Between Us and the Moon by Rebecca Maizel Read Free Book Online Page B

I can’t. I’m in the shadow of the side of the building when I stop and peek around the corner. Andrew has joined the group. He looks back once more in my direction, and under the streetlights, he is tanned, tall, and his structured features are proportionate. He’s hot.
    “What are you looking for?” Scarlett asks Andrew.
    “I was talking to this girl. But she’s gone,” he says. “She ran off.”
    “Okay—weirdo,” Scarlett says with her same derisive laugh. They move as a group down the street and I don’t want to follow. Not anymore. I’m a weirdo who runs off when handsome guys talk to me because I have no idea how to interact with people. Tonight’s attempt at observation and conversation was a complete bust. I head for home to check the comet’s coordinates on Nancy’s beach. Where it’s safe. Where I know who to be.
    Where I can be alone.

SIX

    “LETTERS OF RECOMMENDATION?” DAD SAYS TO me a couple days later. He loves to do this when he hasn’t checked in on my application in a while. The marine biologist in him can’t help it.
    “Completed two months ago.”
    “Transcript?”
    I lift the blue folder I have designated for the Waterman Scholarship.
    “Application?”
    “Just need to fill out the general info.”
    “Registration forms?”
    “Completed but not sent. They’re due on my birthday, Friday.”
    “Essay?”
    “Ugh,” I reply. “You know I’m not a creative writer.”
    Dad gently holds his hands over mine so I can’t fidget.
    “You’ll do it,” he says. Dad’s hands are warm and big. I think about Scarlett’s laugh on the beach and the girls running in a linked chain of hands out the door of the Seahorse. I can’t fake enthusiasm. I’m fine with that usually—but maybe there’s something wrong with me? A legitimate reason Tucker prefers Becky, and I haven’t bothered to make tons of friends here every year.
    “Do you—do you think I’m merely logical and devoid of emotion? You know, a weirdo?” I ask.
    Dad frowns at the table. As I verified with Tucker, avoidance of eye contact means guilt or omission of truth.
    “No, Beanie,” he says, making sure to look me in the eye, which is assuring. “Who said you were devoid of emotion?”
    “No one. Just curious.”
    “Was it that idiot? Tucker?”
    I meet Dad’s eyes and he has his “serious face” on, which I don’t see very often. I sit up straight in my chair.
    “Maybe I am,” I say, not wanting to admit that yes, Tucker is absolutely the reason for this conversation. “Scientists need to be objective about their work and honest with themselves about the validity and success of their hypotheses. But maybe I need to be devoid of emotion to be good at what I do. Maybe to excel you need to be callused so your emotions don’t get confused with the results.”
    Dad squeezes my hand. He doesn’t touch me that often or hug me too much so I don’t move away.
    “I wish your gran was here.” He takes a deep breath. “Listen to me; you are loving and smart. And being smart tends to mean you stand on the outside, observing.”
    “Like watching the world?”
    “Maybe.”
    I groan. This is not what I want to hear.
    “You’re just different than most kids your age. You have more important things on your mind than boys and clothes.”
    “Yeah . . . ,” I say, but the last part is untrue. I do care about boys and clothes. Just not to the same extent as my sister.
    “Gerard!” Nancy calls.
    “I don’t want science to be all of who I am,” I say quietly. “I want to be more like Scarlett sometimes,” I add, but I don’t think Dad hears because Nancy squawks again:
    “Gerard!”
    I want to be able to care about clothes and boys, but be good at science, too. I want to be both.
    “You’ll find your essay,” Dad says, and his hand lifts from mine. He winks at me before getting up to cater to Nancy.
    I grab my application checklist. Loneliness blows. Scarlett wasn’t alone last night. You need a