Here she comes, still catching her breath, shaking the rain from her wheat-colored hair.

A slender girl in jeans and a tan sweatshirt. No scarf, no jewelry, very little makeup. Her wish is to be transparent, to move about in the world without ever being seen.

But Frankie’s late, so everyone looks up as she enters Science class. She glances nervously at the wall clock—five past one – she made it back just before the bell – and hooks her backpack on her chair before sliding into her seat. She tries to ignore the whispers. There are other things she needs to do, to think about. Important things. She wonders if Mr. Tibbetts fixed the leaky pipes under the bathroom sink. And she forgot to make a grocery list. But—she’s pretty sure there’s still a half-loaf of oatmeal bread and some oyster stew, so she can make that for dinner. Gran loves oyster stew. Maybe she will have a little more appetite tonight.

And wait -- it’s Friday, right? – that means the hospice nurse won’t stop by, so Frankie has a valid reason to skip her guidance counselor appointment and head home again right after school.

Besides, she doesn’t want to talk to Mrs. Heath anyway. She keeps bringing up unpleasant subjects.

And Gran will be so happy to see her. Some days she doesn’t quite seem to know who Frankie is, but she’s always so pleased to have company. A tiny little thing, Gran, a collection of rattling bones in a cornflower robe; a grinning ancient ruin, thank you for calling on me, had I known I would have gotten dressed. Gran never gets angry, or combative – not that she ever did, really, not that Frankie can recall -- and from everything Frankie has heard, this is a blessing, and she is thankful for it. I would have served us tea, dear, with a slice of blueberry pie.

Their teacher fumbles with his laptop, trying to start a video. He is a big man, hands like oven mitts, awkward with technology. He accidentally presses a wrong key, and they watch a black dog racing around a kitchen island with a diaper in its mouth. A bare-bottomed, arm-flailing toddler follows, screeching with delight.

“Whoops.”

“Who’s that, Mr. Wooly?”

“My little granddaughter,” he says, embarrassed. His sausage fingers push more keys and they watch his family gathered at a table on a pool patio. Colorful balloons tied to every chair. The little girl is maybe a year older, blowing out candles. Exasperated, Mr. Wooly reluctantly signals to Dean Conley, who is good at everything, who volunteers for everything, who swaggers to the front of the room, offering a little bow to exaggerated whistles and catcalls.

Frankie hates that her heart hammers every time she looks at him.

“It’s the one marked O.”

“As in…orgasm!”

“No, Dean. Oumuamua.”

Dean does a pelvic grind as he repeats, “OH…Mooahh Mooahh! Is that what you Boomers call it these days,” as the class screams with laughter, Dean bends forward, pointing at the screen, feigning a shocked expression.

“Holy crap, look at all the porn you got on here!”

Wooly is aghast. His jowls shaking, he actually squints at the screen. Frankie feels his deep embarrassment pulsating in her throat, in her heart, like physical pain.

“There’s no porn!”

“I’m just messing with yah.” Dean gives him a soft little punch on the shoulder. He artfully presses a key and Mr. Wooly turns his indignant, scarlet face to the projection screen.

The class goes quiet as they watch a huge, rather flat, somewhat cigar-shaped object speeding through the solar system.

“Meet Oumuamua.”

“It looks like an old spaceship.”

“Or an alien probe.”

“It’s a comet!”

Mr. Wooly nods at all their comments. “You’re watching a simulation. We don’t know what it was, definitively. There’s no consensus. Some scientists postulated it could be a comet, but it had no tail.”

“An asteroid, then?” “Perhaps. But it was traveling much faster than an asteroid. And it was ten times brighter. It seemed to be tumbling through space.”

“How do they know what it looked like?

“Because of its unusual rotation and the way it reflected sunlight, we were able to calculate its elongated shape.”

“It was shiny, then! Like a spaceship!”

“Possibly. It did display some unusual non-gravitational acceleration. But honestly, we don’t know what it was, where it originated from, or where it is headed. We just don’t have enough data. But the name – Oumuamua – translated from Hawaiian means, “messenger from afar arriving first.”

“Can we track it?”

“It’s already left our solar system, far beyond the reach of our telescopes. But--whatever it was, it was the first interstellar object ever to be discovered. And it could have been hurtling through space for millions of years.”

How tired it must be, traveling like that for so long. Frankie is still thinking about Oumuamua almost an hour later, during English class. She wants to write down her thoughts about it. She wonders if it is lonely in its travels. A messenger from afar arriving first. Does that mean more will follow? And…what was the message?

Vaguely, she hears someone speak her name from far away and it pulls her into the present. Frankie is fond of her name; it has four balanced syllables, it has some heft to it, those sturdy “k” sounds; she thinks Frankie Becker might look cool as a byline if she ever finds the time to write. There are lots of stories in her head, incredibly detailed little dramas that play themselves out in her imagination. Some of them she writes down, scribbled onto the backs of menus and envelopes and kept in her nightstand drawer. This is where she also keeps her mother’s yearbook, Samoset Harbor High School, Class of 1991, that she stole from the library last year. She often studies Faith’s portrait, and holds it up to the mirror to measure their resemblance: the same thin smile, pale eyes, beige hair. And the caption beneath the photo: We’re all just passing through.

This week’s assignment was to write a review of a recently released movie. Frankie hasn’t seen any movies in quite a while. No time to watch television, and she doesn’t have an iPad. She does her homework on Mr. Tibbetts’ computer, and the only phone she has is Gran’s flip. So instead, she wrote a review of The Second Life of Persephone Bergstrom. A movie she knows intimately, an “unsettling, coming-of-age drama set in Down East Maine.” The lead character, a highly sensitive, shy teen named Paulina, has such bell-clear memories of her past life as Persephone that she stows away on a transatlantic cruise ship to search for her previous birth mother.

Frankie’s teacher, Mr. Mello, is so taken by the review that he reads it to the class.

“This is good. I haven’t heard of this movie, but I definitely want to see it. How about it, class, any takers?”

“I’ll go see it if you pay me,” grunts Dean Conley, and of course, everyone laughs. Frankie feels her own lips stretching hideously across her teeth, her armpits growing damp. She took a shower this morning, but it didn’t make her clean. She is ugly, disgusting, a stupid fake. Being equally praised and ridiculed for her stupidity.

“But--didn’t you hear? How Frankie skillfully framed the story? Without giving too much of it away? How she described the film’s protagonist, Paulina/Persephone, as someone who, quote, ‘embodies the aching vulnerability of youth as she seeks a sense of belonging in an existential world.’ Frankie -- you deftly captured the thematic element of the film. Well done.”

A drumbeat thunders in her chest. She hopes her classmates won’t see her overheated face, but she feels their stares. If only he had said that to her privately, after class. She hates being singled out. Even by Mr. Mello, whom she really likes, whose name sounds deliciously creamy, like mint ice cream, even though he is, in fact, quite the opposite: a face pitted with acne scars, a scratchy voice. Breath like rusted coins. And certainly not anywhere near fat, his clothes hang loose and wrinkled from his lanky frame. He has long, bony fingers with chewed nails. Slender wrists. He is caught in that in-between place of not-old and not-young. Frankie likes to study the craggy coastline of his face.

And his eyes – a turmoiled sea. She loves his eyes.

Amanda Gomes slips her iPhone from her pink leather handbag and thumbs a few strokes. The bag matches the pink highlights in her hair. Her teal eyeshadow matches her crystal phone case, which matches her dipped manicure. She shakes her head dramatically. “Not streaming on Netflix or Hulu,” she says accusingly, “and I can’t even find it on IMDB.”

A few snickers. Frankie can feel the rage behind Amanda’s smirk, like an angry dog snapping its jaws near her neck, and turns her head away.

Mr. Mello studies Frankie for a moment: in his eyes, a rolling wave rises and then breaks against a cliff. “Ah. An independent arthouse film,” he says, popping his right palm to his forehead, “I should have known. A rare gem like this will only showcase in the elite festivals.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts, “to an audience of one.”

When the class ends, Frankie notices Mr. Mello pretending to be busy, shuffling his paperwork. He glances up a couple of times, above the rushing heads, to see if she is still in the room. Frankie pulls on her backpack and shyly approaches his desk.

“It’s very clever, your…movie. Have you finished it?”

“Almost,” Frankie admits, eyes downcast.

There it is again, that subtext. Do you know what comes next? It seems that everyone is asking it lately. Frankie isn’t sure how to answer. There are so many viable endings, an endless array of them, all existing in her mind like tiny twinkling stars.

“I’d like to read it, whenever you’re ready to share.” He pauses, then, “Do you…desire to write, Frankie?”

“Um, sure,” she says, trying for casual, feeling the flush returning to her cheeks.

“I mean, I’d like to be a writer…someday.” As she glances up, Mr. Mello holds her gaze. Frankie floats there, suspended, in those glistening pools of dark blue.

“Well, take it from me, try not to let life get in the way.” He huffs out a laugh. “Because it does. And whatever you do, don’t listen to…the fray.” He gestures at the empty room. “What do they know about truth and beauty? And what really matters in life? What could they possibly know? Not much. Not much at all.” He leans closer and continues, his tone conspiratorial, “It’s not their fault, really, you can’t blame them, they just aren’t capable. But you. You know. You feel. It’s a rare thing.”

As he bends to her, a black forelock drapes across his creased forehead. “I just…I mean, I want you to know,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, his lips almost touching her left ear, “…that you are better than the whole lot of them.”

Frankie shrinks back. His words of praise have unzipped her body and peeled back layers of her skin. His thoughts push their way inside.

I am your friend, you know this to be true, let me in, let me in.

But it’s not fair, it’s not right, this unexpected intimacy, she didn’t ask for it, it frightens her, this tickle of shame. She can feel his thoughts reaching for her spine. We are one. I know you. Do you…desire?

“No!” Frankie cinches her arms around her waist, tight as a belt, and races from the classroom, and out of the school. I’m not special, not special. Mr. Mello, whom she trusted, who was important to her…she tries to steady her breath…it is like pulling herself out of a hole, wresting away from him. But what did he do that was wrong? Frankie isn’t sure. She can hear the lapping waves of Gran’s voice, there you go again, Frankie, making way too much of little things.

She slows her pace and starts to count. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…fifty-six, fifty-seven…two hundred twenty-seven, two hundred twenty-eight. The frost is almost completely out of the ground now; her feet make a steady squishing sound.

Two blocks from school, and she already feels the rhythm erasing her anxiety.

By the time she reaches five hundred steps, she feels safe again.

She breathes in the briny scent, the view of the harbor, the chugging of the lobster boats. Some of the boats that left before sunrise are already back; gulls swoop in for discarded bait. Frankie picks out at least two Great Black-backed gulls, the largest gulls found in Maine and the most majestic, in her opinion. She watches as they bully the other gulls for food. She wishes she had scraps to toss into the swirling water. Instead, she flings them a few random words that come to her just now: Protuberant. Excrement. Sapient.

It’s so peaceful here; Frankie can’t imagine ever living anywhere else. Samoset Harbor, a working fishing village, a scenic two-hour drive north from Portland. She grew up here, since she was a toddler, not quite a native, but almost. She doesn’t remember anything about her life from before, only what Gran has told her.

In a trinket shop in Ann Arbor, I found a dusty postcard of the sea crashing against cliffs, this magical place on the Maine coast. I’d never been there. I wanted to get far away from him to start a new life. Him: her married lover, a tenured professor, who she never told about the pregnancy. In fact, Frankie knows scant few details about her mother: She was a solemn child, Faith, unknowable, her face always silhouetted against the sky, always dreaming of stars. Faith struggled with depression and drug addiction, and then, at eighteen, ran away to Latin America to find herself. I wasn’t a good enough mother, Frankie, I know it. I resented having an imperfect, restless child. I expected motherhood to be easy. I could do everything else so well, I could control all the other parts of my life, everything but Faith. I didn’t focus on her enough. I was selfish, I know that now. And she was lost to me.

Gran took several leaves of absence from teaching to travel to Argentina to search for Faith–but to no avail. During the last trip, Gran’s house caught fire; it burned everything she owned. Nothing remained of Faith, not a single shred of clothing, not one photo.

After the fire, Gran hired a private investigator to try to find her daughter, draining her life savings in the process.

But no one ever heard from Faith again.

Until, a dozen years later, a call from out of the blue--from the American Embassy in Buenos Aires. Faith had been found, dead -- a tragic overdose -- her three-year-old daughter left outside the embassy, with a note pinned to her jumper: My name is Francia. Please contact my grandmother, Ida Becker, in Samoset Harbor, Maine.

And so, nearing seventy, and newly diagnosed with heart disease, Gran retired from teaching to bury her only child and begin raising a toddler.

They live above Tibbetts Oyster Barn, in a snug apartment, a single bedroom and bath, a kitchen/living room combo, and a sliding glass door that leads to a small deck with an expansive harbor view. It’s the only home Frankie has ever known. It’s comfortable, and safe, and convenient, too, since they don’t own a car and Frankie’s still too young to drive. She works at Tibbetts three nights a week, and most weekends, as a busser and dishwasher, and Mr. Tibbetts always lets Frankie leave her shift a couple of times to go check on Gran.

Gran has always seemed old, but Frankie sees the accelerating weight loss, the breathlessness, the cognitive decline. Gran says she only forgets what she doesn’t need to remember. But it doesn’t matter. They still make it work. Despite the regular attempts by Mrs. Heath to deem it otherwise. You have to start thinking about what comes next, Frankie. What happens…after. Frankie can always plan the next chapter of one of her stories. But in her own life, there is just the steady metronome of routine, the intent focus on what needs to be done, now, in the moment. Anything beyond that is too scary to contemplate.

The word “hospice” in itself isn’t threatening. Frankie knows the etymology of the word is hospitum, a Latin word meaning “a place of lodging.” A place of comfort. A respite for weary travelers just passing through, like Oumuamua. The image is appealing, really, it is like the feeling of snuggling into warm bed covers after a long, exhausting day.

“We’re a good team, aren’t we, dear?”

“Always.” Frankie makes check marks on the medication chart and counts the pills in the bottles again. There’s Bisoprolol to lower blood pressure, Benazepril to open blood vessels, and Lasix to reduce water retention. Frankie spoons brightly-colored pills into applesauce and Gran dutifully opens her mouth.

Thick fog rolls into the harbor. Gran loves fog. She’s lucid tonight; Frankie wonders if there is some kind of chemical reaction in the atmosphere that triggers Gran’s clearer state of mind. Or maybe it’s the music. Devon’s Ride is playing tonight. Their New England style of upbeat, Celtic folk-rock is very popular with the locals. Even so, Frankie counted four shiny black cars in the crowded parking lot, all with New York license plates.

The noise is so loud, the floor is shaking. Gran moves her toes in sync with the beat. Her chair faces the sliding glass door.

“Fog comes…on little cat feet,” Gran says, tapping her toes as she quotes her favorite poet, Carl Sandburg.

“Yeah, but it’s not sitting on its haunches,” Frankie points out the window. “It’s feeling frisky tonight.”

“That means the wind will pick up.” Gran focuses on the sliding glass door. “My, it’s warm, don’t you think, Faith? Warm for late March.”

“It’s April, Gran. April tenth. And I’m Frankie.”

Gran winces, presses a hand to her heart.

“You okay?”

Gran nods.

“Dizzy?” Frankie is on high alert, taking Gran’s pulse, observing her breath. It seems regular. And her pulse is steady. Good. Frankie goes to the medicine cabinet and finds the antacid. Heartburn isn’t unusual for Gran, but it seems to be more frequent. She makes a mental note to tell Gran’s doctor about it. Gran takes the two pink tablets and chews them.

“Better?”

Gran nods.

“Try to burp.”

Gran takes a breath and holds it, puffs out her cheeks. After a moment, she pushes out a soft belch and a mischievous smile.

“Want me to open the window a bit so you can smell the sea?”

Gran claps her hands together, jubilant. “Yes! How wonderful!”

“I’m heading down now. But I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be right here, listening.”

Frankie feels guilty as she busses tables. The crowd is having so much fun, and poor Gran is stuck upstairs in her chair, as usual, staring at heavy fog through glass. No one has come to visit her in a long time, except for the hospice people. Mr. Tibbetts used to stop by often, but it seems like he’s been avoiding them lately.

Maneuvering a heavy tray down the crowded hallway, Frankie collides with warm skin and rippling muscle --“Whoa! Sorry, Frankie—” as her tray tilts and the contents slide to the floor. It’s Dean Conley. He stoops to pick up his phone and glances at a text. And then he helps Frankie collect the dishes. He looks at her with his full attention, smiling, his eyes a clearing sky! He’s like a totally different person, an imposter auditioning in Dean’s body. His hair is so clean, too. It shines light brown and frames his face. His features are open, handsome. And his shoulders are so broad! She has never been this close to him; he smells nice, like spiced chai.

Dean helps Frankie lift the tray. She wants to speak to him, to make some small talk, it doesn’t matter what. Say anything! But -- just as she raises her voice above the music, audio feedback screeches from the sound system.

Frankie almost drops the tray again.

“You okay, kid?”

A residual whine still vibrating in her ears, a cloying scent of aftershave assaulting her nose, Frankie blinks to see it’s not Dean, it’s some other man, a looming stranger, touching her arm solicitously. Tall, with close-set, probing eyes; an aquiline nose, angular face. Like a bold seagull about to peck at food. He carries himself like someone with money. Someone accustomed to getting his way.

A stylish, dark-lashed woman presses in – Trev! – and shakes his hand. Trev pushes out his chest; he makes a sweeping gesture, like he’s showing off the place. The woman is so attractive, the perspiration on her face like a film of silk. I never doubted you! Who are these people, friends of Mr. Tibbetts? She has never seen them before. They’re from away, certainly. New Yorkers. Celebrating, but what? The view?

With growing unease, Frankie takes a step back, glancing about for Dean.

And there he is -- already at the exit, head bent to his phone. Dean pushes the door open with his elbow as he texts with both thumbs. The breeze lifts his hair, little fingers of fog reach around the edge of the door as he closes it behind him. Frankie’s smile is frozen on her face; she thinks mendacious sycophant, but shakes it away. Dean was nice to her, even if only for a moment. She is invisible again, and there is a cool, familiar comfort in that well-worn space.

She ducks into the kitchen, sets the tray down, and plunges her trembling hands into the sink. She loves the rush of hot water on her skin, the suds, the scrubbing, the steam. The pleasant clacking of clean plates being stacked.

Mr. Tibbetts pops his head in the door. “Hey, kiddo.”

Frankie nods, offers a weak smile. “Hey.”

“How’s Ida?” Mr. Tibbetts has known Gran ever since she was his seventh-grade Language Arts teacher. Frankie turns off the water. Wipes her hands on a clean towel. Turns to him.

“Lonely.”

“Yuh.” A heavy sigh. He stares at the foamy water, his right hand scratching his chin. “That sucks. Sorry. I should stop up. Lots of…stuff going on.”

Frankie nods, shrugs. The restaurant’s been short-handed for months now, everyone doing extra shifts. Hard to find reliable staff. “She loves the music, though.”

Frankie sees a tiny flash in his eyes.

“Too bad she can’t—well, wait -- why the heck not?” Tibbetts says, his broad face a million crinkles. But he looks really tired. And his face and body seem puffier than usual. Words spill into her mind; Turgescent, tumefied. She wonders vaguely if “tummy” comes from the word tumid. She wonders if he is drinking again. But his grin is so infectious – how she loves his funny face – that Frankie can’t help but giggle.

“Take a break, girl – we’ve got something more important to do right now.” He laughs and takes Frankie’s arm, pulls her out of the kitchen. Frankie can tolerate his touch, because he is a kind man, and well…because he’s family.

Mr. Tibbetts signals to George Moody, the best oyster shucker at Tibbetts, and in all of mid-coast – he even has an oyster shell tattoo. The men follow Frankie upstairs. She peeks into the living room to make sure Gran is decent. (Once, recently, Frankie had come home to find Gran sitting on a chair in only her underwear. She didn’t seem to have any awareness of her half-nakedness).

But tonight, Gran is alert, dressed, and still tapping her feet. She beams at George and Mr. Tibbetts. “Hello there, boys! It’s a fine evening!” Frankie grabs a hairbrush and runs it through Gran’s fine hair, setting a few silver strands dancing the air. She deftly pulls it into a bun, then grabs a plaid scarf from a hook and drapes it around Gran’s neck.

“Sure is, Ms. Becker,” says George, his wide grin exposing a missing front tooth. He looks like a pirate to Frankie, with his gray ponytail, red bandanna, and wide-striped blue and white t-shirt. All that’s missing is the parrot. But this is no costumed, cultivated look. This is just George, and he is still who he has always been, authentic and real.

“Ready for my date!” Gran declares.

Mr. Tibbetts places his big hands on her frail shoulders and gently squeezes.

“Who’s the lucky man?”

“Why, Jim, of course!”

“Jim?” George asks.

“Jim Beam!”

They all laugh, even though they’ve heard this quip countless times. It means Gran is happy, and her happiness is all that really matters to Frankie. Gran reaches up to hug the men, and they lift her from the chair, Ida, you’re light as cotton, there’s nothing to you! and carry her down the stairs, giggling like a schoolgirl.

The crowd has spilled onto the outside patio. Frankie looks out at the harbor and sees the fog has lifted. It’s a moonless night. There’s a strong, chilly breeze. George drapes his leather jacket around Gran’s shoulders and sets her securely in a chair on the deck.

Frankie hovers for a while, making sure Gran is comfortable, and she is, of course, she is, she’s drinking up the view, she’s smiling, animated, gesturing to the people around her, swaying to the music, watching the harbor, watching the sky.

The sight of Gran so completely in the moment brings an unexpected gush of emotion and Frankie has to turn away so that no one sees her tears.

Later, as the last set is about to finish, Frankie wanders to the edge of the patio. She holds onto the railing and counts each of the twenty-two steps before she walks out onto the wharf.

Above, a smattering of stars sweeps across a black canvas. It is so dark, and so clear, Frankie can see a faded smear of The Milky Way.

She breathes in the sounds of night, the water lapping against the boats, soft peals of laughter, tendrilled wisps of conversation.

She wonders about Faith – from her vantage point in the heavens, does the sun look like a tiny star? Are you lonely? Are you happy? Do you ever think about me?

Frankie whispers, “Can you see me?”

She stretches her right hand up to the sky.

“Will you take care of Gran?”

As if in response, the stars seem to sparkle ten times brighter. Twinkling, just for her. And the right word comes to her: Scintillation. Countless beams of light from distant luminous objects passing through moving air to reach her eyes.

They appear so close she can almost touch them.