Between Us and the Moon - Rebecca Maizel Page 0,79
to ask him if he is aware it is eighty degrees out. I don’t.
“What’s your last name?” Tate asks.
In this entire time, this entire summer, not one of his friends has asked.
“Levin,” I say, panicked that I didn’t have time to think of a lie. I haven’t mentioned my last name to Andrew since we first met.
“Levin?” Tate says and cocks his head. I’m waiting for it. I can so easily imagine him saying, “Scarlett’s last name is Levin.” Or that he’ll tell me he already knows a Levin, that name is taken and I should know better. Or something.
“Levin needs to know the handshake. If you’re about to dune ride with us on the beach, you must know it.”
“Then I must know it,” I say and widen my stance like I’m about to run a football play. I’m ready.
We shake, we catch fingers, we snap, and he does some weird thing where he shakes his fingers around. I try to mimic it but fail. We try again. “See,” he says with a big bear laugh again, “you catch on.”
I’m about to ask him to do it again—maybe I should be writing down symbols? For practice? A helmet plops down over my head.
“Come on, Levin.” Andrew’s gentle humor makes my last name sound less like a swear, and I immediately wonder what Scarlett’s nickname is with this same group.
“I think I prefer Star Girl,” I say from beneath the hot helmet.
“That one’s ours,” Andrew says and points at a blue buggy with big black wheels. Andrew gets on the bike first then pulls his helmet on, and I climb on behind him.
“It’s gonna be really bumpy,” he says, turning his head so I see his profile. “Hold on tight.” And I do. Our engine revs. One by one, like little gunshots, so do the rest of the buggies. The smoke billows from engines and—boom—Curtis is the first to dart off the parking lot asphalt and onto the trails of dunes. We climb slowly up huge sand hills and I dig my helmet into Andrew’s back. The whole group yelps, hoots, and hollers as we pop up and down the rolling dunes. Ahead, Curtis revs his engine and his buggy jumps in the air.
The force of the bike is too much over these hills. It’s not like a regular bike, there’s high velocity. There’s force and speed. Why didn’t I listen more during the aerodynamics lecture? Oh boy. We could go down hard! There’s no cushioning.
“Sarah!” Andrew yells over our motor. “Look up! You’re missing it.”
I raise my head higher. In the distance, the great ocean is sparkling away.
I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss anything else again.
We race past hills of dunes and tall, green beach grass. The hot summer sunset burns my face. I remember to keep my mouth closed.
The buggies, like toy cars, jump over the last few rolling hills. Whoops and yells sound out around me. Andrew yells too as we jump over a big hill. We hit the sand almost in unison. Curtis rides next to Andrew and me. Through the opening in his helmet, a black ring circles his right eye. His eyes linger on me and maybe—or maybe I just want this to be true—they say they’re sorry. He pulls ahead just as we crest another hill and I scream from the loop my stomach is doing when we come back to earth.
More yells and more screams of happiness echo over the dunes as we ride. I love this. All of us, rising and falling, again and again—together.
A couple of hours later, I’m sitting cross-legged watching a bonfire crackling away and I haven’t even thought to check my cell. I hold the display up to the firelight: Of course, no one’s called. I tuck it back in my pocket. Andrew and a couple of other people have driven the buggies back to the parking lot while the rest of us stay on the beach. He’s put Shelby on Curtis “drunk-ass” watch while he’s gone. Curtis keeps away from me; I think he remembers more than he lets on. I sit with my beer in my hands as the sun descends over the beach. Shelby sits down next to me.
“You’re eighteen,” she says, but it sounds like a question.
My stomach swoops like I’m back on the buggies again.
I nod—it’s better than saying it out loud. Out loud makes it more like a blatant lie.