I can see it. I can. Scarlett has never worn anything like this.
“You know Bean doesn’t usually wear dresses,” Mom says. “She’s naturally a lab coat kind of girl.”
I don’t want to be a lab coat kind of girl anymore.
“They don’t make dresses out of white lab coats,” Scarlett says. She and Aunt Nancy laugh. Together. Like two small canaries sitting on a branch after a quick swim in a birdbath.
“Scarlett . . . ,” Mom says gently, but her mouth curves upward. Scarlett, come on. Help me out. Scarlett sighs and leans forward in her chair to touch the hem of the dress.
“She could wear something more fitted, or without”—she rubs the fabric between her thumb and index finger—“all this lace.”
“Lace is proper,” Nancy says. “You’re older, Scarlett. You can wear a formfitting dress. You’re a dancer.”
I can’t see the top of my toes.
It’s a tutu.
It’s this dress or I make a scene. And there is no way I am complaining. Not while Scarlett is here watching me. It’s clear I am not going to win this.
“You know,” I say, my voice on the verge of breaking, “it’s actually a very sturdy material. Long lasting,” I say to the floor. “Probably water resistant.”
“Great. It’s settled. We will have to get her a better bra. I think that one’s too small,” Nancy says.
My cleavage is all Nancy can talk about. I’m not a little kid. I’m not a doll for them to dress up.
“So,” Mom says once I’m back in the dressing room. “Scarlett, some wedges would be great with that dress. If you wear heels you’ll sink into Nancy’s lawn.”
I would love tall wedges.
“Bean will probably need flats,” Mom says.
“Ballet flats! Perfect,” Nancy suggests.
Heat sears through me and I’m reminded of when I was five and Scarlett had a Barbie party. I was forced to wear so much lace padding under my dress, I could have floated away. I didn’t mind it then. I didn’t mind it when Mom would go shopping for me and leave a stack of sweaters on my bed with a note: Try these! I’ll return what doesn’t fit! She never asked me what I wanted before she went. Never has she said: It’s your choice. What is important to you?
I cannot wear this dress in front of Tucker.
In the car ride on the way back to Nancy’s house, I stare at my hands. Mom, Dad, Nancy, and even Scarlett need me to be predictable and reliable. When I’m studying the stars then they know who they are, they know what their roles should be.
Last night, these fingers ran along Andrew’s jaw. He brought his lips to mine and whispered that I was beautiful.
Swim to the moon.
I love the way the phrase sounds in my head.
I loved his lips on mine.
I loved who I was last night.
THIRTEEN
“IT’S NOT LIKE THEY HAVE TO HIDE IT. LIKE THEY’RE celebrities or whatever,” Ettie says that evening on the phone. I am out on the patio sitting in an Adirondack chair. The sunset falls over Pleasant Bay and skirts the tops of the trees.
The cupcake dress is wrapped in plastic in my bedroom closet and hopefully soon will be the victim of a horrible spontaneous closet fire.
Mom is blow-drying her hair up in her room, and Dad is tinkering with WHOI paperwork in the living room. Next to him are Mom’s résumé and about fifty cover letters.
“I haven’t seen them since Hilltop,” Ettie says.
In my head I am kissing Andrew in the ocean.
“Let him come,” I say and shake my hair back over my shoulders. “I’m tired of being upset about Tucker.”
“This new optimism wouldn’t have anything to do, per se, with a guy named Andrew, would it?”
She’s finally getting to what I know she has been dying to talk about. “How is he, anyway?”
Ettie thinks Andrew is seventeen. I shaved off two years when she asked. Whatever. I’m sixteen (okay, barely); he’s nineteen. It’s not a huge deal. He’s still a teenager, technically.
A small voice, deep down, asks, then why are you lying about it?
That small voice replies: And what’s worse? He doesn’t know the truth.
Scarlett joins Dad at the table. They examine a subway map of New York City. I ignore Ettie’s question and switch subjects.
“The dress they bought me for Scarlett’s party looks like a frosting factory exploded on some pink fabric.”
I glance to see if anyone is checking up on me. I’m far enough away at the end of the patio, but I whisper anyway.
“And next time I see Andrew, I’ll wear the dress Scarlett got. It’s short and black.”
Ettie’s silent.
“I have to tell my mom I need to stay out until midnight. I’ve never had to worry about a curfew before. I don’t know how many times I can convince Andrew I have to ‘do something in the morning.’” I make air quotes even though Ettie can’t see them.
I know what it means when she’s so quiet. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, though I can tell it’s something.
“Spill it, Ettie.”
“Seems like a lot of stuff to be manipulating just to see a guy.”
“He’s not just a guy, and I’m not manipulating him.”
“Do you know what will happen if Scarlett finds you in her clothes again? She’ll kill you and you’ll never see Andrew again. You got away with the bikini, but how are you going to pull off a fancy dress?”
I thought about showing up to that party at the restaurant in the cupcake dress. I wouldn’t even look sixteen. I’d look twelve. If I wore the black sandals I have and Scarlett’s dress, that would look perfect. I’d look older. More sophisticated. And I could continue the Scarlett Experiment.
“Bean?” Ettie says.
“Yeah,” I say, coming back to the moment.
“Did you hear anything I said for the last two minutes?” I’m quiet, and Ettie sighs.
“If you do wear it, steam clean it in the bathroom when you get home,” she says. “Hang it up and run the shower. It’ll get rid of any smells or wrinkles after you wear it.”
“Since when are you a stealth mode expert?”
“Movies. TV. Summerhill girl’s bathroom.”
“Excellent.”
When we hang up, my plan is set.
I can’t stop what is going on with Andrew, I don’t even know how it started.
And either way, I don’t want to.
I head upstairs to get dressed before we go to the Lobster Pot for dinner. I’m zipping up my jeans when Scarlett steps into the doorway.
“Ahem . . .” She dangles by her fingertips a small brown bag with lime green paper handles.
“Yes?” I say and cross my arms over my chest. I still hate her for not defending me at the dress shop.
She comes in and sits on the bed. She lifts the brown bag.
“Happy Birthday,” she says.
I sit down too and face her directly.
“You got me something?”
“Don’t I always?”
Well, yeah, now that I think about it, she does.
I scoot next to her and take the small bag. I reach in and wrap my fingers around a slim glass bottle.
“Wow. I should get you stuff more often. Look at that smile,” Scarlett says.
The crystal bottle of Egyptian Musk lies in the palm of my hand.
“Your perfume,” I say, my cheeks warm. Mom must have told her about the other night. “I only wore it that one time.”
“What time?”
Oops.
“The other day,” I admit.
She sighs. “Ask me when you borrow my things, please.”
“How did you know I liked it?” I ask.
“You smelled it at home, like, ninety times. And I do live with you, dork.”
I didn’t know she saw me do that. I didn’t think she noticed me very much at all.
“I ordered it online and had it sent t
o me. I didn’t think it would come in time.”
The perfume bottle glints from the track lighting above.
“Thank you,” I say and curl my fingers around the little vial instead of hugging my sister. I think she might embrace me, right then. But she doesn’t. She gets up instead, leaving the scent of Egyptian Musk trailing behind her—it smells better on her, more exotic.
“Don’t worry about that dress,” she says, stopping at the door. “The one for the party.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It’s mostly going to be my friends, anyway. You won’t even know most of the people there.”
“Tucker will be there. Maybe he can take a picture and send it to Becky for a laugh.”
“Stop it,” she says, still lingering at the doorway. “Who cares what he thinks?”
She leaves and her soft footsteps descend the stairs toward dinner.
“Me,” I whisper when she’s out of earshot.
I set the perfume on my night table and hurry down the stairs after my sister.
Lobster carcasses sit on each of our plates—well, all except Scarlett’s, who only ordered a garden salad with grilled chicken. Silver tongs and discarded tails litter the table. Butter stains my paper napkin. Scarlett’s bowl of salad is empty with only dregs of vinegar left behind. If it were me, I would dip pieces of bread into the salad dressing. Scarlett doesn’t do that . . . ever.
I love the sweet smell of the hand wipes after a great seafood meal. It means dessert is coming. Lobster Pot chocolate cake is on its way. The frosting is about ten inches thick. Mom and Dad lift a blue box from under the table—it’s as big as a cereal box but way wider. How did I not notice it? Dad must have gone back to the car when I was ripping my lobster to shreds. They send it down the table to me.
“Scarlett!” Dad calls.
She hangs on the bar talking to a bartender but saunters back to the table.
The blue present makes its way to my seat. Attached by a piece of tape on top of the blue box is a white envelope and another box, but this one is magenta and much smaller. I definitely know who the pink box is from—Nancy.
I tear open the white envelope. I expect a card, but there is only a ticket. A plane ticket.
“San Francisco!” I cry. “I’m seeing Gran?”
“She sent it earlier this week,” Mom says with a huge smile.
There is a folded note inside that says, See you Labor Day weekend, XO, Gran and Gracie. There’s a P.S. in Gran’s sturdy handwriting: We’ll let you drive Gracie’s Jetta. In Gracie’s slim writing beneath that it reads: But you might not ever want to drive again!
Scarlett sits down and I pass her the note from Gran.
“Wow, lucky,” she says.
I can’t help but notice that Nancy has one lone eyebrow raised.
“Right before school starts?” she asks.
“Okay!” Dad chimes in quickly. “Open ours.”
I pull off the thick blue paper and find there are a few items in the box. A set of sticky stars for my ceiling.
“These ones are accurate to the New England sky in March,” Dad says, because he knows me too well. Beneath that package is a small box and another envelope. Inside the small box is a set of silver studs in the shape of stars. I place them in my ears right away.
“She should clean the—”
“Too late, Nancy,” Dad says.
Inside the other card envelope is two hundred dollars cash.
“Dad . . . ,” I say. The envelope sits in the palm of my hand. “This is too much.”
“That’s to see Gran,” Mom says. “And to have fun.”
Nancy squirms in her seat and I know she wants to say hundreds of things.
She purses her lips as the chocolate cake is brought out. Little candles flicker on top of the cake and Nancy stops her tantrum to sing.
“Happy Birthday to you . . . ,” our table sings, and soon other people in the dining area sing too.
Scarlett’s tiny voice chirps over the crowd. She texts on her phone while she sings along. The waiter lowers the cake to the table in front of me. Mom, Dad, Nancy, and Scarlett all smile as their rousing rendition comes to a close.
“Make a wish, Beanie,” Mom says.
As the little flames flicker, I do wish:
I wish I could be who I am when I’m with Andrew—but all the time.
I blow out the candles, and as the swirls of smoke curl to the ceiling, I pray that birthday wishes come true.
Slices of cake are passed out as I open Nancy’s box.
A set of keys sits inside on a bed of pink tissue paper.
Car keys.
No way. My jaw drops. “These are . . .”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s my car. The Volvo, which means it won’t be brand-new.”
“Are you kidding me?” I cry. Nancy has never done anything like this, ever. She never got Scarlett a car! I’m ready to jump up and hug—
“You can really expand your horizons with this car. Get some new hobbies. You could even come down here on some off days from school.”
Visit?
Scarlett keeps texting, but her lack of response tells me she’s surprised. Her all-too-casual reaction is a clear giveaway.
“This will be very helpful for you to do things outside science. Scarlett loves to dance, but she also loves movies, art, and all kinds of things. You could do that too.”
“Can I go?” Scarlett asks without a glance up from her phone. I close the lid on the box with the car keys.
“Mom.” Scarlett finally looks up from her phone. “I need to go home and change. I can’t go to the party in this.”
“Hold on, Scarlett.”
“I leave tomorrow, shouldn’t I get to do what I want to?” Scarlett says, though this time it’s a whine. “I stayed the whole dinner.”
Gee, thanks. Feeling the love here.
“Oh, go, Scarlett.” Mom turns back to Nancy. “This car is too much.”
“I have to get a new one anyway!” Nancy says. “And it’s too late, I already signed over the title.”
It’s 7:48. Andrew texted earlier and said he was going to the party around 9:30. I want to be with Andrew. I want to be with someone who sees what I wish everyone else would see.
Scarlett tucks in her chair. “See you guys,” she says.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks.
“To a party with Curtis and Tate.”
She motions to the bartender. Except now, he’s not in his red Lobster Pot shirt. He’s waiting for her in a T-shirt and jeans. Now that I look, I think I recognize him from town the other night. I make sure to keep my head turned away in case I see him out with Andrew sometime. I don’t want him to recognize me.
My stomach sinks. If Scarlett is meeting Curtis, I can’t go to the party to meet Andrew. Scarlett will probably be there. I won’t get a chance to see what she’s wearing, but knowing Scarlett, it’s tight and short.
“Happy Birthday, Bean,” Scarlett adds before leaving.
Dad gets the check and Mom cleans up all the wrapping paper. Her cheeks are red.
Nancy is still squawking away about how good the car will be for me and all the interests I should and shouldn’t have. I want to be anywhere else but here. For the first time in sixteen years I actually wish I could go do something else instead of our mini-golf tournament.
“Ready to beat your old man?” Dad asks. He leans a hand on the back of my chair. I smile because I would never disappoint Dad. He could never guess that I would rather be meeting an older boy at a party than playing mini-golf.
“As always!” I say and follow my family out the door.
FOURTEEN
I WIN BECAUSE DAD ALWAYS THROWS THE MINI-GOLF game on my birthday. Within fifteen minutes of getting home, Dad is snoring on the couch and Mom is reading in their bedroom. Nancy is in her room getting ready for bed.
I knew what I was going to do the second I hit the eighteenth hole at the windmill. Even though Scarl
ett is potentially going to be there, I want to go to the party. I’ll peek in and see if she’s there. If she is, I’ll go home, and no one will know. If by some shred of a miracle, she isn’t there, I can text Andrew and pretend I got out of my “family obligation” early. Andrew said it was kind of formal, so it’s the perfect occasion to wear the black dress. First, I have to make sure Scarlett isn’t wearing it.
Asking for a later curfew is a risk, but I’m trying it anyway. I need to think of an excuse to go out tonight, and no one can see what I am wearing. I don’t feel so bad lying about this. I’m doing what Nancy wants me to do—I’m pursuing other interests. It’s just not on her terms. This is on my terms and they wouldn’t understand.
“Mom,” I say gently as I stand in the doorway of her bedroom. I make sure to dress in jeans and a T-shirt to avoid suspicion.
“Yes?” she says, turning a page.
“I have some star charting to do and, well, I was kind of hoping to head down to the beach. I know it’s late, but it could be an important night.”
Mom shrugs. “Sure,” she says.
Seriously? That’s it?
“Great!” I say. “And I was sort of wondering if I could come back a little later. You know? Like, eleven?”
I check the clock: 9:40. Scarlett’s barely been at the party an hour.
Mom is quiet, her eyes focused on the page. She’s considering this so I talk fast.
“Because the darker it is, the better the view of the night sky. And I’ll bring my cell phone and—”
“Bean, make sure to put your presents up in your room?” Mom asks, her hand on the next page of her book. She still hasn’t looked up at me for more than a few seconds. I blink a couple times. She isn’t considering my curfew—not at all. “I don’t want to hear it from Nancy,” she adds.
The moonlight shines through the panoramic windows and all I see is the harbor in the distance. I don’t want to look at Mom because I don’t want to see her not looking at me.
“I think it’s fine if you research tonight,” she says.
“I’ll make sure to be here at eleven. On the dot.”
“See you then,” Mom says, nose still in the book. She isn’t coming up for air, she and Dad have that in common when they are engrossed in something they like.
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