some naan!” With a mouthful of Indian bread Gran says, “Beanie, I love you more than my luggage. Tucker’s going through some alien boy phase and while he’s E.T. Tucker you remember what you love and what you have to do.”
She’s already making me feel better. Gran’s right. Right. I don’t care about Tucker. I don’t.
I sigh.
Because I do.
“Go to the beach, go to Woods Hole with your dad and hang out with the Albert.”
“Alvin.”
“Exactly,” she says, referring to a deep-sea submersible. It’s a submarine that’s been as deep as the Titanic. “Go see that hunk of metal, kiss on it, and you’ll be good as new.”
“You know why I love the Alvin, Gran.”
Gran recites as though she’s a robot reading from a textbook, “The Alvin has the capacity to see life-forms at the bottom of the ocean that would be analogous to life-forms on other planets.”
I laugh though tears still linger on my cheek. I hate crying.
“I love you, Gran.”
“Aw, kid. I love you. Don’t let Tucker get you down. Do what you love. And don’t let my sister make you wear anything ridiculous or force you to go to any Daughters of the American Revolution parties.”
Her sister is Aunt Nancy.
“You know she will,” I say. “Or else she’ll threaten to stop paying my tuition.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Gran explains the purpose of the silent meditation retreat that she and Gracie are going to at the end of the week. The retreat is to remind her to stay true to herself as long as she can “cut away all the excess noise of culture.”
“Enjoy the tikka and your silence. Tell Gracie I love her,” I say.
Gran offers me some extra money for the summer, though I say no. She doesn’t have enough to send to both Scarlett and me. I know she’ll send me more than she has for my birthday. I always tell her to spend her money on a plane ticket instead. By the time we hang up, I exhale and sit back into the seat. I do feel better. Even if it’s only for a little while, even I know Gran’s spell is only temporary.
Because I am clearly a sick person, I step out to the front of the house and sit on the edge where the lawn and street meet. Sometimes, after Tucker goes out with some of the Pi Naries to the Pizza Palace, he comes over. I do work out here on the curb until I see his lanky frame at the end of the street. He sits down, and we talk. It’s that easy.
In the fantasy version of my life, he comes to meet me for our tradition. He walks down the street in his familiar Converse and jeans. He has his hands in his pockets and takes those long familiar strides toward me.
He sits down and looks over my coordinates.
“They’ve been consistent for eleven months,” I say out loud to the fictional Tucker. “The optics on the Stargazer are hi-res, antiglare,” I add.
“I knew you could do it, Sarah,” Fantasy Tucker tells me. “Did I mention I’m falling in love with you?”
I blink away the fantasy to the empty street.
Little moths flicker in circles in and out of the streetlight. He is not coming. He is never coming. He won’t buy the chips and I won’t hear the debate team gossip.
A car zooms down the street and stops before the house. My head snaps up—Trish’s blue Fiat. Scarlett gets out and her ballet flats walk up the grass to me. Her pink jeans crop at the ankles and she wears a tiny gold anklet. She stops and sits down next to me. I stare out across the street to the Zuckermans’ front lawn.
“Trish told me what happened. I called your cell, like, nine times.”
“How long?” I ask, and my cheeks warm. I will not cry anymore. “How long did you know?” The strain from not crying sends a throb through my neck. I finally meet my sister’s blue eyes. Periwinkle, Gran always says.
Her voice drops when she speaks and she picks at the grass, “I didn’t know. I wish I did.”
I am not sure if I believe Scarlett. Trish had to know, and she tells Scarlett everything. Trish also knows everything about everyone in school, so why wouldn’t she know that her own brother was going to break up with me?
“You need to brush it off,” Scarlett says.
“Brush off my best friend and boyfriend breaking up with me?”
“Yeah. You’ve gotta get a