Free Between Us and the Moon by Rebecca Maizel Page A

jeté with the cleanest lines in Rhode Island. That’s what everyone says when they come to her recitals. “You have to see Scarlett’s jumps.”
    She stops just as the music finishes and her hands glide back to her sides. With her hair up in a tight bun, her posture is so elegant, like a doll. She brings her heels together in first position and uses a remote control to restart the music. Tchaikovsky begins again.
    “Five, six, seven, eight,” Scarlett counts aloud and she lifts a leg toward the sky so it’s almost parallel to her body. She places it down and flies into another leap. She lands onto the floorwithout making a sound. I can’t move like that, like my body is a ribbon curling and flying through the air. Up and down, Scarlett breezes over the wooden floor. Her body is thin under that pink leotard. “She’s so ladylike,” Nancy says of Scarlett. I just don’t know how to be graceful like that. After today’s debacle on the beach, it’s painfully obvious that grace is not my strong suit. I need to try even harder than most people to keep both feet planted on the ground.
    Scarlett lifts her hand above her head and I try to mimic it in the dark of the stairwell. I curve my wrists like I, too, am pirouetting on my tiptoes. It’s not the same. I lower my hands and examine the calluses on the side of my middle finger from writing lab reports. Scarlett’s long blonde hair and bubble gum pink toenails seem so vibrant compared to my thick wavy hair and jagged toenails.
    Scarlett spins and rises on the tips of her toes. She lifts her chin and appraises herself in the mirror. She comes back down on the flats of her feet and takes a sip of water.
    That’s what makes her irresistible to guys. That she can lift her chin, throw her head back, and drink with the boys. She can be the best dancer in the whole state and the best person to be around too.
    Except when she’s with me.
    I would never have a picture like the one of Gran and Nancy because Scarlett would never take a picture like that with me.
    She presses the music to start again. The routine is better now that she’s warmed up. Her jumps longer, her turns cleaner.
    I exhale heavily through my nose and sit in the darkness ofthe stairs. I never wanted to be a dancer, and I still don’t. I just want someone to sit here like I am right now. I want someone, for one moment, to see something special in me that has nothing to do with science. I press on the balls of my feet and inch back up the stairs, one by one until I am out the door again.
    By dinner, the rain is lightening up to a patter on the patio outside Nancy’s panoramic windows. I spear a piece of garlic broccoli.
    “Must we go to the same restaurant every year?” Nancy says.
    “I made the reservation at Lobster Pot this afternoon,” Mom says, referring to my birthday celebrations. Friday is my actual birthday but we have to make accommodations for the princess; Scarlett has dinner plans on my actual birthday that she “absolutely can’t miss.” Nancy always comes to my birthday celebrations except that she never bothers with our annual mini-golf tournament. It’s “too tiring” after a big meal, or so she says.
    Maybe she’ll give me some non-guilt-ridden cash instead of a “teen journal” with a pink pen attached by a glittered chain like she did last year, or a makeup kit like the year before that. In truth, I could use the makeup kit now for the Scarlett Experiment. Too bad I gave it to Ettie.
    “Okay, Lobster Pot again if that’s what Beanie wants,” she says.
    I do love the Lobster Pot and our mini-golf tournament, but it might be nice to go to a more upscale restaurant than the Lobster Pot. I don’t have to do the same things every year. I amtempted to bring this up, but Nancy switches gears.
    “So, as for the theme of Scarlett’s going-away party,” Nancy says, sipping a glass of water. She’s dressed in a blue suit and her hair curls on top of her head like a child’s