I was living a fraction of my life. A half-life. I watched the world.
Nietzsche says, “One must have chaos within oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”
This summer, I stopped watching the world. Instead, I dove in the ocean, danced in crowds of people, and laughed at jokes that I otherwise would have heard from the outside. Those who never once looked up at the stars and wondered what it all means embraced me. They let me in. I was part of their world. Suddenly, I was the one with my feet planted on the earth. I wowed my new friends with my statistics and commitment to the pursuit of truth about our beautiful universe. My stars always led the way.
So, you ask, why does my experiment successfully represent who I am as a scientist? Regardless if I get this scholarship or not, I will pursue the workings of our universe for the rest of my life.
Because I am a keeper of the stars.
In my heart, in my soul. Forever.
They have guided me back to myself.
I know how to live a full life now because of this incontrovertible and very simple fact:
Each atom is made up of protons, neutrons, and electrons. The number of protons in a nucleus determines the identity of an element. The many plants, animals, and beaches of the world have different equations for these protons and neutrons—but we all have them. Even humans. We are all linked by the power of the infinitely small.
So, am I a scientist? Yes, but I am so much more. I know now it is not only the experiment that counts but also the scientist inside. I don’t just watch the stars. I don’t just watch our world anymore.
I am the stars.
I am the Comet Jolie that shot across our beautiful sky.
I am the universe.
THIRTY-FOUR
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I COME DOWN THE STAIRS and the smell of tomato soup meets my nose. There’s the clink of silverware against bowls and the TV chatters away in the living room.
No one noticed I was gone all night. No one except Scarlett.
Mom’s going home on Monday. I stop just to the side of the laundry room door. The honeysuckle scent of fabric softener wafts into the empty hallway. She hasn’t said anything about my new dress, but she must have come to get my laundry this morning when I was sleeping. It’s pressed and hanging above the dryer. I want to ask her if she thinks I looked pretty at the party, but before I open my mouth, she runs a hand down the front of the dress. She shakes her head a little but she’s smiling. She hums when she’s happy and it takes me a second, but I think she might be singing The Doors, “Light My Fire.”
I hold the finished Waterman Scholarship in my hand. It is sealed. I did not let Dad proofread it. The essay I wrote was typed up fifteen minutes later and then sealed within the official Waterman envelope. Even though it’s only Sunday and there is no mail service today, I will drop it in the mailbox anyway.
This experiment is complete.
I have spent the whole summer worrying about Andrew. Worrying about how to make him like me. Worrying how I could protect myself and guard the lie. I will go back to school and start over. Start on a new astronomy scholarship. And I will work on it without the lie weighing on my heart.
This new heart.
Earlier that morning, as I sealed up my envelope for the scholarship, I held my cell phone in my hand and hovered over Gran’s ten-digit number. I couldn’t bring myself to call her and listen to Gracie’s voice sing out of the receiver. I didn’t deserve her advice or her comfort. But one fact is certain, when I visit her on Labor Day weekend, I’ll tell her the entire story.
I walk past Nancy, Dad, and Scarlett. They are sitting and talking at the kitchen table. I hesitate at the foyer, where they can’t see me, and listen in on the conversation.
“She didn’t want me to read her scholarship essay,” Dad says.
“Maybe she doesn’t need you to,” Scarlett adds, but it’s flat, closing the discussion.
“Maybe you’re right,” Dad replies.
Nancy huffs.
“I liked her dress,” Dad says.
“I kinda did too,” Scarlett says. “I mean, it was a little tight, but it looked nice.”
“She’s finally a teenager,” Dad says with a big sigh.
“She has been a teen for a long time, you just haven’t noticed,” Scarlett says to Dad playfully.
“You seem to know everything,” Dad says.
“She’s my sister. I’m supposed to know more than you.”
I smile at this and slip past them, out the front door, and into the sunlight.
Fishing Pier. Tourists walk across the hot pavement making direct lines for the fishing boats. It’s just before noon. Even though it’s Sunday, Andrew texted earlier to tell me that the crew had to go out around one to clean up after the storm. Because of the tropical storm it’ll be a longer trip than usual. I try to distract myself with these thoughts as I walk from the parking lot, past Hatchman’s Fish Market, and toward the docks.
I take a deep breath: I’m wearing Scarlett’s white sunglasses. She wouldn’t let me leave the house without showering first.
The water rolled down my body, collected the sand and salt that lingered from Andrew’s skin. The water circled around the drain and washed away.
“Wear these,” Scarlett said. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”
“It’s just because the skin is reacting to the excess moistu—” I tried to explain.
“I don’t care why, dork,” she said and held them in front of my face. I took the glasses, but hesitated before putting them on. I thought about that picture of Nancy and Gran in their bathing suits.
“Scarlett?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you think we’ll be like Nancy and Gran? Living on other sides of the country, barely speaking to each other?”
She kept our gaze and shook her head. “No way,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”
I believe we can.
It’s bright at the pier even with Scarlett’s sunglasses. I stand off to the side of the parking lot. Just ahead of me, dozens of tourists snap pictures of the fishermen in their yellow gear. Andrew’s boat is there too. He’s hammering something into a metal pole. The hammer makes a clanking sound that echoes over the fishing pier. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, but he’s sweating through it. I try not to follow the line of the muscle of his forearm, but it’s pronounced because he’s straining so hard. I can’t help but think it—the line of the muscle looks like the tail of a conch shell. I want to run my fingers along the skin.
“Hi,” I call. Andrew’s head turns to me. The shadow of his baseball hat darkens his eyes.
He smiles a little and I know that smile, I’ve seen it hundreds of times this summer. He grabs a water bottle and jumps down from the boat, meeting me on the parking lot.
His arms envelop me and he pulls me to his chest in a tight embrace. I smell Andrew in one deep salty breath.
“I won’t be back until tonight,” he says. “But I can get you after, go to dinner if you want.”
“I just need a minute,” I say.
“Okay . . . ,” he says.
I move the sunglasses to the top of my head.
He takes a step toward me, water bottle in hand, and the concern passes over his eyes.
“Have you been crying?” he asks.
I take a deep breath, blinking away the spots of sun reflecting on the harbor behind Andrew.
“I . . .” I take a breath but stop.
I have to do this.
“I’m going home on Monday,” I say. “I have to get ready for school. Start packing up.”
“We have a few weeks until school.”
“I need to prepare.”
“But college bookstores have half the stuff you need. I want to help you move in. I don’t want you to assume—” He sighs. “Look, this isn’t just a summer thing for me.”
“Me either,” I reply, and it hurts deep in my gut.
“I love you,” he says. “I didn’t j
ust say it. And—”
Whirlpools churn within me as he speaks.
“I really do have to prepare,” I interrupt.
Why am I continuing to lie?
“I have the truck. I’ll come talk to your parents.”
Bigger waves now. Stronger.
“Talk to my parents?” I say.
“About helping you move in. I’m strong,” he says and flashes his biceps like it’s some big joke.
“I know a lot of strong guys. . . .” He keeps talking. About all the people I will never meet and all the things we’ll never get to do. “I’m serious.”
The waves are huge inside me, hurricane huge. I’m drawing in breath, but it’s not breath, it’s salt, it’s brine. I have to say it.
“Like, three or four dudes,” he continues. “They will love you.”
Say it, Bean!
“I’m sixteen!” I cry.
My voice carries so I lower it. “I turned sixteen on the night of our first date. I’m going to be a junior. In high school.”
“What?” Andrew says with an edge of a laugh. He must think this is some big joke. In the back of his eyes is that beacon of light I love. I know that light; it called to me all summer. The black asphalt below me is cracked in thousands of tiny fractures. “What are you talking about?” He says with a chuckle.
“Not even seventeen,” I say. “I haven’t taken my SATs yet.”
He laughs yet again, but there’s something bitter on the edge of it this time.
“You’re going to MIT,” he says.
“No. No, I’m not.”
There’s a silence between us. Seagulls cry, there’s the background noise of the cars and the boats.
“I had to tell you. I couldn’t lie anymore.”
The shadow of the hat hides his eyes at first. When he lifts his chin, the hard stare makes something tighten in the back of my throat.
“Scarlett is my older sister. By two years.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m sixteen years old,” I say very slowly. “I—I lied.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m sorry,” I croak.
He backs away from me. His hand comes up to his mouth. He stops and stares at me again.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
“Holy shit.”
He bends over, his hands on his waist. When he stands back up, he’s grimacing, his teeth clench. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“You’re sorry?” His voice cracks. “Oh my God,” he says and squats down with his face in his palms. “Oh my God,” he says to his hands.
The moon tugs at the waves, at the sea. I want to tug Andrew back to me. Tell him it’s just a joke—a different science experiment. Bring him back and tell him about the comet. Startle him with all of my knowledge.
But I cannot find the lighthouse in his eyes.
“You don’t look sixteen,” he says.
I swallow hard and say, “I’ve only been sixteen a few weeks.”
He shakes his head. “All that shit about MIT.”
“Andrew,” I say and take his hand. He’s frozen to the spot. His hand is cold in mine, he doesn’t squeeze back or caress my skin. His lips are tight. “I did this,” I say. “I did it. I didn’t know what would happen when I met you. I never thought you would want to be with someone like me. And then you did. And it was too late. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His eyes flicker across the pavement, he does not look at me as he says, “Sarah . . .”
I wish he wouldn’t say my name. My real name.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. I could lose everything I’ve worked for. Everything I—”
“I know. I know that now. I didn’t realize.”
He drops my hand.
“Stay away from me,” he says. He points at me while backing away. “Stay the fuck away,” but it’s a hiss of a whisper.
“I love you,” I say. “That was true.”
He turns on the spot to walk back to the dock. I watch him for a few paces. He takes long strides and the small burn on the back of his calf is still red. He stops and turns back to me. Hope. Horrible, unfair hope prickles in my chest.
“I can’t,” he starts to say, but it comes out as a sigh. “I can’t tell anyone why this is over. I have to live with what you’ve done.”
He walks toward the dock. With a whip of his hand, he chucks the water bottle against the ground so hard that it explodes. I jump, surprised by the force of the water splashing everywhere.
I have to watch him walk away. I have no choice.
I watch him get on the boat.
I watch him pick up the hammer and begin hitting whatever it was he was hitting when I walked onto the parking lot. He pulls the brim of his hat down over his eyes even more.
The girl who I wished I was, the one going to MIT? She would have told him the truth from the beginning. She would have let him go because it wasn’t her time yet. He slams the hammer now and Andrew’s lips break from a thin line into a grimace for the barest of seconds. He’s crying.
My pain burrows deep inside where I know the first person who I ever loved was someone I manipulated.
So I do what any scientist would do. I study his frame for a few minutes. Then the curve of his muscles, so I won’t forget. I try to remember the glimmer in his eyes too. Science can’t explain a glimmer. Can it? Can science explain the soul?
I do what I have to do.
I turn and walk away.
THIRTY-FIVE
One Year Later — Late June
ETTIE, CLAUDIA, AND I MAKE A CHAIN WITH OUR hands. We run out of the Seahorse and onto Main Street Orleans to my car, Nancy’s old Volvo. We admire our purchases—on sale from last year’s shipment. We bought three of the geode slice necklaces I admired in the window last summer, before I met Andrew.
Before the lie.
Ettie snatches the keys from me. Claudia gets in the back and I slide into the passenger seat. Ettie got her license a month before me, which means that she is more experienced. Or so she says.
We’ve been in Orleans for two weeks and all three of us are bronzed from the days on Nauset. I have searched for Andrew on the beach but haven’t seen him. It’s not like I would know what to say if I did. Ettie starts the motor and we pull out onto Main Street. We don’t make it very far—a couple feet. It’s packed and we immediately sit idling in traffic.
“We could have just sat in the parking spot,” I say.
“Hey!” Claudia says, pointing at my necklace. “Yours is bluer than mine.”
“No, yours is bluer than mine!” I say with a laugh.
“Mine is the bluest!” Ettie cries. She reaches behind her neck to unclasp her necklace, but the car rolls forward. We break into hysterics. We’ll be waiting a while for the many tourists to figure out how to go through the rotary at the top of Main Street.
“Let’s swap,” Claudia says, and her black hair shines in the sunset that fills Main Street. All three of us laugh, unhook the clasps, and swap to the person to our right. We hold our hair up and admire our rightful necklaces.
“Much better!” Claudia says with a smile.
“I love this song!” Ettie cries and leans forward to turn up the volume. She turns the music up so loud that everyone on the street looks in our direction. We don’t care; we sing at the top of our lungs.
And that’s when I see him.
I stop singing, my lips part.
Andrew’s been watching me from the doorway of the Bird’s Nest Diner. He is wearing the same baseball hat from that last day on the docks. Our eyes lock. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months.
Then the strangest thing happens . . . I’m thinking, suddenly, about the Zuckermans’ boulder on their lawn. For years I believed it was a piece of the moon. Last summer, the summer with Andrew, my life was like that. A little piece of the stars—a little piece of some
thing I could never touch.
I wait for Andrew to turn away, to grimace, and to remind me of all that I did to hurt him.
The traffic inches forward, it’s now or never—we’ll pull away.
We’re moving ahead, I have to turn my head to keep eye contact. Just as the tires roll past, just as I expect him to scowl or look away . . .
He breaks into the smallest smile.
And it’s a smile just for me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
THANK YOU TO JOCELYN DAVIES. THERE IS NO ONE I would rather hash out story lines and character with! Working with you has made this book even better than I could have envisioned. Thank you for your collaboration, respect, and for showing me just how lucky a writer can be.
Thank you Margaret Riley King at WME for loving this book and understanding just how much Bean’s story needed to be told. And, of course, to Chelsea Drake for your patience and support!
To Jacqueline McCleary, Brown University astrophysicist, for your unparalleled wisdom. You know it’s not fair to be that smart and that pretty, right? Bean’s story is stronger because of you.
To Bryant Grigsby, SETI scientist, for multiple annoying phone calls in which you had to explain way too complicated science to me. I attempted to keep up while you gave me your valuable expertise and time.
Thank you to Kate Madin and Hovey Clifford, WHOI staff. You are generous and without your expertise my story would have suffered.
To A.M. Jenkins and the power of “feeling it”—your mentorship means more to me than I could express.
To Franny Billingsley—you changed my understanding of character for not just Bean but Penny too (but more on her later)! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you to An Na, who read an early version of this book and pointed me in the right direction.
Thank you to Sarah Ellis—who reminded me that the hard stuff is the least sentimental and who taught me about the power of subtlety and subtext. I am trying to give up ellipses . . . I swear.
To the VCFA community, especially the faculty—you are magic.
Of course—to the CCWs: Rebecca DeMetrick, Linda Melino, Mariellen Langworthy, Claire Nicogossian, Maggie Hayes, Tracy Hart, Laura Backman, Hannah Moderow, Kristin Sandoval, and Matt Hudson.
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