Better Than Perfect Read online

  “Let’s go, Taylor,” said a thin guy with a beard carrying another tray of cream puffs. “This is no time to socialize.”

  “Frank, I have to go,” said Sofia, pulling off her hairnet. “I have an emergency.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Taylor,” said the guy, carefully placing the tray down. “We’ve got two hundred people for dinner. Two seatings. You’re here until midnight.”

  He sounded harsh, but it didn’t seem to frighten Sofia. “Frank, I’m serious. I have to go.”

  Frank pushed the tray of pastry shells farther back on the table and turned to face us. Now I could see why she wasn’t scared of him. He was a big guy and he had a beard, but he probably wasn’t much older than we were.

  “Look, Taylor, I want to help you and, you know”—he glanced at me—“your friend. But I can’t let you go. Seriously. Mitch will have my ass.”

  “Frank—” Sofia started.

  But I interrupted her. “Sofia, it’s okay. Really. I’ll just . . . I’ll wait for you.”

  “Juliet, that’s like”—she checked a clock on the wall—“five hours.”

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  “Do you want to go home and wait for me? I’ll give you my keys. My mom will be there.” She turned to get her bag.

  “No!” I grabbed her arm, my voice sharper than I’d meant it to be. I didn’t want to sit with Sofia’s mother. Suddenly, all I wanted was to be by myself.

  “Juliet, what are you going to do until midnight?” she asked, so anxious I almost thought she was about to start crying.

  Sofia’s being upset only made me more calm. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you want to just stay here? They’ll never notice you. There’s like a thousand members here tonight. You could say you’re a guest of the Robinsons.”

  “Taylor,” snapped Frank, “we’ve got to get this tray finished. Let’s go.”

  Sofia ignored him. “Seriously. Just stay here.”

  “Sure,” I said, but I couldn’t really imagine saying I was a guest of Jason’s family when I wasn’t. Grace and Mark weren’t chill about things like that. If I called and told them where I was, they’d probably let me have whatever I wanted. But they wouldn’t like it if I started signing their names for stuff without asking.

  “Just go to the library and take a book or something, okay? I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She hugged me again. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered in my ear.

  I hugged her back, then recrossed the kitchen, walked back down the long, empty corridor, and stepped outside into the sticky summer evening. Even though my phone was in my pocket, I’d missed three calls, one from my aunt Kathy and two from my dad. They’d both texted me, too. My aunt’s text said she was taking the red-eye and she’d be at my house in the morning. My dad had just written: Where are you?

  I didn’t want to text my dad back. Why should I have to tell him where I was? He was a smart guy; let him figure it out himself.

  I texted my aunt and told her I’d meet her at the house. Then I looked up at the darkening sky. I pictured Jason asleep in the villa his parents had rented, pictured waking him up to tell him about my mom. He’d be shocked, like Sofia had been. And then he’d say, just like she had, It’s going to be okay, J. Everything’s going to be okay.

  But was it? How could everything be okay after what had happened?

  There was a garbage can right next to me, and I had the crazy fantasy of tossing my phone into it so I wouldn’t have to deal with any more calls or texts from people. After that, I could just get in my car and drive away. I’d find a job in a diner somewhere, waiting tables. I’d been planning on applying early to Harvard. Surely I could get a job waitressing.

  I stood there, holding my phone and looking at the garbage can for a while, and then I chickened out. If I ran away, they’d find me. And once they found me, I’d have to come back. And when I came back, everyone would know I was the crazy girl who’d run away to work at a diner.

  Instead of running away from home, I texted my dad. I told him I was okay. I told him I was with Sofia. I told him I would meet Kathy at the house in the morning. I asked him to stop texting me.

  Because I was a good girl. And good girls didn’t throw away their phones or leave home or make their parents worry about them for no reason.

  I’d left my bag in the car, and now that I had several hours to kill, I headed back to retrieve it. When I got to my car, Declan, the girl from the passenger seat, the guy who’d been driving, and the kid who’d gotten out of the van earlier were talking to an older guy in a blue button-down and a pair of khakis. He was writing something on a clipboard, and as I approached, he ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to the girl.

  “Display that prominently on your dashboard so security can see it,” he said, and she nodded.

  “What’s with this one?” he asked, gesturing at my car with his elbow.

  The girl opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say she had no idea whose car it was, I said, “That’s mine.” My voice had an edge to it.

  The man swung around in my direction. He was simultaneously pale and sunburned, like an egg someone had roasted. “And who exactly are you?”

  In an instant, it was clear that the man embodied the Milltown Country Club fascist state Sofia had spoken of.

  “I’m Juliet,” I said.

  “Should this mean something to me?” he asked, sarcastically. He held his clipboard out to me. “If I look, will I find your name on this list? Or should I be asking you to leave now?”

  My desire to tell him to go fuck himself was kept under control by the fact that if he asked me to leave, I’d have no place to go. I glared at him, furious and scared and silent.

  It was Declan who answered him. “She’s with us.”

  The girl, the driver, and the other boy turned to Declan, but none of them said anything to contradict him.

  “She’s with you?” asked the roasted-egg man, his voice dripping doubt as he looked from the four black-haired, blue-eyed people who’d gotten out of the aging van to me, blond and brown-eyed and standing in front of my spanking new Honda, my parents’ birthday gift to me just four months ago.

  “Tambourine,” said Declan. He shook the tambourine I hadn’t seen he was holding.

  A car drove into the parking lot and pulled into a spot all the way at the other end. I could almost smell the egg man’s desire to go and bully the new arrival vying with his desire to stay here and bully us. The sound of the other car’s door slamming shut decided him. He glanced at my license plate, jotted something down on the piece of paper on his clipboard, tore it off, and handed it to me.

  “Place this prominently on your dashboard.”

  I took the paper from him and nodded.

  He glared at us. “And don’t let me catch any of you wandering around the grounds, or I’ll throw the whole bunch of you out. This is a private club, and you’re here to perform, not enjoy yourselves.” With that, he turned and marched across the lot calling, “Hey! Hey!” to the guy who’d just parked and was heading toward the kitchen carrying a large green box.

  “Care to tell us what this is all about?” asked the driver, turning to Declan.

  “Nothing,” said Declan. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s fine?” repeated the driver, sounding as sarcastic as the egg man.

  “Oh, Sean, don’t be an arse,” said the girl. She came over to me. Fine boned and pale, she was even prettier up close. She might have been the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in real life. “I’m Sinead. This is my cousin Sean. And this is my little brother, Danny.” She pointed at the boy next to her, and he gave me a shy wave. I gave him a wave back. “And I guess you already know my brother Declan.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Juliet.”

  “Hi,” said Declan. “Again.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Again.” I gave him a nervous smile.

  “No problem,” he said, and his face stayed seri
ous.

  “Well, this is just fucking great,” said Sean, slapping his thigh in frustration. “What are we supposed to do with her?”

  “I really appreciate your helping me with that guy,” I said. “But I won’t bother you anymore. Seriously.” I backed away from the van. “See? You won’t have to deal with me for the rest of the night. I’m outta here.”

  But as I turned to go, Sean called out, “Oh no you don’t!” His voice was authoritative. I turned back around. “If Mr. Stick Up the Ass finds you on the grounds, he’s going to toss all of us out,” Sean reminded me. “And I for one don’t want to lose a gig I worked very hard to get.”

  Sinead snorted.

  “That’s enough out of you, missy,” said Sean to Sinead.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I said it to Sean, but I meant it for all of them. “I really don’t know how I ended up being your problem. I’m just waiting for my friend to finish working.” I could hear my voice shaking slightly, but I hoped anyone who didn’t know me pretty well wouldn’t notice.

  I saw Sinead and Declan exchange a look, and then she said, “Are you kidding? You know what a relief it is to get a break from all this testosterone? Not that you have that much, Sean,” she added quickly.

  “I’m surrounded by comedians,” said Sean, walking around the van. From the far side of it, he yelled, “All right, then, you’re going to be pulling your weight if you’re sticking with us, Jules.” He hit the nickname hard, like he knew nobody called me that and he was daring me to tell him not to.

  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of correcting him; I just let Sinead guide me around the van, where I stood with her while Sean kept calling me Jules as he loaded me up with cords and told me to follow Danny up the hill to the stage.

  By the time we’d set up all the equipment, I was dripping sweat and my arms and legs ached. I couldn’t believe how much work it was to set up for a concert. We’d dragged mics and mic stands and amps and guitars and a drum set up the hill from the parking lot for what felt like hours. But when I checked my phone, it was only eight fifteen. Everyone in the band was calling me Jules, and the unfamiliar nickname only intensified the sense that I was living in an alternate reality, one that was light-years away from my actual life.

  I lay on my back staring up at the sky while Danny, Declan, and Sinead tested their mics and Sean hovered over a man Danny had told me was the club’s sound guy as he adjusted the levels. Every once in a while there would be the loud screech of feedback, and then everything would go quiet and then they would start again.

  My mother either tried to commit suicide or accidentally overdosed.

  I lay on the stage, repeating the sentence in my mind as if repetition might make it comprehensible. But the words remained completely unreal to me, detached from any kind of meaning they might try to convey. Overhead, clouds passed slowly in a stratospheric breeze, and I felt as far away from earth as they were.

  “Okay, Sinead, let’s hear it,” called Sean.

  “She just went to get some water,” Danny answered.

  “Oh, well, that’s great then,” said Sean. “I guess we’ll all sit around twiddling our thumbs while we wait for Her Highness to return.”

  “Just give me a second and I’ll do it,” Declan said. He was taping wires down with bright blue tape.

  “How about you, Jules? You don’t exactly seem to be overworked.”

  I sat up. “What?”

  Sean was standing next to the guy at the soundboard, his arms crossed over his chest, a beer in one hand. “Talk into the mic,” Sean said. “Testing: one, two. Just like in the movies.”

  I got to my feet, crossed the stage, and stood at the microphone. The perfect lawn stretched out all around me, as if the stage were a ship floating on a broad emerald ocean. Beyond the edge of the hill, the actual water appeared, then disappeared into the horizon.

  “Testing: one, two,” I said. “Testing: one, two.” There was a loud screech, and suddenly Danny was at my side.

  “Here,” he said, moving the stand about a foot away from where it had been. “Try this.”

  “Thanks,” I said, following him and standing at the mic in its new location.

  “Keep going,” Sean called out.

  “Um, testing. One. Two. Testing.” On the second testing, my voice boomed out, shockingly loud.

  “You’re killing me with that testing,” said Sean. “Sing something. Sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  Obediently, I started singing. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear . . . someone. Happy birthday to you.”

  There was silence. In the distance, Sinead appeared, a pyramid of water bottles balanced in her arms.

  “Let’s have that again,” said Sean, but he didn’t say it with quite the same venom with which he’d said everything else.

  I sang “Happy Birthday” one more time. By the time I was finished, Sinead was standing beside Sean. “Holy shit,” she called out. “Jules, you have a great voice.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No joke, Jules,” said Danny from over by the drums. “You can really sing.”

  “Okay,” I said, not really able to process their compliments. They were all staring at me. “Do you need me to sing it again?”

  “Ah, yeah,” said the sound guy, who had a mustache so big I was pretty sure it was ironic. “If you could sing it one more time, that would be great.”

  I sang the song for a third time. It didn’t sound like anything special, certainly no different than it sounded every other time I’d sung it. When I was finished, everyone clapped. I felt weird standing up there with people looking at me, so I just asked if we were finished, went over to the edge of the stage, and sat down.

  When it was time for the concert to start, everyone but me went off to change. Contrary to gender stereotypes, Sinead was the first one done, wearing a tight black dress and a pair of high-heeled black pumps. She stood at the edge of the parking lot, and a minute later the boys joined her. They walked toward the stage, where I was sitting, the guys in black suits and white shirts, Sinead in her dress. I wondered what it was like to be a member of their let’s-be-in-a-band-together-and-bicker-but-really-all-get-along-and-love-each-other family. You could tell just by looking at them that all of their parents were happily married, that nobody in their family had tried to commit suicide or overdosed, that they gathered around the piano at holidays and sang seasonal songs.

  I kind of hated all of them.

  I looked out at the lawn. Little lights were strung up in the few trees scattered picturesquely across the grounds. People were wandering around eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking from tall glasses. All of them looked happy and carefree, enjoying a warm summer’s night at their club. I wondered what would happen if I opened my mouth, started screaming, and refused to stop. Would the roasted-egg guy throw me out? Would he have me arrested?

  Would the police put me in a hospital bed with restraints on my arms?

  My phone buzzed and I picked it up. Sofia.

  Sofia: how r u?

  I reread our previous exchanges.

  Sofia: how r u?

  Me: im ok.

  Sofia: how r u?

  Me: i am okay.

  Here it was for the third time, and I typed a new response.

  Me: i am fucking freaking out, sofia, how do you think I am?

  I stared at the screen of my phone.

  Don’t make a scene, Juliet.

  I deleted what I’d just typed. im ok, I wrote, and I put the phone back on the stage beside me.

  “God, this crowd is ancient,” said Sinead, standing at the edge of the stage next to where I was sitting with my legs hanging down.

  “We’ll have them rocking in the aisles,” said Declan, surveying the audience along with her. When they were standing next to each other, it was clear how much Declan and Sinead looked alike—even more than they looked like Danny and Sean and Sean and Danny looked like each other. Declan and Si
nead even stood the same way, both arms crossed over their chests, each hand holding the opposite bicep.

  “Are you guys twins?” I asked, staring at them.

  “Irish twins,” said Sinead. Her teeth were very white against her bright red lipstick. “We’re eleven months apart. And Danny’s our little brother. He’s going into first form.”

  “They don’t call it that here,” said Sean, who was standing on the ground just below us. The way he said it made me think it wasn’t the first time he’d had to tell her. “It’s ninth grade. And you are going to be a junior and Declan’s going to be a senior.” He popped open the beer he was holding.

  “Right,” said Sinead, snapping her fingers. “Junior. Senior. It sounds so American.”

  “We are American,” Declan reminded her. He gave me an apologetic look. “We’ve been living in Beijing for the past seven years. Our dad just got transferred back to New York in June.”

  “Start spreading the news!” Sean sang, and he took a swig of beer.

  “I thought you were British,” I said, confused. “You have British accents.”

  Sinead laughed. “We were born in London. We lived there before we moved to Beijing.”

  The sound guy came over to the stage. “Okay, you guys start at nine?” His mustache was truly astonishing.

  “That we do,” said Sean.

  “I guess it’s time, then,” said the guy. “Break a leg.”

  “Thanks,” said Sinead.

  Suddenly everyone was moving around the stage, gathering instruments, talking into a mic, doing a quick roll on the drums. I felt idiotic sitting up there and being in the way. I hopped off the stage just as Declan called out, “Hey! Jules!”

  I turned around. He was holding a tambourine out in my direction. “Do you want to play with us?”

  I shook my head. “I really can’t.”

  “A cat could play the tambourine.” He shook it lightly. “Haven’t you ever dreamed of being a rock star?”

  Even if I’d wanted to play with them—which I didn’t—I was sure that shaking a tambourine would shake loose something inside me that was already barely staying attached. “No. But thanks. Really.”