Free Between Us and the Moon by Rebecca Maizel

attempt at the Scarlett Experiment wasn’t a complete success, but I did employ some variables that yielded partial success!
    1.    Andrew liked the bikini.
    2.    He thought I was funny (potentially laughing at me when I flew backward in my beach chair)
    I put my pen down and reread my notes. I just pretended that I was Scarlett and wore her clothes, and it worked. I had a few embarrassing moments when I let my guard down, but repetition is the key to success. Okay, so I lied about my age too, but I don’t need to see Andrew again. It’s not like we are going to date or anything. It’s just one dumb lie. He doesn’t even have my phone number.
    I will need to find something else of Scarlett’s to wear to test out. I’ll also need an exact list of Scarlett’s behavior to choose from at any given moment. That would prevent anymore Bean moments from sneaking through when I meet someone else.
    That evening, after I finish recording my experiment results, I make sure the American flag bikini is washed and deep in Scarlett’s bag again. My skin is warm from the day in the sun, and even though I won’t talk to him again, I can’t help but peek at my phone for that name: ANDREW in big letters.
    Dark bulbous rain clouds pass over my skylights. No point in taking out the Stargazer. I can’t work on data collection ininclement weather. Even though I could work on the essay. I don’t want to work on the application or the comet right now.
    I think you should call me, Star Girl.
    Dad says Scarlett has been downstairs practicing a solo all afternoon for a Juilliard showcase. I’m not surprised she would miss out on an opportunity to go to the beach on a day like today; Scarlett is as dedicated to dance as I am to my comet. I come down to the kitchen and check to see if anyone’s hanging around. I know how much Scarlett loves Nancy’s studio. She visits during school breaks just to dance. Nancy buys her whatever she wants so Scarlett can master her routines without “any of us around,” or so she says.
    I stop at a collection of photographs that sit on a side table near the entrance to the basement. A few of these tables run against the wall next to the glass patio doors. The picture is of two women in bathing suits on the beach, their arms wrapped around each other. It’s the 1960s; I can tell from the bathing suits and bouffant hairstyles. I recognize Gran immediately. She’s on the left and her long blonde hair runs all the way down her back, like Scarlett’s. The woman on her right has straight brown hair that falls halfway down her back, too.
    That woman must be Nancy.
    Even though we’ve been coming here forever, I’ve never seen this photo before. Wow. I really look like Nancy when she was my age. That’s slightly horrifying.
    I check behind me just as classical music echoes from the open door to the basement. I slide the photo out of the frame and rest it in my hand. Nancy seems almost normal. Gran can’t bemore than sixteen. I know Nancy is three years older than Gran.
    I try to imagine that this image is of Scarlett and me in place of Gran and Nancy. I have no idea who would be who. Their whole lives were ahead of them. How could they know what their lives would be? Who knew Gran would move to California and meet Gracie? Who knew Nancy’s husband, Raymond, would die after twenty years of marriage? If they knew then what they know now, I wonder what would be different. I slide the photo into my back pocket and hide the empty frame behind some other pictures.
    I squeeze through the crack in the door to the dark basement stairwell. The carpeted stairs cushion the sound of my footsteps. I sit and scoot down a couple of stairs like I did when I was a kid. First stair, second stair, third stair . . . from here I can sit in the shadows.
    Through the air, Scarlett lifts her arms and leaps across the floor, one two three, one two three. She does this leap three times in a row, her signature move. Grand