Between Us and the Moon - Rebecca Maizel Page 0,86
by a Mack truck. I think I got about three hours max. I kept waiting for my phone to beep.
I kept waiting for Andrew to respond to my text messages:
ME: Wow. Overdramatic much? I am really sorry for this afternoon.
And the next one:
ME: I had no right to blow up at you like that. Your business is your business and I should keep my big mouth shut.
And the last:
ME: I’m really sorry. I was actually mad about something else. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.
In an effort to do something that wasn’t completely sabotaging my relationships, I distracted myself from 5 a.m. to 6 a.m. by double-checking the Waterman Scholarship application. I somehow managed to finish proofreading the fifteen pages even though my headache was slamming against my brain. I still need to write that damn essay.
Today is not that day.
“Don’t feel well?” Mom asks and hands me a couple of Tylenol.
“Not really,” I say, after swallowing the pills. I slide on some sunglasses and head to the stairs. It’s dark there and I can be silent in my room.
“Were you out last night?” she asks, turning to me from loading the dishwasher.
“You couldn’t tell?” I ask and back toward the stairwell.
“You’re so quiet!” she says.
“I can be loud.”
“Beanie . . . ,” she says and shakes her head.
When Scarlett goes out on weekends Mom waits at the kitchen table until she comes home.
I get upstairs and collapse on my bed. I check my phone—I only have one message, and it’s Claudia responding to me about going shopping for some clothes. I know I’ll need some of my own once Scarlett comes home.
CLAUDIA: Stuck with family today. Tomorrow?
ME: Definitely.
After a quick nap, I can move my head again without a knife digging into the back of my eyeballs. I gather my beach things to head to Nauset alone.
I am about to sling my bag over my shoulder when my phone rings.
I nearly knock all of my Waterman papers off the bed trying to get to it.
“Hello?” I say as casually as I possibly can. I think the decibel of my voice went up too high and I clear my throat. My head throbs and I bring my hand to my forehead.
“Bean.”
I rip off my sunglasses, stand up straight, and double check the caller ID just to make sure. I sit back slowly into the chair.
Tucker.
“Bean?” His familiar voice echoes through my phone. Tucker’s voice isn’t higher than Andrew’s, it’s just . . . different. Like it isn’t totally formed yet. Like it’ll be deeper in five years.
“I know you hate me,” he says. He’s probably sliding his glasses closer to his face.
“I don’t hate you,” I say, and I’m surprised it’s true.
Silence.
“You must be wondering why I’m calling.”
“Yes,” I say, and I am wondering. “But since quitting the Pi Naries in June, you must be swimming with free time.”
He sighs and says, “Can we have a normal conversation?”
“Go for it, Tuck.”
“Trish is excited about your sister’s party. My mom’s been trying on dresses for weeks.”
Ah. The party. I guess I get to finally find out if His Highness is coming.
“Everyone gets to see the famous Nancy house,” I say, just to get the conversation to the point.
“Trish went to visit Scarlett in New York.”
“Woop-de-doo.”
“You don’t sound excited,” Tucker says.
“I’m sorry. I guess I can’t have a normal conversation with you. Let’s just cut to the chase. You coming or not?”
“Would you want to go if you were me?”
I don’t answer this because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. That no, I wouldn’t ever want to go to an Aunt Nancy party as long as I lived?
“My mom is kind of making me.”
He waits a few seconds before adding, “I know Ettie told you about Becky and me. We’re still together.”
“Good for you,” I say. “Really, that’s fantastic. Can’t wait to see you guys at school. Oh and p.s.? I have a boyfriend,” I blurt out and hit myself on the forehead. My stomach lurches and my headache radiates again.
“That’s cool,” Tucker replies, but his tone betrays him and I am victorious. Because I know it bothers him. VIC.TOR.IOUS. More silence.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“You’ll meet him on the sixth,” I say and hang up without saying good-bye.
In the silence that follows, the computer screen stares at me—it hates me. It mocks me with the question I’ve been avoiding for weeks. I am not going to pull off the party without getting caught.