into myself and rest my head against Andrew’s chest. He immediately brings his hand to it and strokes me lightly. We let the storm do the talking, the rain lashes the windows and the wind rattles the house.
Scarlett’s words swirl through my head.
You’re sixteen!
I grip gently onto Andrew’s forearms. I hate being sixteen.
But that’s not really true. I hate wanting to be going to MIT in the fall and knowing that there would be this whole life for me if I actually were. And this here, this moment, is just another part of that life.
There was so much more to me. I never knew. So much more than that American flag string bikini. More than a closet full of clothes that weren’t mine and a telescope pointed up to the sky and away from the earth.
I grip Andrew’s forearm even harder, not to hurt but because I fear he’ll slip away like the outgoing tide, undetected, and I’ll never feel him again.
THIRTY-TWO
ANDREW’S CHEST RISES EVENLY AND HIS BREATHING is quiet; I’ve been watching him since he drifted off. When a rim of light outlines the two windows across from the bed, I know it is at least five thirty in the morning. My arm aches from holding it in one position for so long. Andrew’s shaggy blond hair skims over his closed eyes.
I’ll move you into MIT.
I try to close my eyes and drift off. Just relax, I tell myself.
Star Girl.
I stare up at the darkened wood ceiling. The rafters make horizontal lines.
Lines make sense. Left to right, I stare at those rafters. I count the lines in the wood until I lose count.
Don’t leave. Don’t leave.
Who was he talking to? Bean? Sarah? Which one? My breath catches in my chest and I hold it. I turn on my side so my back is to Andrew. His hand cups my hip and sadness flies through me like a steel weight on a fishing line. I touch my hip, let the warmth of my fingers rest on the skin.
When Andrew made love to me, I was Bean. I was a girl who loves astronomy. Who can’t wait for the science fair at school, and who is looking forward to debate team. But I was Sarah, too. I was proud, confident, and funny. I am unafraid to dance in a crowd now and I can tell jokes to strangers without fear. I don’t know how to choose, or how to be just one or the other. I find comfort in facts, but the only fact I know as I lie here staring at the wall is that I am sixteen.
And a liar.
This isn’t about the lie I told on the beach that day. This isn’t about an experiment that made me feel better about myself. I brought Andrew into this with me. This is about who I have become—the kind of girl who would completely manipulate someone.
I have to go home. I have to walk in that door and be Bean. I exhale, but the breath is rattled.
I have to get out of this house. I am a liar.
I slide off the bed very slowly and sweep the dress from the floor. I hesitate, holding the black material to my chest. Andrew’s back muscles clench and he moves so he’s stomach down. He grips his pillow and hugs it.
He reached inside my heart last night.
I tiptoe downstairs, scrawl a note, and leave it on the table.
Last night was one of the most important nights of my life. So important, I didn’t want to wake you up. See you later.
—Sarah
I stuff the black dress into my bag. I slip the T-shirt over my head, change into my denim shorts, and try not to make a sound.
Shoes . . . shoes . . . where are they? I shove my party shoes in the bag and dig out my flip-flops.
I bend over and slip them on, just as the mattress upstairs creaks. I freeze.
Wait. Don’t move. Wait . . . silence. I sling my bag over my shoulder, tiptoe over the carpeting, and open the front door.
Without a word, I sneak out.
I had almost forgotten there was a tropical storm. When I step outside, I see that a couple of oversized branches have fallen on Andrew’s porch. They haven’t done much damage, but one cracked a flowerpot. I step over the scattered soil, off the patio, and down to the street. A few overturned trash cans litter the road.
I walk from Andrew’s street and