at the beginning of the summer.

  Jim Morrison didn’t just die in that bathroom in Paris. He overdosed on drugs. Or he died because of years of abuse to his body. Maybe the French coroner was right
, his heart really did just give out. Maybe. But that’s just a wish.

  I’ll never get to know. The truth died in Paris.

  When I get to Shore Road, I stand at the end of the street with my hands hanging by my side. Branches and leaves are scattered across the lane. Sand is pushed up against the base of trees.

  I swallow hard, something hurts in the back of my throat. I lick my lips and they’re salty from last night’s sweat.

  Scarlett was so angry with me last night. She seemed horrified that I could be with someone like Andrew.

  No big deal? Bean! Do you have any idea how unfair this is? I can’t believe this. Thank God you’re leaving in a week.

  It’s like a punch to my gut.

  I fall to my knees right there in the street. I bow my head. I know what she means.

  I just never thought about it; I never allowed myself to.

  Andrew works at a government facility. Sure, I’m sixteen and it’s legal, but they wouldn’t look too fondly on a relationship between a twenty-year-old and a sixteen-year-old. Oh God. I am disgusted with myself. I was fifteen when we met. I could have gotten Andrew into real trouble if anyone from his job found out. That’s what Scarlett meant about how bad it is. Not that I lied, but what my lie can do.

  The Scarlett Experiment was just the selfish excuse. I put on the clothes and walked the walk and it gave me confidence. But I didn’t need any of it, not really.

  I push up from the middle of the road and walk down the road to Nancy’s house. Before tiptoeing onto the front lawn, I glance at the street. The ghost of Andrew’s car waits for me in the street just like it did all summer. I see myself bounding onto the pavement and jumping into his arms. The fishing hook inside me widens the crack that’s opened in the center of my chest.

  I step onto the lawn and walk past the house toward the backyard.

  “There you are!” Scarlett says in a harsh whisper. She’s on the patio outside her bedroom. Her hissing words are nothing compared to how horrible I feel. She’d probably gotten up to practice yelling at me and saw me walking. She would never expect me to stay out all night.

  I don’t stop to talk to Scarlett. I keep going toward the backyard.

  How could I risk Andrew’s future? How could I do that to someone? Even last night at the party, I kept thinking about myself. I just kept pushing the truth away so I didn’t have to accept the severity of what I have done to Andrew.

  I walk down the little path between the house and the garage. I turn behind the garage and stop next to a hydrangea bush with the great purple flowers. Behind these flowers is the shingle where Scarlett and I carved our names. I come to my knees again.

  It was me Andrew shared laughs with, me who talked about probability and living life the way you want.

  It was me all along.

  I just couldn’t believe that someone would see in me what I felt deep inside my soul.

  I rest my forehead on my knees and sit next to the hidden shingle and hydrangea. My back shudders and tears run down my legs toward my shins. I wonder right there on the grass about survival. How we become the adults we’re meant to be. We all start off small, we all start off here. Don’t we? I can’t bring myself to lift my head.

  My sister’s footsteps walk gently down the patio steps.

  Maybe I could stay here forever? Hide in the bushes and grass. It’s dark here. It’s safe. Or maybe I could go back to the Alvin and take a trip down to the deepest part of the sea. I would like to creep and crawl along the bottom of the ocean. I know there are some fish that can make their own light because it’s so dark where they live. Lanternfish. That’s their name. Maybe I could go there too.

  I shudder again, surprised that I’m crying so hard. But the pain feels good and that scares me too.

  I wonder . . . I wonder what would happen tomorrow, if all the stars in the sky burned out and the world went dark—would the Lanternfish survive?

  THIRTY-THREE

  SCARLETT LETS ME CRY FOR A WHILE. SHE FINALLY asks, “What happened?”

  “Go away,” I say to my knees.

  “I waited up all night for you.”

  I squint when I lift my head; the yellow light of the sunrise is blinding.

  “You. You waited up?” I can’t help the distrust in my voice.

  “It’s five forty-five in the morning,” she says and removes a stray branch blown from the storm from the top of the hydrangea bush and places it on the ground.

  She pushes the leafy bushels aside and there, between the shadows, is our shingle. It’s barely been weathered from the years. Our names—Scarlett and Bean—are almost black compared to the gray of the wood.

  “That was the day you tripped and skinned your knee on the boat dock,” she says.

  Her hands cup the flowers so as not to damage the buds. The tenderness in her voice makes my bottom lip tremble.

  “You took a bobby pin from your hair,” I say and my nose prickles.

  I have to look away from our shingle and the memory of my burning knee and sticky cheeks. The tears are different this time, but she is still here. Maybe Scarlett has always been with me.

  “Why did you lie to everyone all summer?” Scarlett asks quietly.

  I shrug. “Why do I do half the shit I do?” I ask.

  “Bean,” Scarlett says, almost scolding me.

  “What?” I ask, sitting up and linking my arms even tighter over my knees. “Can I curse? Can I do anything normal? Can I wear a dress that isn’t a fucking doily? Can I, Scarlett?”

  Her eyes are gems to me. Blue marbles framed by blonde lashes. She looks down at her hands when I hold on to her gaze.

  “I don’t know, can you?” Her voice is frayed around the edges.

  The tears burn my sun-warmed cheeks. “Do you want to know what I did last night?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer; she wants to know.

  “I had sex with Andrew.”

  Scarlett’s lips part. A cloud passes over us, dimming the halo of light over her head. She slides a hand over her mouth and it’s so white, I can see the tendons and bones. I turn my head slowly back to the water. Tiny waves lap against Nancy’s private beach. I smell the coconut of Andrew’s skin and taste the tangy bite of his lips after swimming.

  “It all started with this ridiculous lie,” I say. “I met him on the beach and he had no idea I was fifteen. I lied, told him I was eighteen . . .”

  The whole summer comes spilling out. I tell her about The Doors, about the comet, what happened on the beach that night. I tell her about all her clothes that I stole, about the bikini, Mike’s death, and about Curtis being an alcoholic.

  “And last night. He, we . . .” But the words trail away. I meet her steely eyes and my face collapses. I cry into my hands. “He held his hand behind my head. He told me he loved me. Me.” Tears fall over Scarlett’s cheeks too, which only makes me cry harder. “But it’s all a lie. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the truth.”

  Scarlett does what I can’t remember her doing since we were babies.

  She scoots closer and hugs me. She doesn’t let go, either. Her grip is stronger than I thought. She squeezes and it’s like a tiny fist clenching around me. Something circles in my chest. A whole universe—a constellation. The hook, which has been pulling at me, drawing me to the surface, has brought me all the way to the stars.

  “I love him,” I say and collapse, crying even more hot tears.

  “I know,” she says and grips me harder. “It’s okay.”

  I close my eyes and let Scarlett pull me to her chest. I let her heart beat against my ear.

  I let it dance.

  I close the door to my bedroom. The silence evens my breathing. I was intending to shower but stop at my desk. I clench my jaw and run my fingertips over the Waterman Scholarship application. I understand the elemental construction of paper: cellulose, fibers, and water. Facts still comfort me.

  I slowly sit down in the chair. My palm rests flat on my many stapled pages of d
ata. I know this place. I take pride in meticulous reports. I wait for the relief to wash over me at the sight of an experiment well done. But it doesn’t come.

  Beside the desk are mounts, three types of LED flashlights, and four models of telescope lenses. The top of my application says: Sarah Levin. She is the girl who can work all this equipment. She is the girl who knows the way to academic success.

  She is split in two.

  I think I might know how to bind her back together.

  My fingers wrap around a pen and I slide forward a notebook. The ballpoint hovers over the blank lines and I reread the Waterman Scholarship essay question.

  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 press my pen to the paper.

  Local astronomers told me I was being “silly.” They asked in various forms: Why track a comet by hand when there are plenty of reliable, computerized sources to accurately project the right ascension and declination of a comet? Why bother calculating this yourself?

  I tracked this comet successfully from its initial discovery at the University of Hawaii to the day it reached its perihelion, July 3rd 11:13 p.m. As you can see from my attached reports, my calculations were exact.

  Much to the surprise of my mentors at Summerhill Academy in Rhode Island, I only used electronic sources to program my telescope and confirm my calculations.

  I pride myself on the persistence and meticulous observation I pursued in order to accurately track our fast-moving friend. After all, it makes me who I am. I am fully committed to my experiments and never once in the year that I spent tracking the Comet Jolie, or P/1413, did I waver from this commitment.

  Not until this summer.

  You might be wondering why in an academic paper such as this I would bring up my social life. You see, before this summer, I didn’t have one. I sat in bio lab or at the observatory, looking at the stars. I loved being a Mathlete and deconstructing fractions and percentages. I missed school dances, games, and parties, just to observe the night sky.