My shoulders relax and I nod.
“I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out why you’re being so quiet. I’m a dumbass. Let’s go somewhere else. Anywhere,” he offers.
I shake my head and look out at the parking lot. It’s emptying out, but there are a few families packing their chairs and umbrellas in their cars. Mom, Dad, Scarlett, and I used to go to this beach. Dad liked to swim and I would hold on to his back. We haven’t done that in a long time. Years, actually.
“Why doesn’t anyone stop Curtis from drinking?” I ask.
“He’s got to make his own choices.”
We get out and stand by the side of Andrew’s truck.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Screw the buggies. Anywhere you want.”
“I’m not afraid of Curtis. I’m sad for him,” I explain.
“He probably won’t remember most of it today. The fight with me he will, but not what led up to it. He never mentioned you this morning.”
I would never be able to be best friends with someone who could just forget the violent events of the night before. Not to mention that he got into a fistfight with his best friend. Ettie would never give someone a dirty look let alone hit a person. Tucker wouldn’t either. I have to ask. The question is going to drive me insane until I get it out.
“How can you be best friends with someone who would treat people like that?” I ask.
Andrew hugs a backpack. He considers his answer and his shoulders slump. He focuses on the group in the distance. Someone yells, “Andrew,” and it’s like the prince has arrived. That’s how it always feels to me, anyway.
“Because he’s been my best friend since we were nine. Mike was like our brother.”
“But he’s an alcoholic,” I say. “I’m not saying get rid of him because he drinks too much. But whoever he was before, he’s not now. He’s dangerous.”
There’s a kind of sadness in Andrew’s gaze I can’t quite figure out. He seems to stare at nothing.
“Yes,” Andrew finally says. “Yes, he’s dangerous now.”
My cheeks warm from the drop in Andrew’s voice.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. “I can be too pushy sometimes.”
“Nah,” he interrupts me with a quick shake of his head. “You just said what I haven’t been able to.”
Across the asphalt are five neon-colored dune buggies, which really look like matchbox cars with huge wheels. Imminent death should be their name. Not dune buggies—deathmobiles.
We walk toward the group and I wonder if everyone will be talking about last night. I avoid Curtis’s eyes and he seems to be doing the same. Whenever I check, his back is to me.
Andrew slaps the hands of his friends and they do a kind of handshake I’ve seen them do before. I want to know this handshake too. I watch, and Tate, the bartender from the Lobster Pot, catches me. I look away and when I do, Shelby, the girl with the dreadlocks, smiles at me. Smile = good sign. No need to break that down and test it.
“Sarah. You need a nickname,” Tate says.
“I do?” I say, and Andrew hands me a pair of leather gloves with the fingertips missing. I want to ask him if he is aware it is eighty degrees out. I don’t.
“What’s your last name?” Tate asks.
In this entire time, this entire summer, not one of his friends has asked.
“Levin,” I say, panicked that I didn’t have time to think of a lie. I haven’t mentioned my last name to Andrew since we first met.
“Levin?” Tate says and cocks his head. I’m waiting for it. I can so easily imagine him saying, “Scarlett’s last name is Levin.” Or that he’ll tell me he already knows a Levin, that name is taken and I should know better. Or something.
“Levin needs to know the handshake. If you’re about to dune ride with us on the beach, you must know it.”
“Then I must know it,” I say and widen my stance like I’m about to run a football play. I’m ready.
We shake, we catch fingers, we snap, and he does some weird thing where he shakes his fingers around. I try to mimic it but fail. We try again. “See,” he says with a big bear laugh again, “you catch on.”
I’m about to ask him to do it again—maybe I should be writing down symbols? For practice? A helmet plops down over my head.
“Come on, Levin.” Andrew’s gentle humor makes my last name sound less like a swear, and I immediately wonder what Scarlett’s nickname is with this same group.
“I think I prefer Star Girl,” I say from beneath the hot helmet.
“That one’s ours,” Andrew says and points at a blue buggy with big black wheels. Andrew gets on the bike first then pulls his helmet on, and I climb on behind him.
“It’s gonna be really bumpy,” he says, turning his head so I see his profile. “Hold on tight.” And I do. Our engine revs. One by one, like little gunshots, so do the rest of the buggies. The smoke billows from engines and—boom—Curtis is the first to dart off the parking lot asphalt and onto the trails of dunes. We climb slowly up huge sand hills and I dig my helmet into Andrew’s back. The whole group yelps, hoots, and hollers as we pop up and down the rolling dunes. Ahead, Curtis revs his engine and his buggy jumps in the air.
The force of the bike is too much over these hills. It’s not like a regular bike, there’s high velocity. There’s force and speed. Why didn’t I listen more during the aerodynamics lecture? Oh boy. We could go down hard! There’s no cushioning.
“Sarah!” Andrew yells over our motor. “Look up! You’re missing it.”
I raise my head higher. In the distance, the great ocean is sparkling away.
I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss anything else again.
We race past hills of dunes and tall, green beach grass. The hot summer sunset burns my face. I remember to keep my mouth closed.
The buggies, like toy cars, jump over the last few rolling hills. Whoops and yells sound out around me. Andrew yells too as we jump over a big hill. We hit the sand almost in unison. Curtis rides next to Andrew and me. Through the opening in his helmet, a black ring circles his right eye. His eyes linger on me and maybe—or maybe I just want this to be true—they say they’re sorry. He pulls ahead just as we crest another hill and I scream from the loop my stomach is doing when we come back to earth.
More yells and more screams of happiness echo over the dunes as we ride. I love this. All of us, rising and falling, again and again—together.
A couple of hours later, I’m sitting cross-legged watching a bonfire crackling away and I haven’t even thought to check my cell. I hold the display up to the firelight: Of course, no one’s called. I tuck it back in my pocket. Andrew and a couple of other people have driven the buggies back to the parking lot while the rest of us stay on the beach. He’s put Shelby on Curtis “drunk-ass” watch while he’s gone. Curtis keeps away from me; I think he remembers more than he lets on. I sit with my beer in my hands as the sun descends over the beach. Shelby sits down next to me.
“You’re eighteen,” she says, but it sounds like a question.
My stomach swoops like I’m back on the buggies again.
I nod—it’s better than saying it out loud. Out loud makes it more like a blatant lie.
“You look younger,” she says.
I pinch at the sand and try not to meet her eyes. Empirically, I know this behavior expresses that I am nervous.
“I get that sometimes,” I say and take a swig of the beer. A few weeks ago I never would have touched the stuff. It’s not like I’m about to become a beer drinker or anything, but it’s nice to relax and have fun. I’m not used to it.
“You know, Scarlett’s little sister looks a lot like you. I’ve seen her before.”
“I’m not Scarlett’s sister,” I say and sip on the beer again.
Shelby raises an eyebrow.
Where is Andrew?
“I’ve met your aunt Nancy. That woman is a piece of work.”
I face Shel
by directly.
“Wait a minute. You didn’t have dreads last year!” I say and slap my hand over my mouth. Damn.
“How old are you really?” she asks.
“I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. I’m, like, eleven months younger than Scarlett.”
“Does Andrew know?”
“No. Scarlett doesn’t like to admit we’re close in age,” I say, really trying to convince her. “And in a few weeks it won’t matter.” Shelby raises an eyebrow again. I wish I were telling the truth more than I can possibly express.
“I shouldn’t have lied. I know that,” I add. “But, please keep this between us?”
“Okay, I get it,” she says. “I knew I had seen you before.”
I can’t confess the real truth to Shelby. I want to. I want to tell someone so badly.
Deep down where the truth is hiding I know I can’t tell Andrew I am Scarlett’s sister. I thought my lie about Scarlett was independent of the one about my age and MIT. I assumed that somehow it would be easier to confess that I was Scarlett’s sister—that it was safer somehow. I see now that all of these lies are connected. If Andrew finds out I’m Scarlett’s sister, he’ll tell Curtis, who will definitely tell Scarlett. It will get back to Andrew how old I am and everything will unravel.
Scarlett won’t back me up. She would never protect me.
“Why didn’t you tell Dickwad that you’re Scarlett’s sister? He’d kiss the ground you walk on,” Shelby says and nods to Curtis, who’s now standing by the shore.
I sip on the beer again. “I’ve lived in her shadow long enough.”
Andrew walks down the steep dune that leads from the parking lot. I turn to Shelby. I am sure my expression reflects that I mean what I am about to say, because my heart certainly does.
“I really don’t want to be associated with my sister,” I say. “It’s hard enough being almost the same age as her. She hates it. She hates me. So, if you could keep this between us, it would be, well, good for me. Me and Andrew,” I add.
Shelby’s eyes warm. “I have a sister too,” she says and pats my knee. “I get it.”
Andrew plops down on the sand and pulls me toward him, so I lean against his warm chest.
He kisses the nape of my neck and shivers rush down my arms. Across from us, Shelby joins Tate by the water. She picks up a shell and glances back at me. She winks, and I take this as a sign that she won’t tell.
The whole beach is lit in an orange twilight. The tops of the dunes are spotted with stars. I could walk up one, in a dream perhaps, all the way to the crest. I would stand up tall and proud and take one of those stars from the sky. Andrew’s arms squeeze around me almost as if he is reading my mind and telling me that yes, we’ll do that someday.
We’ll take a star from the sky together.
I hope there can be a “we” for a long, long time.
That’s all I can do—hope.
TWENTY-FOUR
ANDREW’S CAR DOOR SLAMS AND I SLIDE OUT too. The party left me with my head buzzing and my feet light. We’re at Andrew’s house. I step out of the truck before a traditional Cape Cod house: two stories, small, blue shingles.
“Not Seaside Stomachache,” I say.
“Star Girl, you can’t make fun of my humble abode. We’re not on Shore Road here,” he says.
“No. No. It’s perfect. Your house is perfect.”
I’m not drunk, just warm. Buzzed. Andrew’s house has a front porch with a grill sitting on it and a bunch of potted plants—most of which are dead. He unlocks the front door. I follow him inside and plop right down on a floral-patterned couch.
There are stuffed birds, ancient radios, framed vintage newspapers, and creaking floorboards, just like at home. On the walls are aerial photographs of the Cape Cod shoreline and what I assume are portraits of Andrew’s family. There are no lighthouses or white wood paneling like at Nancy’s house. No invitations organized in shoeboxes, linen patterns, or silver teapots. There are definitely no cupcake dresses hanging in closets.
“This house,” I say, “is great.”
It occurs to me: There are no parents here, no one telling Andrew what he can and can’t do.
Water runs in the kitchen, shuts off, and Andrew joins me on the couch. He hands me a cup.
“How many beers did you have?” he asks.
He smells like sweat and boy, which I can’t place my finger on but I think is cologne or deodorant. “You smell like boy,” I say aloud.
“Drink,” he says. I do and gulp down the whole cup of water.
“Three. Three beers,” I say.
Andrew’s kitchen is basically a fridge and stove. Above the couch is a picture of Curtis, Andrew, and a tall blond guy with a great barrel chest I haven’t seen in their group of friends before. Each of them rests a long lacrosse stick on a shoulder.
“Is that Mike?” I ask and gesture to the photo.
“Yeah,” he says. “My dad took that at the BC/Hobart game last spring. He had it framed last summer. You know . . . after.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and slide to the floor. I turn myself around to face Andrew who remains on the couch. “I’m sorry your friend died.”
“Me too,” he says quietly.
“I don’t know anyone my age who’s died,” I say.
I place the glass next to me.
“I hope you never have to,” Andrew says. He doesn’t move his eyes from the floor. I want to take away his sadness and I don’t know how.
I pull him to the floor with me and wrap my legs around his hips. Andrew lies on top of me and I kiss him, wanting him, needing him to know how sorry I am that all of this has happened and how much I wish I could take his pain away. He returns my embrace and runs his hand up my back. His hips start moving in a rhythm and I try to match it. His breathing is getting heavier. He slips my shirt over my head.
It’s off, it’s on the floor, I’m wearing just my bra, and an overwhelming urge takes over me. I want his body near me more than anything in the world. His lips are on my neck, my lips, and on my neck again. I’m fumbling for the button of his shorts and he reaches in and takes out his penis with his right hand. I’ve never seen anyone do this and all I want to do is hold him, make him feel as good as he does me. He moves his hand and I see how much thicker and larger his penis grows. I hesitate. I don’t know what to do exactly. I don’t want to be wrong.
“What?” he says gently, his breathing hard. We’re both shirtless, me in a bra and him with his khaki shorts unbuttoned. “Is it—what’s wrong?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m not . . . ready. I mean, I am, I just need some time. I want to know what to do.” My cheeks must be so red because a flush of heat runs through my chest and face.
Andrew sits up quick and buttons his shorts. “Come here.” He opens his arms to me. I lay my head on his chest. His heartbeat is familiar to me now.
“The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable,” he says.
“You don’t make me uncomfortable. Ever.”
I say something, which is so painfully true it’s a relief to say it aloud.
“It’s just that, school and science. That’s my life. I’ve never gotten so close to someone,” I say. “Not like this. I don’t want to screw it up.”
“Never,” he says.
He strokes the side of my head again and again. I could fall asleep with our skin on skin, and my cheek warmed by his body heat.
“You don’t get into MIT and track comets by dating every guy in the world.”
Half of that sentence rings true within me, half of it is the right thing to say. The other half breaks me apart a little. This lie is now in every thread of our conversation. It’s everywhere.
“Will you wait a little? For me?” I ask.
“As long as you want, Star Girl.”
My bottom lip trembles and I bite at it so it stops. I wish I could tell him everything. Tell him all of it, the whole truth—from the night with Tucker until this moment. Instea
d, I lie there and when the silence is still nice and the warmth of his body could lull me to sleep, I say, “I think I should get home.”
He pulls me up and kisses my head. My hands wrap around Andrew’s and as he leads me outside, I want to tell him the truth.
I want to believe that in some strange scenario we could make it work.
Over the next two weeks, I have to work on the application and every time I start the essay I delete immediately. It’s all so cheesy. I want to say something I mean, something true about me. My procrastination is getting out of hand and August 8th is approaching fast.
I came to WHOI today to spend some time with Dad, but also, it’s seal feeding day.
I love seal feeding day. It’s the one day they let Dad and me help the marine biologists feed the seals at the aquarium. We can sit on the edge of the pool with the trainers and help drop fish into the water. One of the seals, Bumper, is blind. I love Bumper. Have since I was twelve.
But for now, until 9:30, I must sit at this desk in Dad’s office and finally focus on this stupid essay.
The Waterman Foundation is the oldest astronomy scholarship in the country. 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 don’t even know how to begin. Why is tracking the comet part of who I am? Because it’s all I think about? Because I’ve stood outside on Friday nights with long-range binoculars while the rest of my class was out having fun, just so I could see the dusty tail of some silly comet? No. That’s not good enough. I don’t think the scholarship committee will care about how the comet impacted my social life. The essay needs to be academic and professional. I need to wow them. Who am I as a scientist? Who am I?
I don’t want to write this essay right now. Everything else is done. It’s the only thing that’s left. Fourteen days is more than enough time.
That reminds me. I glance up at the calendar. It’s July 25th. That means I also only have fourteen days until Scarlett comes home.
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