Better Than Perfect by Melissa Kantor Page A

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.
    â€œDisplay that prominently on your dashboard so security can see it,” he said, and she nodded.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œI’m Juliet,” I said.
    â€œShould 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 noplace 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.
    â€œShe’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.
    â€œTambourine,” 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