“What is?”
Andrew follows my lead and sits up too.
“You can’t control anyone. Experiments, sure. You can change the variables, establish the controls, and record endless results. But humans? Even humans used in experiments are, at best, unreliable. And . . . I’m rambling,” I add quickly.
I play with the frays on my jean shorts.
“No, you’re not. Keep going.”
“I’m just saying. You can’t make someone do something they don’t want to do.” I shrug. “People aren’t puppets. You could have done a variety of things differently, but you couldn’t have controlled the outcome.”
“I know,” Andrew says, but it’s defeated, like he doesn’t believe me or doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Mike’s mom tells me all the time that I shouldn’t blame myself. She’s just being nice. I’m sorry but I know that if I had been there that night, it never would have happened.”
“Well, that’s insane.”
I lean back on my hands, but they’re slippery from the water that’s still dripping from my hair. I slip and bang my elbow. “Ow,” I say.
Andrew doubles over, holding his belly.
“Oh my God, Star Girl. You make me laugh.”
My cheeks are so warm. That was not a Scarlett thing to do. Her gazelle-like leaps across the studio at Aunt Nancy’s run through my mind.
“Hey!” Andrew nudges me. “Tell me about that Cassie lady.”
“Cassiopeia?” It takes me a second to catch up with the change of subject.
I tell Andrew all about Queen Cassiopeia, her vanity and her toppled throne. I show him Polaris, the North Star, too.
“How do you know so much about this? I wouldn’t be able to remember it all,” he says.
“It’s my whole life. The moon was full at the beginning of the month,” I explain. “So it’ll be a New Moon in about week. That’s pretty much the best ‘seeing’ conditions I could ask for. You know, when I track the comet next week.”
Comet.
Waterman Scholarship.
Registration.
Birthday.
My stomach drops out. I can’t scramble fast enough.
Registration is June 26th. Today is June 26th. I hop off the car.
“Holy crap, Andrew!” I cry.
“What? What?” He slides off the truck.
“I gotta go. I gotta go! I have to register for my scholarship. That’s what I forgot to do tonight!”
“What scholarship?” Andrew’s tone matches my panic.
Oh crap. I snatch up our towels and plates. Andrew follows suit and fishes his keys out from his pockets.
“I don’t have time to explain. I have to send in a registration tonight and it needs to be in exactly by eleven. What time is it?”
“Damn! I said I’d get you home by ten. It’s ten-thirty.”
“Screw the curfew. It’s due in thirty minutes!” I screech.
“Well, then let’s get the fuck out of here,” Andrew says. He gets everything in the truck in about ten seconds. I hesitate at the passenger door, stopping for one second.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t just stand there,” he demands in a joking way. “Get in the car!”
“Affirmative!” I cry and then hate myself. I say this to the Pi Naries, not to hot guys like Andrew. With the grill packed and our stuff in the back, we peel out of the camp. We race down the sandy road. Ahead of us is a big dune. Andrew revs the engine.
“Um, Andrew . . .”
He goes even faster. Up and up we go. This is not twenty miles an hour on Overlook Drive in Tucker’s ancient Volvo.
“Big hill . . . big hill!” I cry.
Andrew guns the engine and we’re airborne for a second. With a slam we’re on the ground.
Andrew cries out, “Woo-hoo! You should forget a deadline all the time, Star Girl.”
“I’ve never missed a deadline before,” I cry. I have to yell over the wind rushing through the windows.
10:34.
I knew the registration email was due today, on my birthday. I knew it. It was on the calendar. It was on the checklist and I completely missed it. I had been so worried about the Scarlett Experiment that I didn’t even spell-check it once. Forget the spell check. I could miss it altogether.
“We’ll get you there,” Andrew says.
We have to slow down past the guard or Andrew could get ticketed for speeding. Either way, I am sure they’ll hear something from all the people we zoomed by at fifty miles an hour.
10:41.
Once we turn back onto the main street that leads out of Nauset, Andrew goes about seventy miles per hour.
“Turn at Shore Road,” I cry and point down Aunt Nancy’s street. It’s possible that Andrew knows this house or that he’s picked up Scarlett here before. It can’t matter. I cannot walk home and make it in time. I will have to think of an excuse later. The Waterman Scholarship has to come first.
“What happens if you don’t make it?” Andrew asks. We’re nearly there.
10:43.
“I can’t even think about it,” I say.
“Which one is your house?”
“The last one on the right.”
He slows to a stop and I grab my bag from the floor. Any second I am expecting Andrew to mention something about the house and Scarlett, but he doesn’t.
My hair is wavy from the salty water and I probably look like death. I can’t care about it even though I desperately want to. I get out of the car.
I do have a second to say good-bye.
I lean a hand in his window. “I’m sorry about this,” I say.
10:44.
“You’re beautiful,” he says without missing a beat.
“Oh, so you like girls who look like rabid, stressed-out animals?” I ask, picking up a string of wet hair and letting it slap onto my chest.
“Can I call you tomorrow?” he asks.
“I’d like that,” I say. I have to go and before I back away again he lays his arm over the passenger seat and I can finally see what his tattoo says: swim to the moon.
“Hey, I have an idea,” he says through the open window. “You like parties?”
I’m not exactly sure. Party invites don’t exactly fall in my lap every day.
“Want to come to some too-fancy party at a restaurant tomorrow night? It’s not black tie or anything, but it’s dressier than normal.”
I almost say yes immediately.
But I can’t. It’s my birthday dinner at the Lobster Pot and I’ll be with Mom, Dad, Scarlett, and Aunt Nancy. It would be amazing for me to be at a party with Andrew.
“I can’t,” I say. “I have a family thing. But I wish I could.” I back away slowly.
“Okay,” he says with a glance to the clock. “Shit it’s ten fifty. You gotta go.”
“Bye!” I cry and haul ass up the front steps. I pause once I have the key in the door. Andrew’s taillights already swoop around the corner. I want to dance! I want to sing!
I want to complete my damn registration.
I turn the key very slowly. I bite down on my lip as the door clicks and unlocks.
It’s 10:52. I have eight minutes to boot up the computer, sign in, and attach the documents.
Aunt Nancy’s house opens up to a foyer that leads directly into the kitchen. I expect Mom to be sitting there. She’s bound to be in the lounge, in front of the TV. But the den is black, silent.
Forget that I’m late for registration, I’m late getting home. I’ve never even come home a minute after ten. Hell, I’ve never come within an hour of it. Tucker and I always went directly home when we were supposed to. I’ll have to find a way to explain this to Mom and Dad.
I grab Mom’s computer and hug it close to me. Courtesy of many lessons from Scarlett, I hold the house keys closed in my fist so they won’t jingle. The sand on the bottom of my feet makes little crunching noises as I glide through the house. I will definitely leave a trail. I freeze. I’l
l clean it after I finish registering. I run up the staircase to the second floor and stop outside Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I rise onto the balls of my feet. . . .
They are both completely passed out.
No one waited up to see if I came home.
No one knows.
With a dash, I run past Scarlett’s room next and only glance in, but she is a lump under the covers. Her blonde hair cascades from under the sheet. Even Scarlett is back early.
I came home after Scarlett! She probably thought I was on the beach looking through my telescope. She would never imagine that I could possibly be in my underwear, in the ocean, with Andrew Davis.
I scurry up to my bedroom, shut the door behind me, and turn on the computer. As it boots up, I tap my foot. I hope Tucker was wrong about the site rejecting registrations at 11:01 p.m. He probably said it to tease me. He knows how gullible I am.
10:59.
The desktop boots up.
Sign into my email. Attach the documents. Loading . . . loading . . .
The clock switches to 11:00.
I’ve missed the deadline. I collapse into the desk chair. I have no other choice. I have to register late, without spell-checking and without making sure my drafted cover letter makes any sense. I don’t know if they will accept these documents; I’ll find out immediately if I receive a bounced-back email. Great.
I click it and it sends.
Bounce backs are usually within a few seconds. I stare at my email and refresh about fifteen times. When the clock strikes 11:03 I jump up and do a little dance in the middle of the room.
Tucker was wrong! Jerk. I almost reach for my phone to call him but stop, lowering my hand. I can’t call him. What would I say? What is there to say between us?
Andrew totally came through. And the bonus? He doesn’t know Scarlett well enough to know this house. I refresh the page of my email one more time, just to be safe. There’s a ding and an email from the Waterman Scholarship highlights in my inbox. I gasp at first but read the subject line: REGISTRATION CONFIRMED.
I exhale and shut the lid of the computer. I walk toward my closet to get changed for bed.
I stop before the mirror on the back of the door.
You’re beautiful.
I want to see what Andrew sees. Whatever it is, it’s something no one has before. Not even me.
I take a step closer to the door, investigating myself through the sheen of the tank top. I take one last glance at my damp outfit, my hair flowing in wavy layers down to my ribs. Andrew’s eyes, his infectious laugh—all of it comes to my mind. The tattoo on his arm, swim to the moon.
I peel off my clothes and jump into bed.
I can’t wait to see Andrew again. I jump a little and giggle but have to throw my hand over my mouth. The Scarlett Experiment is promising.
Actually, that’s a complete understatement.
So far, the Scarlett Experiment is a complete success.
TWELVE
“SIXTEEN. I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” MOM SAYS the next afternoon. “I’m sorry again that we have to shop on your special day, Beanie.”
“Mom, stop apologizing. My birthday was yesterday,” I say. I don’t want Mom to feel bad.
“But today is your big celebration!”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“Maeve, Bean knows this was the only day we could get the whole fitting room booked before Scarlett leaves,” Aunt Nancy butts in.
We’re in Viola’s Dress Shop in Orleans. Why they need such a fancy shop here on the Cape seems unnecessary, but here we are, buying Scarlett a cocktail dress for her party.
They chose the theme of Titanic Dreams. Titanic . . . Dreams. Thousands of people died and we’re throwing a good-bye party. Aunt Nancy has somehow convinced herself that anything with an ocean liner is classy. I suppose the fact that I am even noticing the layers of irony would make my English teacher proud.
I sit in a cushy seat while Scarlett steps out from behind the curtain of the dressing room.
“Lovely,” Aunt Nancy coos.
Scarlett wears a black cocktail dress with thin spaghetti straps. Her boobs kind of hide under the material. My heart jumps. I hope Scarlett gets it. That would be a perfect dress to wear with Andrew. I immediately imagine Andrew and me at Pleasant Inn, the formal ocean-side restaurant in town.
Mom steps behind Scarlett and they face a full-length mirror. Mom raises the bust line up so it covers Scarlett’s breasts completely. Dancing has made Scarlett’s boobs a lot smaller than mine. Even though she’s skinny, I’m tall, so we happen to wear a similar size. No ballerina worth her legs has more than B cups, Scarlett says.
“You’ll just have to wear a strapless, padded bra,” Mom says, dropping the fabric. “Do you like it?”
Scarlett cocks her head so her blonde curls fall in long ringlets down past her shoulders. Our hair is almost the same length. I don’t know why but for some reason I feel like I’ve won because I realize my hair is longer. “It’s okay,” she says with a shrug.
Swim to the moon . . . what an interesting phrase. I wonder what it’s from? Why did he want it tattooed on his arm? Did it hurt?
“What’s not to like about it?” Aunt Nancy squawks. I snap up in my seat. Scarlett knows she needs to be excited about everything to do with the party. If she doesn’t swoon over the dress, Aunt Nancy will moan about Mom not having a job, Dad’s measly salary, and how if only Dad had taken that office job when Scarlett was born, she wouldn’t have to support all of us. Before I jump to save her butt, Scarlett breaks into a big toothy grin.
“It’s perfect, Mom. Elegant.”
“Oooh lovely,” Aunt Nancy says, but she isn’t replying to Scarlett. A salesgirl slides over a rack of thick, pastel dresses. Wow, Nancy is going to look reeeeeeally pink.
“Okay, Beanie,” Mom says and gestures to the pastel puke-fest on the rack.
“Okay, what?” I say.
“These dresses are for you.”
I gasp—it’s quiet but loud enough that Nancy mistakes it for happiness.
It’s exactly as Gran predicted. I want to rip the dresses off the rack and smother Aunt Nancy with the lace. I can’t say no; I don’t have another dress for the party that would be appropriate in any way.
I push the curtain aside and slip off my T-shirt and shorts. Everything I am wearing today is mine, of course. I could never wear Scarlett’s clothes in front of her. I cannot wait until she leaves tomorrow.
I try not to listen to the slip of the satin and the metal of the hanger as Scarlett changes out of the elegant black dress in the little room next to mine.
“Oh, I like this,” Aunt Nancy says. Mom hands me a pink dress over the door. The ruffles on the bottom are scratchy. It’s got thick straps and a straight neckline that cuts right over the bust. How the hell does it even go on? Headfirst? Feetfirst?
I pull it over my ankles and up my legs. The material is so thick.
Baby pink. Barbie pink. Cotton candy pink. Three layers of heinous frill and tulle.
I look like a tiered cupcake.
“I don’t want to wear this,” I say to the mirror inside the dressing room. The reflection is completely different than what I saw in the mirror last night. There is no way Andrew would call me insanely beautiful if he saw me in this.
“Well, come on out, let’s see it,” Mom says. She’s got that surprise in her voice, the one that never expects me to disagree.
I slide the curtain aside and do come out. My bare feet are cold from the shop floor. Scarlett studies a notebook to avoid laughing directly to my face. She is so red-cheeked I want to chuck her stupid notebook out onto Main Street. On a page are notes handwritten in pencil of a dance she is meant to memorize before Juilliard orientation.
I try not to look at myself because I’ll cry. The poufy fabric is shocking even in my peripheral vision.
“Beanie, you look wonderful,” Aunt Nancy says and places her plump hand to her chest. “That is the dress. That’s perfect.
”
“Maybe I could try a couple of others?” I ask. The rest of the dresses on the rack seem no better.
Aunt Nancy drops her hand from her chest and it plops into her lap.
“Beanie, this is Aunt Nancy’s party,” Mom tries to explain.
“I thought it was Scarlett’s party,” I say.
“Both,” Nancy clarifies.
“What do you want to wear?” Mom asks.
I shrug and say, “Something else.” The tulle presses the dress out so I can’t even see my knees.
“Something black? With spaghetti straps?” Scarlett says and rolls her eyes. There’s a burn in my chest and I look away. I hate that she knows what I want. I hate that when I need her on my side, she makes it worse. Can’t she pick my side and stay on it like the other night and the teen dance debacle?
You gotta get a stronger backbone or people will walk all over you.
“Statistically speaking, I’ll never wear this dress again,” I say and try to channel Scarlett. “It’s just that . . . it’s not . . . it’s not . . .”
“It’s not what?” Mom asks.
“You always wear your science club T-shirts and old hand-me-downs. This is going to feel different,” Aunt Nancy adds. “More mature.”
“Much more mature,” Mom parrots.
I want to say that this dress isn’t me at all. I could find something else. My shoulders are sun kissed and my nose is bronzed. Even my hair has streaks of blonde highlights. I know it’s only a few days into the Scarlett Experiment, but I feel different already.
“It’s just a dress, Beanie,” Mom says. “You don’t care about these kinds of things.”
I do now. I do.
Both Mom and Aunt Nancy look like all their happiness rides on me wearing this stupid dress.
All the dresses on the rack look like I should be a flower girl in a wedding. I don’t know what to ask for, but it’s not this dress with the scratchy fabric and the padding in the skirt.
What I would ask for, Scarlett is already getting, and I don’t want her to know how much I wish I had her style.
“Maybe there’s another color?” I ask.
“This is tasteful,” Aunt Nancy says. “This one is perfect for you, you just can’t see it.”