Between Us and the Moon - Rebecca Maizel Page 0,18
different than Tucker in every way and who would never cheat on me.
3. Make new friends who are exciting and think I’m special. If the experiment is a resounding success, I’ll be put-together, popular, and finally live the life I want.
Inside my suitcase are neat, folded shirts, pressed shorts, and accurately angled socks. I dig to the bottom and pull out the red one-piece from the beach the other day. I hold it up to the light. There are a few holes in the stomach. I groan. The translucent material could split right in two from eons in the ocean and pool. I wouldn’t even know what to buy if I went to the shops in town.
This suit is the reason. This papery, ruffled suit is why Tucker broke up with me. A big freakin’ metaphor for my whole life.
It is time for another experiment but this time, one that I can use for myself. This is a life experiment.
The Scarlett Experiment.
I want to start the Scarlett Experiment now. But I need to wait until Scarlett’s downstairs practicing. That takes at least four hours and gives me plenty of time to look through her things and prepare my experimental setup.
It takes her highness an hour to organize and get downstairs. Once classical music echoes up the stairwell, I know she’s practicing.
I make my way to the second floor and stand outside Scarlett’s bedroom. Nailed to the front of the door is a sign with Scarlett’s name scrawled in cursive over an image of a pair of ballet slippers. The sign has yellowed, but Scarlett leaves it on the door out of respect for Nancy. I place my palm on the brass knob and hold it tight so it won’t squeak. I learned that trick from Scarlett when she came home late one time. Nancy is taking a nap on the first floor on the opposite side of the house. Regardless, she has a tendency to scream my name at the top of her lungs for the smallest, most ridiculous reasons. Mom is job searching in the kitchen and Dad is at WHOI.
I hesitate at the door while it’s half open and half closed. Scarlett’s room is the one room that I am forbidden to go into unless she accompanies me. There are Scarlett’s things and Bean’s things, my things, items that for some reason, my sister never seems to want to borrow. Scarlett’s sweaters, perfumes, and makeup are so much more interesting than mine. I don’t need science to figure this out—it’s fact: Scarlett’s stuff is better.
I dip a toe into her bedroom. I slide through and step into the room.
Tiny string bikinis, short shorts, T-shirts, and patterned dresses drape over the sides of the open suitcase. In a pile by the window are four or five pairs of pointe shoes along with some thread and a needle. Scarlett sews her ribbons into her shoes when she’s breaking them in. She wants the pointe shoe to mold to her feet perfectly. When the shoes are stiff, hard, and wrapped together, she hasn’t broken those in yet.
I squat down—careful not to touch the shoes or she’ll know I was in here—and start digging through. I push some socks out of the way, some tops, leotards, and tight pants. More lycra.
A white star stares at me from the bottom of the suitcase. I pull out one long string attached to two triangular tops. It’s an American flag print string bikini. I hold it up to the light filtering through the window onto Scarlett’s floor.
Bean . . . this is the right choice. Doooo it, the tiny bikini whispers to me.
It’s very demanding.
My fingers graze the strings. The bikini cups have soft padding.
This bathing suit is what I should wear first.
There’s a full-length mirror on the back of the door. I hold the suit over my body. It might fit . . . I’ve got wider hips than Scarlett and she’s, like, two inches shorter than me, but maybe it will fit. I take off my T-shirt, letting it fall on the floor next to my feet, and cup the triangles over my breasts. I don’t think the sides of my boobs are supposed to be coming out on both sides, but it covers my nipples and that’s all that matters anyway with these kinds of suits. I take off my shorts and underwear and slip the bikini bottom over me.