a scientist and how the execution of your experiment reinforces your educational goals.
I rest my chin in my hand and tap my pen on the desk.
You watch the world.
The sunlight streams in from the skylight onto my hand and warms the skin.
I wish I had gone to the beach. I don’t have anyone to call to go with me. I just haven’t made a lot of friends here. Scarlett has. I’ve been with Dad in the labs, or the people my age that I have met over the years only stay a couple weeks at a time. Not many people come back summer after summer.
I put the pen down. Scarlett is a little like Becky. Popular, well liked, confident, and funny. Everyone is always laughing when they are around Scarlett. She knows who she is and she’s got boyfriends all the time. They don’t dump her for Becky Winthrop. She always knows exactly what to say to other people her age. I don’t. I always trip over my words and overthink everything.
Until I can figure out why Becky and Scarlett get all the guys, it’s going to eat away at me. There are people who can just talk to other people—they can socialize and it’s not hard for them, it’s no big deal.
I get up and pace.
I can study that specific behavior. There has to be a set of parameters, something concrete that both Scarlett and Becky have in common. Since I can’t study Becky, who I might throttle to death if I saw in person, I can watch my sister. Scarlett does and says specific things that make people want to be around her all the time. Just like Becky.
There has to be a direct correlation between Scarlett’s specific behavior and style to the number of people who revere her and want to be her friend. If I figure this out, maybe I’ll get Tucker to see who I am—that I’m not “watching the world.”
I put my pen down. I can wait to write the essay. If I do this before Scarlett goes to orientation in a week or so, it’ll help me figure out what Becky Winthrop does that I don’t.
I’m going to the beach. I open the bureau and slip on my red one-piece. It’s what I wore for swim lessons and it’s comfy. I’m going to get my fun in too—in a different way. I snatch my journal and slide it into my backpack. The walk to Nauset Beach is .75 miles.
“I’m not logical,” I say aloud, and when I get outside, I hike a beach chair into the crook of my arm. “And I don’t watch the world!”
FIVE
WITHIN TEN MINUTES, I’M ALMOST AT THE entrance to the beach. The beach chair keeps slipping out from under my arm and I adjust its position. Nauset Beach already has a line of cars ten deep from the tollbooth.
A group of boys in a Jeep Wrangler drive by and stop at the end of the line of cars waiting to pay and park. Sitting in the backseat is a blond guy who has his arms out resting on both of the empty seats beside him. His back is very defined. Maybe he’s a swimmer? He turns his head to me, but he’s wearing Aviator sunglasses so I can’t verify if he’s looking at me. It’s possible he’s interested in the various foliage growing on the roadside. That kind of guy would check out Scarlett, not me. I walk a bit but keep pace with the slow creep of the Jeep. He keeps glancing over and smiles.
I shoot forward, tripping over a rock. The chair flies out of my hand, my arms pinwheel, but I steady myself. The chair clatters to the ground. These dumb flip-flops. The guys made it to the tollbooth and the driver talks to the guard. The blond in the back is still laughing. He calls, “Are you okay?”
“It’s just the rock sediment!” I say and reposition the chair.
“It’s the what?” he calls back.
The car revs past the tollbooth and speeds into the lot.
Rock sediment? What the hell is wrong with me? This is why I am dumped for people like Becky—because I bring up the stinkin’ rock sediment.
When I get to the lot they’re nowhere to be seen. Good. I’ve humiliated myself enough in front of cute guys for one day.
Okay, so, if I’m observing Scarlett then I need to compile a short list of concrete observable behaviors and go from there. The world