Better Than Perfect (13 page)

Danny must have finally put up the posters for the Clovers' show (unless Sinead had gotten tired of waiting for him to step up and had done it herself), because by Thursday the school was covered with them. The poster looked very eighties and very awesome: a black-and-white photo of Declan, Danny, Sean, and Sinead, the guys dressed in their black suits, Sinead in her black dress. Underneath, it simply said
The Clovers
in a sans serif font and, below that, in smaller letters,
Friday night, the Coffeehouse
. It didn't say which Friday, and it didn't tell where the Coffeehouse was, like if you had to ask, you weren't cool enough to go.

People were talking about the show with an excitement normally reserved for prom.

“He's hot, but I've heard the sister's a total bitch,” said
Elise. We were at our lockers Friday afternoon, and she and Margaret had been talking about the Clovers since we'd walked past a poster in the lobby.

I was wondering if I should defend Sinead when Sofia came running over to us. “Declan Brennan just
personally
invited me to the show tonight.” She leaned against my locker. “I'm in love.”

“Don't get too excited,” Elise warned her. “He's going out with Willow Raffei.”

Something shifted in me, as if a door I hadn't realized was open had abruptly blown shut.

“What?”
Sofia shrieked. “He's been here, like, a minute. How can he have a girlfriend already?”

Elise shrugged. “They hooked up at Rob Noel's party last weekend.”

I realized my mouth was hanging open, and I snapped it closed.

“Rob Noel's an idiot.” Sofia slammed her foot against the locker.

“I bet the little brother's still available,” Elise offered. “What is he, a freshman?”

“You're hilarious,” said Sofia.

Elise went off to find George. I looked over at Sofia. “Fuck Willow Raffei,” I said, though it seemed a bit undeserved considering that Willow had allowed me to dodge the awkward bullet of Sofia's being crushed out on the guy
I'd secretly cheated on Jason with.

“Yeah, well. I guess Declan is.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the locker again. “I really liked him,” she said quietly. “He's funny and nice. I thought he liked me too.” She shook her head. “I'm such an asshole.”

“You're not an asshole,” I said, adding (perhaps a bit too emphatically), “He's an asshole.”

“He's
not
an asshole,” she snapped. “He's a nice guy. When's the last time a nice, cute guy showed up at Milltown? Third grade? It's hard sometimes. Elise has George. Margaret has her thing where she hooks up with Topher practically every other weekend. And you and Jason are, you know, the world's most perfect couple. I'm like the”—she frowned and calculated—“seventh wheel.”

I put my arm around her waist. “If it's any consolation, my mom's in a mental hospital.”

“Thanks.” Sofia leaned her head on my shoulder. “That helps, actually.”

Later, when she asked me to go to the Clovers' show with her, I said I would. Because that's what best friends do.

The Coffeehouse was packed. Jason and I squeezed around a tiny table with Sofia, Elise, Margaret, George, and Topher. I hadn't ever thought about how it might be tiring for Sofia to hang out with the six of us, I guess, because I never thought of Topher and Margaret as a couple. But Sofia was right—they
did hook up at almost every party. So they weren't a couple but they were. I was glad when Lucas and Marco Miller, twins who were on the soccer team but who we didn't normally hang out with, came and smushed themselves into the group at our table. When Lucas said hello to us, I noticed that he'd had his braces taken off; he'd had them on since about seventh grade, and now his teeth looked preternaturally straight and white.

I had never been to the Coffeehouse before. Like Bookers, it had a lot of small tables and couches. Bookers had posters up on the walls of book covers, and the Coffeehouse had posters of bands, but the big difference was that the Coffeehouse served alcohol and Bookers didn't. Tonight, though, there were a lot of handwritten signs everywhere saying
YOU MUST BE AT LEAST TWENTY-ONE TO DRINK ALCOHOL
and
ANYONE CAUGHT USING A FAKE ID WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW
. As far as I could tell, no one was trying to test how serious the bartender was. He was a big guy with a beard, who stood at the end of the bar reading a book that he wrote in every once in a while with a pencil he kept tucked behind his ear.

As if to make up for the work the bar wasn't doing, half a dozen waitresses were racing from table to table delivering trays of potato skins and chicken wings, burgers and fried calamari. Looking around, I saw that the place was getting more crowded by the second. No wonder Lucas and Marco had sat down with us; there was no place else to sit. Half of Milltown
High must have been there. The room buzzed; people were laughing and talking loudly, the energy level somewhere between a theater before the movie starts and the courtyard at school during morning break.

The stage was lit, and there were instruments on it, but none of the band members were up there yet. I was nervous about the show. It was hard enough seeing Declan every day and running into Sinead; what was seeing the whole band together going to feel like? Jason's arm was around me, and I leaned against him, trying to shut out the room by thinking about everything I wanted to get done over the weekend. Lately, instead of just making a list, I imagined a whiteboard like the one my mom used to keep for me and Oliver. First I visualized the days as blank boxes, and then I filled the boxes with everything I had to do. I put my practice SAT in the top of the Saturday box, and under it I wrote
buy shampoo/razor
because I could stop at Dodge's Drugs on my way home from the test. Then I wrote
Latin
and
math
under that with
Harvard supplement
under that with a question mark after it. Picturing completing each task and crossing it off my list felt good; the weekend took shape, and I saw myself Sunday night looking back at everything I'd anticipated doing and knowing it was done. It felt satisfying to do that. It made me feel like me.

An older guy wearing a shiny leather vest and a pair of jeans hopped up on the stage.

“I want to welcome you all to the Coffeehouse,” he said.
Everyone cheered and clapped. “Just to let you know, tomorrow night we'll be featuring Beanmeister Fuller and the Jazz Hands, and a reminder that Sunday night is open mic night at the Coffeehouse.” There were a few claps and some whistles, and then the man said, “So without further ado, I give you . . . the Clovers.”

My stomach clenched as the band came through a door I hadn't even noticed. They were dressed the same way they had been that night at the country club: the guys in suits and ties, Sinead in a black dress. Sean came first, then Danny, then Sinead. Declan came last, and as soon as I saw him, I felt dizzy. I'd thought I remembered how good he'd looked in a suit, but clearly I hadn't. He pushed his hair off his forehead and slipped his guitar over his neck. Then he stood there, so handsome I had to turn away.

Everyone went crazy, clapping and screaming and whistling. The floor shook as people stamped their feet, and Jason took his arm from around my shoulder to clap. I just sat there, frozen, but nobody seemed to notice.

Danny started playing a hot beat that got into your blood and made you want to move. Almost immediately, the people up at the front of the room got to their feet, and seconds later half the room was standing and clapping along to the drums. Danny said something into his mic, and then Declan started plucking a tune out on his guitar. That got pretty much everyone who wasn't already standing to get up. Sofia was the first
person at our table to start dancing as Declan gave a wolf whistle and said, “Yeah.” And then he did it again, and everyone in the room sang out, “Yeah.” And then he started singing. His voice was deep, and it filled the space until you could feel it in your chest. “Yeah. I love you. I do. I love you. All I'm saying, pretty baby. La la love you, don't mean maybe.” Sinead joined him, high and sweet and flirtatious. “All I'm saying, pretty baby. La la love you, don't mean maybe.” By the time Sean joined in on the bass, it felt as if the room could spontaneously combust from all the energy it was trying to contain.

I let my gaze settle on Declan. He was singing into the mic, his lips so close they were almost kissing it. His eyes were half closed in a way I remembered, but not from the last time I'd seen him play. Tonight the thread connecting us was more like a rope, and I felt myself being pulled toward him.

I looked down and saw that Jason and I were holding hands and I hadn't even noticed.

When the set ended, people swarmed the stage. I wanted to stay at the table, but Sofia dragged me forward with her to go congratulate the Clovers, and Jason wanted to come along with us, so I didn't know how I could get out of it. Declan was so swarmed with people that I couldn't even see him, and standing at the foot of the low stage, I found myself looking at Sean, who was leaning against an amp not talking to anyone. His shirttail had come untucked, and he'd loosened his tie; he
didn't look relaxed so much as he looked unkempt.

I wondered if he'd even remember that we knew each other, but as soon as he saw me standing there, he raised his beer can in a sort of salute. “Hello there, Jules,” he said. He looked me up and down in a way that would have been offensive if it weren't somehow so . . . Sean. “You're looking lovely as ever tonight.”

“Hey, Sean,” I said. “You guys were great.”

He nodded. “We were, weren't we?”

“How do you know each other?” asked Jason, who was standing next to me.

“Oh, Jules and I go way back,” said Sean, giving me an exaggerated wink.

I rolled my eyes. “You're hilarious.” The stage was mobbed with people, but for a second the crowd opened up, and I saw Sinead, who glanced my way just at that moment. I gave her a thumbs-up. She beckoned me over, but I saw that Declan was standing right behind her, and I didn't feel like I could make small talk with him right now. I was glad when, almost immediately, people came between us and we couldn't see each other anymore.

“J, we should really go,” said Jason. He sounded irritated. “It's late and you've got the practice SAT tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We should go. See you, Sean.”

“Nighty-night.” He gave a smug little wave, which I ignored. Sofia, Lucas, and George were standing by the far corner of
the stage talking, and we said good-bye to them. Lucas's smile was really bright, and I almost congratulated him on getting his braces off, but then I thought maybe I shouldn't call attention to it.

Jason was quiet as we walked out of the Coffeehouse, but as soon as we got into the car, he turned to me. “What's the deal with that guy in the band calling you Jules?”

That Jason thought something might have happened with me and Sean would have been funny if it hadn't hit so close to home. “The night that my mom . . . that she went to the hospital, I met Sofia at the club. But she couldn't get off work, so I just waited for her, and I ended up hanging out with the Clovers. They all called me Jules. I really don't know why.” Even though I was telling the truth, it sounded like I was lying.

“I think the whole thing's weird,” said Jason, holding the steering wheel at ten and two as if he were driving instead of parked. “I don't like it.”

It wasn't Jason's style to be possessive, and I was scared. What if he wasn't talking about Sean? Had he seen the way I was looking at Declan while he was singing? Had he noticed something about the way I never met Declan's eyes in English class? Was there some kind of rumor going around school that I didn't know about? “What don't you like?” I asked, tentatively.

“I don't like the way that guy Sean was looking at you.” He
turned to me angrily. “Did he make a pass at you that night?”

I was so relieved that Jason's question made me burst out laughing. “J, is that what you were mad about?” I leaned across the space that separated us and kissed him. “God, no! And anyway, he's disgusting.”

Jason kissed me back, then put his hand on my knee and gave me a squeeze. “He is kind of disgusting, isn't he?”

“Totally,” I said, taking his hand and kissing it.

He started the car, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove home. The two of us held hands the whole way, and this time, I noticed.

According to Aunt Kathy, the doctors were playing with my mom's medication. That was the exact phrase she used:
playing with
.

“‘Playing with' doesn't exactly inspire confidence,” I pointed out. It was Wednesday evening, and I was walking to my car after swim practice. A gust of wind made me wish I'd dried my hair before I'd left the building. When had it gotten so cold?

Um, sometime between your mother going into the looney bin and your last practice SAT,
answered the voice in my head.

“I know it's frustrating,” Aunt Kathy acknowledged. “But we have to trust the doctors a little.”

“You realize it was doctors who prescribed her the sleeping pills she OD'd on, right?”

“Just as long as nobody's angry, Juliet.”

“Sorry.” I got to my car and dug around in my bag for my keys.

“You don't need to be sorry. You just need to be honest about how you're feeling.” I didn't say anything, just rolled my eyes.

“Are you rolling your eyes at me?” Kathy asked, and I had to laugh.

“Maybe,” I admitted. I got into my car. Part of me was focused on the call with Kathy, but a lot of me was thinking about the work I had to do later. Latin. History essay. Calc. I allotted minutes or hours for each task, picturing the hands on the clock circling forward through blocks of time that changed color as I slid through the assignments. As it always did, organizing my night ahead of time felt productive, as if I had somehow started the work simply by planning.

“What's on your agenda for tonight?”

I tuned back into the conversation and told my aunt about the one thing I hadn't put on my mental whiteboard. “Dinner with Dad,” I said. “I'm meeting him in half an hour.”

“I'm glad,” said Kathy. “I'm glad you're making time to see each other.”

“Yeah,” I said, but really, I wasn't so sure.

My dad was sitting at a table for two, chatting with Mario, the owner, when I walked into the restaurant. When I got to the
table, my dad stood up. Mario squeezed my hands and told me how beautiful I was getting. He asked how my mother was, and I froze for a second, and my dad said, “She's doing well,” and he and I made eye contact, and I thought about how weird it was to feel close to someone not because you are really close to that person but because you're partners in duplicity.

“So, how are you?” asked my dad when Mario had left. He hadn't even offered us menus; if you were a regular at Mario's, you never looked at the menu.

“I'm okay,” I said. “How are you?”

“I'm okay,” he said. He smiled. “It's good to know we're both so okay.”

The waitress brought our drinks, a Peroni for my dad, a Pellegrino with lime for me. There was silence as she put them down, and it stretched out even after we'd each taken a sip. My dad loosened his tie. “I got an A on my English paper,” I blurted out.

His face broke into an enormous grin. “Juliet, that's wonderful. I'm so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” I couldn't help smiling back at him. I loved everything about As—how perfect and symmetrical they were, how they looked as if they were saying,
Good job, Juliet!
, how they made my parents so happy and proud of me. Sometimes, when I stared at an A, I felt as if I were looking at a little house I wished I could climb into and live inside.

“To your A,” said my dad, lifting his glass.

“To my A,” I echoed, lifting mine.

Mario came to the table with two small plates. He itemized the ingredients in the mushroom and tomato sauce on the polenta, and I was happy to let him talk. When he left, my dad and I dug into the tiny portions.

“This is delicious,” I said, mopping up some of the sauce with a piece of soft bread.

“You can't beat Mario's,” said my dad. He ripped a small piece of bread off the loaf and I did the same. A man sitting behind me said, “Undoubtedly,” and the person or people sitting with him laughed.

I took another sip of my Pellegrino even though I wasn't thirsty.

“Juliet,” said my dad, pushing his plate away from him, “I'd really like to revisit the possibility of my taking an apartment in Milltown and your living with me. If you don't want someone else living with us, maybe you could stay with the Robinsons when I have to travel.”

Just sitting across the table from my dad was miserably awkward; the thought of living with him was exhausting. “I don't know, Dad.” I toyed with a nugget of bread, rolling it between my fingers. “I don't want to have to keep going back and forth all the time.” The bread was a tiny hard ball, and I forced myself to put it down on my plate and look at my father. “And anyway, with your schedule and my schedule, we could probably see each other more if we just met for dinner once a week.”

“Well . . .” He shrugged. “I'd certainly like to do that.” He
reached across the table and took my hand. I was glad I'd put the bread down. “Just because I don't live at home anymore doesn't mean we can't still be close. I love you, Juliet.”

There were so many things I wanted to say, but all I said was, “I love you too, Daddy.” Because I didn't have the energy to try to figure out whether the vast chasm separating us had been created or exposed by my parents' separation.

The truth was, I didn't have the energy for any of it: for listening to my aunt tell me that psychiatry was an art, not a science; for talking to my dad about our relationship; for being polite when my brother told me not to sweat college. I didn't want to do any of those things. All I wanted to do was turn back the clock, to drive home to my house and find my beautiful mother making dinner in her beautiful kitchen, to know that my father was due home from work any minute, and to be told to go upstairs and make sure the As kept rolling in like the tide.

I wanted everything in my life to be exactly the way it had been six months ago.

Perfect.