“It’s Friday night,” he says. “Don’t you want to hang out with your friends? Ettie? Or the Mathletes?”
“We were hanging out . . . weren’t we?” I ask.
“I have plans with someone else tonight.”
I gasp and hate myself for it.
“There’s someone else?” I whisper.
He steps closer to me. I can’t say no. I don’t have the words to stop him from holding me.
Tucker runs a hand over my hair and a shiver runs down my back. He slides his hands around my waist. He squeezes me and I hate the touch of his hands.
The warmth of his body against mine is unfair. He will pull away and whatever we are now will be—an after.
Tears burn my eyes.
I will not cry. Periodic table. Recite the elements in alphabetical order. No crying.
Actinium. Aluminum. Americium. Antimony.
Okay. This is working.
Argon, arsenic, astatine.
“Remember?” he whispers. His nose sounds stuffed and he doesn’t let go. “When you were seven I tricked you into thinking that was a piece of the moon?” He gestures to the Zuckermans’ boulder on the lawn of the house across the street.
“I would have believed anything you told me,” I say with a sniff. Tucker pulls away. The heat between us threads away and dissipates, to become part of the world again.
He kisses my head and says, “I’ve got to experiment. Or I’ll stay the same.”
“Who wants to change?” I ask. We meet eyes for one split second, but my bottom lip quivers like I’m five.
He looks away, shifts his posture, and his spine slouches.
These are all expressions of guilt.
Why would he be guilty? Because he’s hurting me? Because he gave me no indication this was coming?
“So who is it? Who are you going out with tonight? Pi Naries, again?” I ask, referring to our math club.
“I’m taking a break from the Pi Naries,” he admits.
“You created the group. You went to the principal. You . . .”
It’s not worth it. Tucker keeps making excuses about needing a social life and I turn to walk back around the house. I don’t know if I can bring myself to go inside. It’s pathetic, but I’m purposefully walking away so he’ll call me back.
“You’re just really logical, Bean.” This stops me and I freeze. I hear Scarlett in my head: you need to get your head out of the stars once in a while.
I face Tucker again.
“You watch the world. I’m not even sure you live in it,” he says.
My gut stings. Tucker stands before me in a blue T-shirt and Summerhill sweatpants; he isn’t dressed in his usual Polo button-down and jeans. It’s not just the flip-flops—it’s so much more.
Last week, we were drafting my Waterman Scholarship application checklist. He’s right, two days ago I wanted him to take my bra off, but he stopped me.
“Haven’t you noticed I’ve been hanging out in the junior parking lot? Or that I’m not at every single Pi Nary meeting?”
He keeps rambling, but nothing he says is what I want to hear.
“I’m different. I am. And you haven’t even noticed.”
My bottom lip keeps quivering so I bite at it to try to make it stop—doesn’t work. I ache right beneath my ribs. I place a hand over my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he says. A sob catches in his throat; it makes his voice thick. He spins on his heel and heads down the street.
His apology is his good-bye.
The moon backlights him as he passes by the Zuckermans’ house and their idiotic oversized boulder.
The light flickers from a room upstairs in our house. Scarlett’s angular features watch me from her bedroom window. Her face in the moonlight is porcelain. She drops out of the window frame, leaving behind a view of the blue comforter on her bed.
You watch the world.
I try counting elements, but nothing seems to work. I make it all the way to the middle of the alphabet twice, but my face is still wet and puffy.
Neon. Neptunium. Nickel. Nobelium.
A breeze moves the branches above my head. Somewhere on the street, a baseball game on TV echoes through an open window. Yet, still, my uneven breath is the loudest sound around me.
The streetlight in front of our house spotlights the ground—a crack zigzags up and down right on the pavement where Tucker had been standing. In fact, its shape mimics Cassiopeia, a constellation that is supposed to look like a queen chained to her throne.
The garage light flickers on, and I make sure to keep my back to the house. I wipe my cheeks and smooth