Between Us and the Moon - Rebecca Maizel Page 0,93

of Scarlett’s suitcases from the revolving carriage and Mom takes the others. Scarlett gabs on and on about skyscrapers, elevators going up one hundred flights, Juilliard, and the smell of the dorm in summer.

In the car, Scarlett finally takes a break from her stories to turn around in her seat.

“So what did you do while I was gone?” she asks.

“Nothing much. Tracked the Comet Jolie.” I am about to mention that I think she’d like some of the necklaces I’ve seen in town and that maybe we could go together to pick one out. Scarlett brings her hands up to her mouth like a chipmunk and sticks her teeth out.

“Did you get your acclimation and detention?” she says in a funny, deep voice. Is that supposed to be me? She laughs at herself and spins back around.

“Right ascension and declination,” I mutter.

“Come on, Scarlett,” Mom says as we get back on route 6 heading toward Orleans.

“What? Beanie is our eager beaver.”

“That’s enough.”

“God, Mom. We’ve only had to hear about her tracking that damn comet for a year. If I don’t ask, she’ll die. It’s her whole life.”

I lean forward, heat rushes through my cheeks.

“Did you gain weight?” I ask. I know it’s a nasty thing to do. I know it’s the one thing in this house we do not say.

“No, she didn’t, Bean,” Mom says, and her eyes are daggers in the rearview.

“No, I’m pretty sure she did,” I say.

“You’re a bitch,” Scarlett says and twists to me. “I have a trainer at Juilliard. In fact, I weigh exactly a quarter pound less than when I left.” She spins to face forward so all I can see is her tight bun wrapped on the top of her head.

The word “bitch” hangs in the air and I sit back in the seat. Scarlett’s never called me a bitch before. I’ve never called her fat before. She doesn’t have an eating disorder—yet, as the dance teachers say. One time Mom and Dad caught her with a bottle of diet pills and made her go to a psychiatrist.

“You shouldn’t call your sister a bitch,” Mom says to Scarlett in a low tone once we get back to Nancy’s. “I don’t ever want to hear that from you again.”

“Did you hear what she said to me?” Scarlett asks.

“Well, you’re not the easiest person to talk to sometimes, dear.”

I can’t decide if this is progress or not.

The next morning, the morning of the party, I stand in the backyard.

A huge tent has been put up and takes over almost all of the lawn. Though in true Nancy fashion, she’s positioned it so there is still a fantastic view of the ocean.

The band has come with piles of tarp in case it rains. The party planner that Nancy hired screams at a higher decibel than Nancy, if that’s even possible. She is currently hollering into her cell phone while checking uniform sizes.

Beneath the massive pavilion are piles upon piles of tarp in case the rain starts early. Glassware has been delivered too and it’s sitting there in plastic containers.

I’m not staying to help.

I am telling Andrew today. If he knows I am Scarlett’s sister, I can contain it before the party. He probably won’t find out my real age by nightfall. I need to go to the docks before Andrew goes out on the water.

I walk back in the house to grab my cell but stop at the patio doorway. At the kitchen table, Mom, Scarlett, Dad, and Nancy sit together, laughing and smiling at Scarlett’s photographs from her month in New York. Some new costumes hang from the countertop, they glitter and sparkle under the track lighting. They’re a tapestry of color compared to the whiteness of everything else. Mom holds on to Scarlett’s arm.

“Look at that! Look at that grand jeté!” she says, showing Dad a photo, and he raises his eyebrows. He isn’t distracted at all.

I’m wearing a chocolate-colored peasant blouse I picked out on Main Street with khaki shorts, and some sandals with a blue gem on the toes. The blue is a great detail that compliments my tan.

But they don’t notice.

I turn right around and walk down the wooden steps of the patio and to the backyard. I keep walking, past the garage and the hidden shingle with Scarlett’s and my name scrawled in the wood. I walk down the shell drive to the street—to tell Andrew about Scarlett.

When I get down to the docks it smells like my first date