Better Than Perfect (19 page)

What was the matter with me? I was losing my mind. It was a good thing my mother was going to get released from Roaring Brook, because I needed her room there.

Who the fuck are you, Juliet?
Jason had been so mad there'd been spit flying out of his mouth.
Who the fuck are you?

Well, who the fuck
was
I? Practically having sex with Declan in the backseat of my car. Throwing a fit and storming out of Jason's house in front of his mom. Ignoring her when she told me not to go. Who was this person walking around with my face and my driver's license and nothing else about her that I recognized?

I was sure that Jason's dad was going to come after me. It was one thing to tell Grace and Jason to leave me alone, but I didn't think it would be so easy to shake off Mark Robinson.
Like most dads, he had something a little scary under all his niceness. I could imagine him telling me to get my ass in gear and hightail it back to the Robinson house and not taking no for an answer. And who could blame him? What sane adult would trust me to act responsibly?

I was certifiable.

With no awareness of how I'd made it from Jason's driveway to mine, I put the car in park and turned off the headlights. But I didn't get out of the car, just sat and looked at the front of my house. The solar-powered lights leading up to the front door were on, of course, because while my family might have imploded, the sun continued to shine. As I watched, a light in the guest bedroom went off, and my heart skipped a beat at the thought that a person was in the house before I realized that someone—my dad, probably—had set the timers, as if we were just on vacation and wanted to keep the house safe for the week or two we were away.

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel. How had my life become such a reality show? Why had I run off like that? I should have just worked it out with Jason.

But the thought of turning the car around and driving back to Jason's house made it suddenly hard to breathe. What was going on? Why was it easier to make out with Declan than to talk to Jason?

I opened the car door and sucked in the chilly night air. The effort calmed me down, made it possible for me to think.
I was acting crazy. Grace was furious. Jason was furious. Mark was probably dealing with the two of them right now. Not to mention poor Bella, who we'd no doubt woken up with our screaming.

Standing there on the lawn of my empty but seemingly occupied house, it felt as if what had happened to my family was some kind of communicable disease, its chaos and unhappiness infecting everyone I came in contact with. I pictured the Robinsons conferencing in the foyer, trying to decide what to do about Jason's crazy girlfriend. Then I pictured Declan's face as he realized he'd been cheating on Willow with me.

What was wrong with me? How had I become so toxic?

I had to explain to Jason and his family that I was safe. It wasn't fair to leave them all wondering what was going on, Grace feeling responsible for me as if I were some stubborn, explosive teenager who she'd accidentally adopted.

But I couldn't deal with Jason and his perfect, perfect family. Maybe I
was
crazy, but they made me feel even crazier than I was.

Leaning back against my car, I took my phone out of my bag and hit his number on speed dial. He picked up on the first ring.

“Juliet? Is everything okay?”

The voice was so familiar it hurt.
I'm sorry,
I wanted to say.
I'm sorry that everyone but me seems to know how to keep it together. I'm sorry you can't be proud of me the way you used to be.

But I knew that if I made a scene, I'd scare him and he'd send me back to Jason's. Instead, I took a deep breath and got myself under control.

“Hi, Dad,” I said calmly. “I need your help.”

“Okay,” he said, not sounding at all angry that I'd called and woken him up at one o'clock in the morning. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

I'd had to promise my dad I wouldn't “do anything” (i.e., try to kill myself), and in exchange for that, he agreed to tell the Robinsons that it was okay for me to spend the night at the house. When I hung up the phone, I walked across the lawn and up the front steps. It almost surprised me that after everything that had happened the key still slipped easily into the lock and opened the door.

I stepped into the foyer. The house was spotless. Like the gardener, the cleaning woman must have kept coming. I figured my dad was paying her, and I wondered if it was strange to him to be writing the same checks he'd been writing for years to keep a house running that he was never coming back to.

I wandered into the living room and then into the den, flipping on the lights as I went. When I was little, the room had housed all my toys, but as Oliver and I got older, it had become a space without a purpose. The TV in the basement was bigger, the sofa wasn't very comfortable, and it was too far
from the kitchen to be convenient for studying. It was sort of a forgotten room, which might explain why on the bookcase next to the French doors leading out to the patio there were still family photos. These were from a series my parents had hired a professional photographer to shoot when I was two and Oliver was four. We were still in our old house, the small one where we'd lived before my dad had become a partner at his consulting firm. My mother wore a gray silk blouse and her hair was long and loose. In one of the pictures, she and my dad were sitting next to each other on the couch and my brother was sitting on my dad's lap holding a stuffed animal while I sat on my mom's lap, grabbing at the animal's tail. My parents were laughing, and the picture looked completely candid.

It was as if the people in the photos were all dead, and when I looked at them and tried to remember what it felt like to be part of that perfect, beautiful family, all that happened was that I felt more and more alone, as if I were the last surviving human after an earth-wide apocalypse. The feeling was so intense that when my phone rang, the noise startled me and I dropped it.

Even more shocking than the ringing was the person who was calling me.

I picked up.

“Oliver?” When was the last time my brother had called me? He texted me sometimes, sure. But he never called. And definitely not in the middle of the night.

“Hey,” he said. “Dad texted me you were at the house. He asked me to call you if I was up.”

“Really?” That my dad would suggest my brother call me felt like more evidence that he didn't know me very well.

“Is it weird?” I thought he meant his calling me, but then he added, “Being there alone?”

“It's . . . I don't know.” I looked around the unused room, the pussy willows artfully arranged in the vase by the French doors, the stone tile in front of the fireplace. “It's how it always was. It's . . . you know. Perfect.” I'd crossed the room, and now I looked back at the photographs on the mantel. “We were so happy, Oliver. What happened?” My eyes stung.

“Oh, Juliet . . .” He sounded impatient, and I was sure he was sorry he'd called. I expected him to snap at me and tell me to grow up, but instead he said, “I'm sorry. I know you feel that way, and I don't want to be an asshole, but I just don't think we were so happy.”

I was the one who snapped. “How can you say that? You always say that!” I was crying now, but I didn't want Oliver to know. Crying felt like admitting defeat.

He sighed. “Look, do you want to talk about this or do you want to yell at me?”

I didn't know if I wanted to talk about it, but I didn't want him to hang up the phone and leave me alone in our empty, purposeless den. “I want to talk about it,” I said quietly.

“Well . . .” There was an uncharacteristic pause, and
when he started talking, he spoke slowly, as if he were picking his words with care. “I guess I just don't get what was so happy about our family. Dad was always traveling for work or getting home from the city at midnight. . . . Mom was always, you know,
organizing
everything.” When he said that, we both laughed. “It was weird. And even when they started counseling—”

I almost dropped the phone. “They were in
counseling
?”

“You knew that!”

“Um, no I didn't.”

“What did you think they were doing on Tuesday nights?”

I knew exactly what my parents had done on Tuesdays. “They were having date night.”

Oliver didn't say anything.

“Weren't they?”

He sighed again. Sometimes it felt like I'd been listening to my brother sigh at my stupidity since the womb. “Juliet, I'm sorry, but I just don't think they were very happy together.”

“Do you think . . .” I had to swallow over the lump in my throat before I could ask the next question. “Do you think he was having an affair?” I remembered my lunch with my dad over the summer, how I'd had the same thought then but hadn't voiced it.

Oliver didn't answer right away. “I don't think so,” he said finally. “But they weren't really . . . together. Mom was always playing tennis and wanting to redo stuff in the house. And
then she'd talk about going back to work, but she wouldn't do it.”

I was instantly on the defensive. “So you're saying it's her fault?”

“That's what I'm
not
saying,” Oliver yelled, and it felt oddly good to hear my always-in-control brother lose his temper. “I'm trying to get you to see that it was no one thing or one person. It was everything. Dad was trying to make all this money. Mom was trying to have the perfect family. I was trying to be the perfect student.
You
were trying to be the perfect student. But was anyone happy? Apparently not.”

I swiped at my nose with the hem of my skirt. “I feel like you're saying that everything I thought was true about my life was a lie.”

“It wasn't a
lie
,” Oliver said, calmer now. “It just wasn't what you thought it was.”

I slid down against the cool plaster wall, suddenly too tired to keep talking. “I should go to sleep.”

“Yeah,” said Oliver. “Me too.” But neither of us made a move to hang up. I leaned my head back, thinking about Oliver. Someday he'd be grown up. We both would. And one day we'd be old and our parents would be dead, and he'd be the only person who'd known me my whole life.

I couldn't figure out how to say what I was thinking without sounding like a cheesy ass. Finally I settled on, “I'm glad you called me,” and then, scared that he'd tease me for my
sincerity, I added quickly, “Even if all you managed to do was destroy my few remaining illusions about my childhood.”

He chuckled. “Hey, what are big brothers for?” When I didn't answer right away, he said, “I'm glad I called too. Sleep well, Juliet.”

“Sleep well, Ollie.”

But when I went upstairs, I couldn't fall asleep. Every sound made me sure someone was breaking into the house, and after an hour there was so much adrenaline pumping through my system, I could have wrestled a wild animal to the ground with my bare hands. At three a.m., I got a text from Sinead.
danny in recovery going 2 be ok.
I put on my clothes, went downstairs, set the alarm code, and locked the door behind me.

The house was dark. I let myself in, disarming and then rearming the front door. I held my breath, but my coming in didn't seem to have woken anyone. I climbed the stairs silently, like a burglar. Jason's door was closed, but I didn't knock, just pushed it open as stealthily as I'd done everything else since pulling up in his driveway with my headlights off.

The room was cold. Jason loved fresh air, and while the windows in the rest of the house were shut and locked, his were wide open. His shades weren't pulled down all the way, and there was enough light that I could see him lying on his back, his hair tousled, the comforter bunched up around his knees because he untucked the sheets at the bottom so—as he
put it—his feet could roam free.

I climbed into his bed, smelling the familiar combination of soap and shampoo and laundry detergent and wrapping my chilly body against his warm one.

“J?” he asked sleepily.

“Shhh,” I said, kissing him.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, running his hand along my side.

“Shhh,” I said again, kissing his neck. “I'm sorry.”

“'T's okay,” he said, the words muffled by his pillow. “I'm sorry too.”

Later, after Jason had fallen asleep, I lay beside him, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the back of the shades. Deep inside me, something felt broken. Getting a perfect score on my SATs hadn't fixed it. Dyeing my hair hadn't fixed it. Talking to my brother hadn't fixed it. Sex with Jason hadn't fixed it.

And as I lay there, with Jason breathing quietly next to me, I thought that maybe college would fix it. Maybe next year, if I was a freshman at Harvard, I'd feel whole in some way I could only imagine now.

But even as I thought that, I couldn't help wondering if maybe some things, once they're broken, can never be made whole again.

Monday morning right before school, Jason and I sent our Harvard applications in at the same time. We celebrated with really disgusting chocolate buns at Jaybo's. As soon as we finished eating them, we both vowed never to eat another chocolate bun from Jaybo's, which was what we always did after we ate a Jaybo's chocolate bun. Even being nauseated felt good somehow—familiar and normal. Nothing like the crazy drama of Friday night.

“We're gonna get in, J,” Jason said as we pulled into the parking lot at school. “I can feel it.”

“Do not jinx it.” I put my hand over his mouth.

He kissed my palm. “That's for luck,” he said. He took his keys out of the ignition and turned to open the door.

“Wait,” I said.

He swiveled his head back to look at me. “What?”

“I have to tell you something,” I said. This weekend had been too insane—Declan, running away to my house, running back to Jason's. I was keeping too many secrets.

It was time to come clean. Maybe not about all of them. But at least about one of them.

He gestured at the clock on the dashboard; we had less than five minutes to get to class. “Can you tell me while we walk inside?”

My hands were in my lap, and I moved them together, nervously washing one with the other. It was now or never, and it couldn't be never. Before I could lose my nerve or let Jason convince me to wait, I opened my mouth and blurted the whole thing out at once. “My mom was taking pills and drinking even before my dad left. The doctors think she might not have tried to kill herself. She might have just . . . taken too much.” I couldn't quite bring myself to say
OD'd
.

“Jesus.” Jason let out a low whistle and put his hand on mine. “Did you just find this out?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly. I've known for a while. Since the night she went to the hospital, actually.” I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes, so I just kept staring at my lap, where our hands were joined.

“Wait, you've known for months?”

I nodded stiffly, still studying our hands. Jason had a Band-Aid on his thumb, and I had no idea how he'd gotten hurt or
when. We lived in the same house. Except for when we were asleep, we'd been together constantly for the past forty-eight hours. Yet somehow, I hadn't noticed him wearing a Band-Aid.

Suddenly trying to know another person felt like an impossible task.

“Why didn't you tell me?” His voice was soft. Surprised or hurt, I couldn't tell.

I didn't answer right away. Usually Jason offered answers when I was quiet, but this morning he just sat there. I tried to find the words to explain why I'd kept silent about my mom. “It just felt gross.” I looked out the window. “And I thought you'd judge her. And me.”

“Ouch.”

I turned to face him. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.” Now I leaned across the seat and put my arms around him. “I love you, J. And I'm sorry I've been acting so crazy lately.” His shoulders, his lips, his hands. Everything about him was so familiar. My father and my brother and my mother had become strangers, but Jason hadn't. I didn't just love him. Maybe I didn't know how he'd hurt his finger, but I knew him. And he knew me. And we loved each other.

“Hey, easy. Easy. It's okay.” He let me kiss him for a minute before he pulled away. “No more secrets, okay?”

For a second, as we looked at each other, I considered telling Jason what had happened with Declan. The possibility of letting everything I'd been keeping bottled up inside me
escape, of there really being no more secrets between us, was almost too tempting to refuse. But I knew I couldn't. Jason would never forgive me, and the thought of Jason not forgiving me was more than I could bear.

Instead, I nodded. “No more secrets,” I echoed.

He kissed me. “Come on,” he said, “we're gonna be late.”

We walked into the building holding hands, our fight a million miles away. The sad, empty feeling I'd had lying next to Jason Friday night was gone, and everything felt like maybe it was all really going to be okay.

The one thing that kept my morning from actually
being
okay was my dread of running into Declan. My only hope was that he was as eager to avoid me as I was to avoid him. I had reason for hoping that—he hadn't exactly not cared that Willow had called while we were making out. Clearly his loyalties lay with her. He'd just had a moment of insanity that had led him into my arms. I'd had one also. Well, two if you counted the night this summer. Two moments of insanity versus four years of true love.

Like it was even a contest.

On my way to calc second period, I turned the corner and almost ran smack into a guy I was sure for a second was Declan. He was tall and thin and he had dark hair, and in the instant between seeing him and realizing he wasn't Declan, I felt my heart slam against my rib cage so hard I couldn't catch my breath. Luckily I was alone—no way would I have been
able to hide my panic from Sofia or Jason.

During math I decided to cut English even though I'd never cut a class in my life. I'd go to the nurse and tell her I was feeling sick. It wasn't a lie, either. The thought of walking into English class and facing Declan
did
make me feel sick. And there was no way I was going to be able to go to band practice later, that was for sure. I had to tell Sinead I wouldn't be singing with the Clovers anymore.

The thought of not singing with the band made me feel as if I were standing in a room in which someone had just turned the lights off. I remembered driving with Jason while I blasted Blondie, how powerful and kick-ass I'd felt while the music played. Well, I'd certainly fucked
that
up. The one thing in my life I really loved, the one thing I was doing just because I wanted to do it. And now I couldn't do it anymore. Sitting in the courtyard with Elise and Sofia and Margaret at morning break, it was all I could do to feign interest in the conversation when the only thing I wanted to do was put my head on my knees and bawl.

“Read it out loud,” said Margaret.

After the Clovers' show was canceled, Lucas and Sofia had talked for what Sofia defined vaguely as “a really long time,” and now she and Elise and Margaret were trying to figure out what the cryptic text he'd sent Sunday afternoon meant.

“‘We should hang out,'” Elise read off the screen. She looked up at Sofia. “It means he wants to have sex with you.”

“God, Elise, you are
such
a romantic,” Margaret said. Next
to her sat Sofia, who was buzzing with nervous energy, bouncing her knees like she sometimes did before a meet.

“Well, what do
you
think it means?” Elise turned to me. “That he wants to marry her?”

“Those are her options, Elise?” I asked. “There's no middle ground?”

A shadow fell over the bench we were sitting on. I looked up and found myself staring at Declan. All morning I'd been scanning the hallways for him, and now here he was without any warning, as if he'd materialized out of thin air.

Behind his sunglasses, he looked pale and tired. “Can I talk to you?”

My chest ached from my heart's anxious thumping, and I felt dizzy. But I managed to keep my voice normal. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure.” I was scared that Elise or Sofia or Margaret would immediately guess something was up between us. I forced myself not to turn around and see if they were exchanging a look as we walked away.

I followed Declan out of the courtyard and into the lobby, which was oddly deserted. He stopped at the door of the theater and pulled it open.

“I don't think we're supposed to be in there.” I doubted I'd ever been this scared in my life. My voice sounded breathy and strange, and my lips shook; my mouth had to work hard to form the words I spoke.

“Probably not.” He held the door open, and after a beat I walked through it.

It was hushed in the theater, the velvet seats that were part of the renovation the school did the summer before my freshman year absorbing every sound except that of my deafening heartbeat.

Declan sat on the arm of an aisle seat. It was dark, but there was an exit sign over the door that let me make out his silhouette. I felt painfully conscious of being in this dimly lit, silent space, alone with him.

“I broke up with Willow.”

“
What?!
Why?” My pulse was so loud in my ears that for a second I thought I'd misheard him.

“Why?” he echoed, and now it was light enough that I could see his raised eyebrow. “Seriously?”

His face was so familiar to me.

When had it gotten so familiar?

“Declan,” I said, trying to keep the terror from my voice, “I didn't mean for you to break up with Willow.”

Instead of answering, Declan reached forward and took my hands in his. And it felt the way it always felt when Declan touched me—electrifying. “Jules, this is stupid.” His voice was almost a whisper. “There's something here. It's not just about hooking up. Let's see what happens if we give it some room to breathe.”

That was what it suddenly felt like I didn't have room to do—breathe. “Declan, I'm sorry. I'm going out with Jason.” But I didn't pull my hand away.

He laughed. “I'm not an idiot, Jules. I know you have a boyfriend.” Now his fingers were intertwined with mine.

“No, Declan, he's not just a boyfriend. He's—I'm . . . we've been going out for four years. I'm living with his family right now.” I was whispering too, even though there was no one else in the theater.

“You are? I didn't know that.” He pulled me toward him gently. “Why?”

Don't. Don't.
I let my body sink against his, and it felt just like it had in the car. Right. It felt so right. “Declan, there are a lot of things you don't know about me.” My voice was breathless.

“I know,” he said into my neck. Without meaning to, I tilted my head slightly, as if to give him better access to my skin. “And I'd really like to learn what they are.” His lips were so close that his words were kisses.

My mother's in a mental hospital. She might be addicted to prescription medication. Either that or she's suicidal. I'm having a nervous breakdown. I'm totally alienated from my entire nuclear family. The only stable thing in my life is my boyfriend.

My boyfriend.

I jerked away, pulling my hands and neck free of Declan's fingers and lips. It was painful, like tearing something out by the roots.

His hand hung in the air between us.

“I'm sorry,” I said, breathing too heavily, almost panting.
“I've been a total bitch. I realize that. And I don't blame you for hating me. But I can't break up with Jason.” I stepped into the aisle and turned to go, every inch of my skin itching to stay and let Declan touch me more.

“Juliet, that's crazy,” Declan protested.

I didn't turn around. “No, Declan.
This
is crazy.”

“Juliet!” There was the creak of the seat. Was he standing up?

“I have to go.”

The warning bell hadn't even rung, but I blew through the door of the theater and across the lobby as if I were already late for class. I was prepared to ignore Declan if he called after me, but he didn't.

At lunch I told Elise and Sofia I had to take care of some band business, and I texted Sinead to meet me by the fountain near the main entrance. I found her sitting cross-legged on a low wall across the walkway from the main doors. She was wearing a gray sweater and a bright yellow skirt, and she looked as beautiful as if she were a model on break from a photo shoot. I hated how she looked—how she looked like a girl version of Declan.

“Hey,” I said. “How's Danny?”

“Better.” She slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “He had to have his spleen removed, though.”

“My brother had to have his spleen removed. And he's fine
now.” It was true. When he was in eighth grade, Oliver had had a bike accident and he'd needed emergency surgery.

“Really?” She looked unconvinced, as if I might be making the story up to comfort her. “I never heard of anyone having a spleen removed.”

“Maybe it's an American thing.” Up close, I could see the dark circles under her eyes, and I felt a pang of guilt for what I was about to do. She'd had a shitty weekend. She didn't need more bad news.

“Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I feel better now. Anyway, the doctors said he's going to be home in a week or so. And he'll be playing the drums again by Christmas. So, you know, the new and improved Clovers will rise again.” She didn't mention Sean by name, but I understood what she meant. Even if Danny was going to be okay, Sean was out of the band.

“Yeah, the band's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” I ran my thumb over my lips nervously. “I can't be in the Clovers anymore, Sinead.”

“What?” I'd never seen anyone's jaw drop before, but Sinead's mouth literally hung open briefly before she snapped it shut. “What are you talking about?”

I shook my head. “I just can't do it. I'm really busy. I'm going to get a Latin tutor, and if I don't get into Harvard I'm going to have to work on all of my other applications. It's just not a good time for me. And anyway, if Sean's not going to be in the band because of . . . everything, well”—I snapped my
fingers and tried to sound enthusiastic—“there goes the Sean factor.”

“I don't understand.”

Why was she acting like my quitting the band was even worse than Danny's having his spleen removed? Guilt made me mad, and my voice was harsh. “I can't do it, Sinead.” I took a step backward.

Her face was the picture of hurt bewilderment, as if I were a dog that had growled at her when she'd bent down to pet me. “I thought we were having so much fun.”