quickly turn onto Main. The shops are empty, dark, and the sun is barely a glimmer in the sky. As I walk, I pass the empty Goosehead Tavern. Many of the shop owners had taped their windows, so large X’s cover the massive glass fronts. I pass the still unopened Bird’s Nest Diner. Inside, one waitress places a filter in an oversized coffeemaker. I stop just past the diner and look up the long street where I first talked to Andrew. Mike’s jersey still hugs the tree.
I know the intimate details of Andrew’s life.
He will never get to know mine.
I close my eyes, just for a second.
Andrew’s hands run over me in languid movements, up and down my body as though he is sweeping up from the bottom of the ocean. He could be swimming, taking long strokes to break the surface. He kisses my mouth and says my name again and again and again.
I open my eyes to the empty street.
The thought of Andrew’s face makes a rusted hook pull at my belly, sending a jab through me. The hook snags and makes my stomach uneasy and I try to swallow a couple times. I need to get home. I pass by the library, Viola’s Dress Shop, and the penny candy store.
I can’t count periodic tables anymore.
Or the constellations, either.
I keep walking to the end of Main Street, where a truck of town workers arrives to clean up debris from the storm, but it is just some leaves and branches.
I stop in the middle of the street again and something occurs to me that hadn’t occurred to me at the beginning of the summer.
Jim Morrison didn’t just die in that bathroom in Paris. He overdosed on drugs. Or he died because of years of abuse to his body. Maybe the French coroner was right, his heart really did just give out. Maybe. But that’s just a wish.
I’ll never get to know. The truth died in Paris.
When I get to Shore Road, I stand at the end of the street with my hands hanging by my side. Branches and leaves are scattered across the lane. Sand is pushed up against the base of trees.
I swallow hard, something hurts in the back of my throat. I lick my lips and they’re salty from last night’s sweat.
Scarlett was so angry with me last night. She seemed horrified that I could be with someone like Andrew.
No big deal? Bean! Do you have any idea how unfair this is? I can’t believe this. Thank God you’re leaving in a week.
It’s like a punch to my gut.
I fall to my knees right there in the street. I bow my head. I know what she means.
I just never thought about it; I never allowed myself to.
Andrew works at a government facility. Sure, I’m sixteen and it’s legal, but they wouldn’t look too fondly on a relationship between a twenty-year-old and a sixteen-year-old. Oh God. I am disgusted with myself. I was fifteen when we met. I could have gotten Andrew into real trouble if anyone from his job found out. That’s what Scarlett meant about how bad it is. Not that I lied, but what my lie can do.
The Scarlett Experiment was just the selfish excuse. I put on the clothes and walked the walk and it gave me confidence. But I didn’t need any of it, not really.
I push up from the middle of the road and walk down the road to Nancy’s house. Before tiptoeing onto the front lawn, I glance at the street. The ghost of Andrew’s car waits for me in the street just like it did all summer. I see myself bounding onto the pavement and jumping into his arms. The fishing hook inside me widens the crack that’s opened in the center of my chest.
I step onto the lawn and walk past the house toward the backyard.
“There you are!” Scarlett says in a harsh whisper. She’s on the patio outside her bedroom. Her hissing words are nothing compared to how horrible I feel. She’d probably gotten up to practice yelling at me and saw me walking. She would never expect me to stay out all night.
I don’t stop to talk to Scarlett. I keep going toward the backyard.
How could I risk Andrew’s future? How could I do that to someone? Even last night at the party, I kept thinking about myself. I just kept pushing the truth away so I didn’t have to accept the severity of what I have