“Can I look inside?” I ask.
“Sure,” Rodger says just as a zoom of a saw revs in the other corner of the shop where some mechanics are working.
“Just off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard?” Rodger yells to Dad over the noise. They’ve moved on to a conversation about Dad’s work. It’s impossible to stop Dad once he gets going about the barnacles he and his team discovered.
As I climb up, a spray of sparks illuminates from the mechanics in the corner of the room. Their saw revs a second time, making Dad and Rodger yell through their conversation again.
I place one palm on the cool titanium and grip the other over the side of the personnel hatch, where the scientists sit when they explore the bottom of the ocean.
I peer inside. Nearly every space of the wall inside the spherical pod is covered in buttons, switches, and levels. I can’t imagine how the pilots know how to work everything. There’s space to sit, though a few tall scientists in that pod could make for a really uncomfortable descent.
I imagine myself in the tiny space, maneuvering the hydraulic arms, taking samples, and recording data. I could make a difference in the world by what I discovered.
“Come on, Bean,” Dad calls. “We can come back later.”
“Okay,” I say and climb back down, but not without one last glance in the pod. As I step onto the shop floor, I hand the clipboard back to Rodger.
“She’s starry-eyed, Gerard. We may have another marine biologist on our hands,” Rodger says to Dad.
I shrug, but it’s surprising. I didn’t just study the specs or marvel at the engineering of the vessel this time. I’m amazed by the scientific discoveries uncovered by scientists because of the Alvin.
We pick up the boxes in the foyer and head to Dad’s office on the second floor. Last year, I wanted every little spec of the Alvin upgrade. I was obsessed with the construction of the titanium alloy and how many ports would be installed. This year, I couldn’t care less about the specs. I almost tell Dad that but don’t.
I almost explain that this year, I want to be the one to go inside and explore.
“Happy Birthday to you . . . Happy Birthday to you . . . Happy Birthday, dear Beanie. Happy Birthday to you!” Scarlett and Mom sing to me at the dinner table Friday evening. Our meal was a small roast and a few cupcakes for dessert. Nancy had to go to a Cape Cod Arts Committee meeting and Dad ended up stuck at WHOI. I split my cupcake with Mom. Scarlett has been out every single night this week, and every single night I wonder if she sees Andrew.
“So, what did you do last night?” I ask when Mom brings our dishes into the kitchen. She refuses to allow the housekeepers to help us every single night.
“Bonfire party on the beach. It was kind of lame in the end,” she says with a delicate scoop of her spoon to the top of her cupcake. She always just eats the frosting.
Lame? I would have given anything to go.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, really punctuating the ease in my voice. “How come?
Scarlett sighs and sips her coffee. She never spills. I always drink too fast and accidentally dribble down whatever I am wearing.
“Because all the tourist girls come and throw themselves at the lifeguards. It’s pathetic. And because the tourists are so loud, the cops find out and we have to break the party up. If it hadn’t been for Andrew, some of us could have gotten into trouble.” I perk up at Andrew’s name.
“What could you get in trouble for?” I ask.
“For underage drinking. Hello, most of us aren’t twenty-one. And none of the desperate tourists are either.”
“Aren’t we considered tourists? We only come to Nancy’s house in the summer.”
“We have a history here. And I come out way more than just the summers. We know the locals. Or I do, anyway. The tourists don’t know about the good spots so they latch on to us for the fun parties.”
Us.
I don’t have an “us” except for Ettie and the Pi Naries.
My suggestion to go to touristy Nauset Light seems so stupid now. I should have let Andrew pick the spot. Mom comes back in but brings her coffee to the couch, flipping through a Projo, as she usually does every single evening.
The rules that Andrew mentioned gnaw at me. I haven’t had a chance to research because Mom has been job searching.
“So,” I say slowly and concoct a believable story. “Ettie asked me how long she should wait to call a boy if he gives you his number.” Act casual.
“Ha, a boy gave Ettie his number?” Scarlett scoffs and stands up.
Scarlett considers me. “Forget it,” I say.
“You always make a boy wait two days. At least. Or he’ll think you’re desperate.” She brings her plate to the sink. “I need to get ready for tonight,” she says.
“I want to know exactly where you’ll be, Scarlett,” Mom calls.
Once Scarlett is gone, I slap my hand to my forehead.
Andrew must think I’m completely desperate.
What took you so long? he had said. I slap my forehead again.
Two days? I had waited eight hours to call.
TEN
“SO,” I SAY TO MOM AND LEAN OVER THE SIDE OF the couch. “I’m going to go to the beach tonight. The comet is set to come through on July third. A field dress rehearsal is crucial so close to the execution of the actual experiment.”
“Sure,” Mom says. She scrolls through job listings on her laptop. “What beach will you be going to?”
“Nauset,” I say quickly.
She nods and goes back to the Web searching. Lying to Mom is easier than I thought. Not the lying part, but that she would believe me so easily. I wait for it but she doesn’t even push and ask me what time I’ll be home.
I race up the stairs to wait for Scarlett to leave. Once she does, I’ll get dressed in my Scarlett-approved outfit.
After I put on a bathrobe, I survey my bedroom. The telescope is packed under my desk hidden behind my empty suitcase, just in case Mom pops in my room. The calendar for the scholarship is there, all filled in, and my application is in its blue folder.
Still, I feel like I’m forgetting something.
It’s just paranoia from stealing clothes and lying to Mom. It’s manifesting itself in guilt. With my hand on the doorknob, I can’t shake the feeling. What the hell am I forgetting?
Shake it off. In sixteen years you’ve never lied to Mom—ever. You always do exactly what you are told.
I shut the door and stand in the stairwell waiting it out so I can go in Scarlett’s room. I’ll change into the second outfit of the Scarlett Experiment.
Scarlett chatters on the cell phone while walking down the stairs. Her Egyptian Musk perfume trails behind her. Once she turns the corner, I tiptoe down to the second floor, curl my fingers around the thick wood of her bedroom door, and sneak inside.
I check my watch: seven fifteen. I snatch a pair of shorts and a white tank top. I race to her bathroom, where I can be concealed behind a closed door. Something else is missing though. I need a little something else to really embody Scarlett. A small bottle of Scarlett’s Egyptian Musk sits on the marble countertop. The oil is specially blended for Scarlett by a store in NYC. The bottle looks like a crystal jewel—I uncork it and roll the oil on my wrists and neck like I’ve seen her do countless times.
“Put it on the pressure points,” she has said with a flip of her hair.
“Who are you going with?” Mom’s voice echoes up the stairs as I lift a leg and lean it on the tub. With my razor in hand, I’m ready to snatch up any stray hairs that may be hiding out on my leg.
“God, Mom. I’m just going with some guys,” Scarlett whines.
“No, Scarlett. Not just some guys. Who?”
“You never ask Bean.”
“We don’t worry about Bean.”
“If you must know . . . Curtis. Remember him? His parents live in Sandwich? His friend Andrew is coming too and he’s going to be a police officer. Is that safe enough for you? He’s onl
y the nicest guy alive. No wait, Andrew can’t go. So it’s Curtis, his harmless friend Tate, and my very innocent friend, Shelby. Is that okay? Do you want their phone numbers? Blood type?”
I smirk and when I catch my reflection in the mirror I cock my head. Andrew isn’t going with them because he’s going out with me. I can’t place it, but I look . . . different. It must be the manicured toes or the outfit I’m wearing. The denim shorts only reach to the top of my thigh. Maybe it’s the Egyptian Musk.
Mom makes Scarlett promise twice that she will check in on her way home. I wait until I hear the sound of the front door closing.
I check myself in the mirror one last time. I could pass for Scarlett with brown hair. Maybe.
When I walk into the living room, Mom has brought her laptop to the table and is eating straight from a vanilla fudge ice-cream container. I clutch a dark blue cardigan near my waist like this will magically prevent Mom from seeing that my shorts come up way too high.
“Where you headed?” she asks with a lick of the spoon. She doesn’t even look at me.
“To Nauset Light,” I say. “Remember?”
“Right, right. You bringing the telescope?” Mom asks.
“No, not tonight.”
“Mmm,” Mom says. “Okay.” She’s absorbed in the job listings. She clearly doesn’t remember the story about the field rehearsal.
“So I’ll see you . . . ,” I say.
In the background, PBS is showing a Moody Blues concert.
“Nights in white satin . . . never reaching the end . . . ,” the TV croons. Last summer I would have been sitting there, eating ice cream with her.
I hide my wrists underneath the cloth of the cardigan. I’m not sure if anyone else can smell it, but the Egyptian Musk is pouring over me.
“Give me a kiss good night,” Mom says. “I’m going to bed after this.”
I had made good headway to the door, but I double back. I kiss Mom quickly on the cheek. Her skin is always so soft.
“You smell like Scarlett,” she says.
Oh boy.
“It looks like she spilled some in the bathroom. I cleaned it up and it kind of got all over me.”
Mom hums along with the TV.
“Your sister is so careless. Isn’t that oil expensive?”
“Don’t tell her. Or she’ll think I did it,” I say.
Mom sways her ice-cream spoon through the air like a conductor. I back away.
“Mom? The perfume?”
I’m almost at the front door.
“I won’t say anything. Have fun!” Mom says and lifts a hand from her seat. She waves and when I close the door, she’s still singing.
I have to make sure that wherever Andrew and I go, Scarlett is not going to be there. I cannot find myself in that position. She would never understand why I lied to Andrew about my age and would tell him the truth immediately.
As I walk toward Main Street, I keep reminding myself: I go to MIT. I’m going to study astronomy. It’s not really a bad lie if I don’t mention it again.
A line of people curls around the Bird’s Nest Diner. Tourists will wait for clam chowder for hours. June on Main Street means the smell of fried fish and French fries wafting down the block. It’s full-on fried food aroma. I hold my sweater over my forearm. Some people add their names on a waiting list and join the line. Couples hold hands, some clutch bags of purchases, and people turn their heads to ogle items behind glass windows. At the Seahorse that necklace is still calling my name but it will have to wait a bit longer. According to my cell it’s 7:26.
7:28.
7:29.
No red pickup truck. Maybe he won’t come?
I peer down the street, lift my chin, and even rise up on my tiptoes.
“Come on, Star Girl, I’m hungry.”
My head whips straight ahead to Andrew, looking at me from behind the wheel of the red pickup. Wow, how could I miss his car? He’s rolled the window down and is leaning his arm on the passenger seat.
I slide in next to him. My knee jumps up and down and I worry that Andrew will notice.
“You like seafood?” he asks. He has strong hands—I can tell from the sculpt of his forearms as he grips the steering wheel.
“Definitely,” I say. I like fish and chips and Nancy’s lobster bakes. I only brought twenty bucks; I hope wherever he’s taking me has a cheap eats section.
“Ever had grilled scallops?” he asks.
Dad grills at home all the time. Every time we barbecue, he wears his MEAT IS MY LIFE apron. Tucker always showed up at our cookouts. Sometimes Trish came too. It was a thing. We would grill, Tucker would come over. I guess he won’t now. Not anymore.
“I love scallops!” I say, but it’s a lie. I’ve never had them before.
“Great. I have an idea.”
“What?”
Andrew pulls out into Main Street traffic and we’re barely on the road for two minutes before he’s pulling off into a parking lot that abuts the fishing docks. I’ve been here a thousand times; is there some secret restaurant that I don’t know about?
I get out of the car, and right next to the docks and marina office is a big sign that reads: HATCHMAN’S FISH MARKET.
“This is a restaurant?” I ask.
“No, just a market. You can buy fish straight off the Orleans boats.”
The sun hovers above the ocean and it’ll be sunset in a couple hours. Little pops of light glimmer across the water and onto the parking lot making everyone walking to and from the market look like they should be in a Monet painting. I guess anyone can look beautiful if they’re in the right light. Ahead of me, sparkles of sunlight roll over the harbor and golden shimmers lick the boat docks. I hesitate, walking slower. I still feel like there’s something I’m forgetting to do.
“What’s up?” Andrew asks.
“You know that feeling? Like you forgot something, but you can’t remember what it is?”
“Yeah . . .”
“I can’t remember what it is!”
Andrew laughs and I do too. “Maybe dinner will help jog your memory,” he offers.
Andrew extends his arm. His palm is open to me; I place my hand in his and let him lead me inside. The sour smell of fish and salt water overwhelms me and I can’t imagine how I thought this was like a painting. This is how it smells in the cafeteria when they make fish sticks, but worse. I bring my wrist to my nose and breathe in the Egyptian Musk. I note that Andrew hasn’t mentioned the foul odor in here. I guess he’s used to it, working on a lobster boat.
“Andrew!” It’s Scarlett’s Curtis. I immediately survey the market for my sister. The only other people in here are an elderly couple. Curtis looks me up and down, a smile creeps over his face.
“American flag string bikini,” he says with a slow drawl.
What the hell does Scarlett see in this guy?
“Scallops, I need, like, a dozen,” Andrew says to the guy behind the counter.
“You going to beachcomber tonight?” Curtis asks, shooting another glance my way. “I get off in, like, ten minutes. I’m meeting Scarlett at Shelby’s house.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Nah,” Andrew says and lets go of my hand to take out his wallet. Andrew pays before I even get a chance to reach into my pocket. “I can’t go out every night like you.”
“Have fun . . . ,” Curtis says, though the word is drawn out and it’s clear “fun” is code for something else. He winks at me. The bells on the door jingle and we’re outside in the Monet painting again.
I reach into my pocket for the money to help pay for dinner. It’s the right thing to do, even if Scarlett would never offer to pay. I am reminded of the first day on the beach when she expected that the boys would drive her home the minute she asked.
“I should split this with you,” I say.
Andrew’s eyes light up.
“You don’t have to pay; I asked you out,” he says.
“But you
should take it; it’s . . . fair.”
I want to show Andrew that I don’t believe he is required to pay for me. I want things to start out equal between us.
Andrew takes the twenty and slides it into my jean pocket.
“I want to treat you,” he says. “That’s the nice thing to do.”
His fingers press against my hip bone and I take a breath. His index and middle finger linger against me. Something erupts in my stomach, maybe lower. I need to take in some air, but it catches a little in my throat.
“Thank—I mean, thank you.”
“Come on, Star Girl,” he says with a wink. “Let’s go; we should get there way before sunset.”
“That reminds me,” I say, stepping into the car. “I have to be back by around ten or so.” Mom has never given me a curfew, but she always checks for Scarlett around ten. “I have to help my mom early in the morning,” I say, thinking fast.
“With what?” Andrew asks, and we turn out of the fish pier, back onto Main Street.
“My sister’s going-away party,” I say. “It’s this big deal to my aunt Nancy.”
Oh crap. What if he knows Scarlett has an aunt Nancy? Okay, don’t panic. I can improvise.
“Wow, sounds annoying,” he says.
“You have no idea,” I say with a deep exhale. I hope he can’t sense my relief.
I cozy into my seat, but we don’t turn toward Nauset Light; we keep driving in the direction of Aunt Nancy’s house.
“We’re going to Nauset Beach? Not Nauset Light?”
“Yep.”
In a few blocks we’ll pass Aunt Nancy’s street. Laurel Street, Squire Court, and there it is: Shore Road. I peer down the lane only to see shadows cast by the long colonial street lamps flanking the sandy street. I wonder why people do that when they pass someone’s street that they know, look down it like that person might be standing there. I want to see if Andrew has ever felt the same way, but I decide that it’s probably better not to say every thought that goes through my mind.
But I do want to say that today I am sixteen years old. I want to share this with Andrew because I know he would be excited. It’s on the edge of my lips, but I know I can’t. Then I would have to admit I lied. Whatever, it’s not like we are going to start a relationship. It’s one date. It’s the Scarlett Experiment.
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