Escaping Perfect (5 page)

As soon as my entire body was done responding to
that
, it hit me. I'd escaped so I could live a life. I'd escaped so I could have experiences. Experiences like this one. If I wanted to live, it was time to start living.

But still. I couldn't let anyone get a good picture of my face. I turned around and plucked the black cowboy hat from Jasper's head. He reached up to pat down his sweaty blond hair as I placed the hat on my head and brought the brim down low.

“Well,” I told him. “You're right about that.”

I walked across the stage to where Danny and Delia were hanging out in the wings. “Any chance I can borrow that for a sec?” I said, gesturing at the violin. “Danny?” I ventured.

Her blue eyes widened in surprise, but she shrugged. “Sure, darlin'. You do your thing.”

“Thank you. I think I will.”

Then I walked back to center stage and over to the mic. “I'm Lia Washington,” I said. My voice reverberated throughout the room. “And I guess this is my hidden talent.” I ducked my chin as best as I could and started to play.

My song of choice was Dolly Parton's “Jolene,” which was one of Gigi's favorites. The second I started playing, I forgot all about the crowd, about the camera phones, even about Jasper. All I could think about was Gigi and the music. Damn, I had missed playing the violin. Why had I ever given it up? Oh, right. Because my mother had decided my time would be better spent learning Mandarin.

Wrong again, Mom.

When the last strains of the song faded into nothing, I hazarded a glance at Fiona and Britta's table. Fiona was on her feet cheering, as were a lot of other people. Ryan came over and took the mic, giving me a wide smile.

“You, my friend, can come back anytime!” Then he looked at the crowd. “Lia Washington, everybody!”

I lifted one hand, my chest inflating with pride and adrenaline and sheer joy. Then I returned Danny or Delia's violin to her, and jogged back over to Jasper and placed his hat back on his head. He tipped it back, and my heart caught. His eyes were filled with this sort of awed admiration. No one had ever looked at me like that before.

“Holy fiddle, girl. That was intense!”

I raised a shoulder, tilting my head. “Sorry you didn't get to humiliate me.”

“I wasn't trying to humiliate you!” he said, following me as I hoofed it down the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah,” I called back. “You keep telling yourself that.”

His guitar still hung around his neck, which made it difficult for him to navigate the crowd on his way to the end of the bar. A few people stopped him to congratulate him, and a few stopped me to congratulate me, which made it slow going. Ryan, meanwhile, had picked another unwitting volun­teer, who was now onstage showing everyone his double-­jointed arm moves.

“You have this way of putting me in my place,” Jasper said as we finally reached our destination.

“Sorry,” I said, leaning into the bar. “You just bring something out of me.”

Which was true. I wasn't usually quick with the one-­liners, but somehow that was different around Jasper.

“Something nasty, I guess,” he said, but he was still grinning. He swung his guitar behind him so he could hook his thumbs into his front pockets.

I smirked back, my pulse thrumming in my wrists. “I guess.”

I signaled for the bartender, but he was too busy with the hundred other people he was serving.

“You ain't never gonna get his attention,” Jasper said.

“You do know that's not proper English, right?” I said, then blushed. Jasper looked me up and down, his eyes narrowed.

“How about you and me head over to this place I know that's not so packed?” he said. “I'd like to know everything about you, Red Sox.”

He almost had me what with all the music and the smiling and the hotness, but that last notion stopped my blood cold. He couldn't know everything about me. Not until I figured out who Lia Washington was. And clearly, as evidenced by my coughing fit back at the table, I didn't even know where Lia Washington was
from.
And even when I figured out a backstory for myself, everything I said to him—to anyone—would be a lie.

“I'll pass,” I said, swallowing down my disappointment. My stomach was tied in knots, tightened by uncertainty. I knew that walking away from my old life meant leaving my identity behind, but I'd never really thought about what it would be like to create a fictitious one—to have to lie every moment of every hour of every day.

“You're kidding,” he replied.

“Hey, bartender!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. It
felt good to shout. Miracle of miracles, he looked over. “Two beers in the bottle and an ice water.”

I pulled out some cash and looked at Jasper, trying to collect myself. I didn't want him to see how rattled I was. “People don't say no to you very often, do they?”

He leaned in to the bar on one elbow. “What is this ‘no' word of which you speak?”

I smiled, and the bartender dropped two sweating bottles of beer and a glass of water in front of me.

“That'll be fifteen,” he said.

I tossed him the money—plus tip—and picked up the drinks.

“I liked your song,” I said to Jasper, turning away.

“Well. That's something to build on,” he replied.

“We'll see.”

As I sauntered away, I felt giddy and high, but it didn't last. Halfway across the room, my guilt, my doubt, and my fear had snuffed it out. All I'd wanted was a new life.
My
life. But how could I ever really have that when I was always second-guessing what to say? When I couldn't let anyone get near me for fear I'd slip up? When I didn't even know who the hell I was supposed to be?

What if I'd made a huge, horrible, irreversible mistake?

Chapter Five

The hazy, early morning light
was coming from the wrong side of the bed, and when I stretched out my legs, my toes caught on something hard. I sat up and blinked, pushing my hair back from my face. Except there was no hair to push. That was when it all came rushing back to me. I opened my eyes and winced against the sunlight. East-facing windows with no curtains. Awesome.

Then I looked around the bare room and smiled. There was a three-drawer dresser with a missing handle and a water-ringed top. The small green table next to the bed was round and metal and slightly rusted, as if it had once been used as outdoor furniture. The door to the closet was an old shower curtain with a painting of Johnny Cash midcroon, and the bed beneath me was bare—it was the hard, rolled
edge of the mattress that my foot had hit when I woke up. I had slept under an old Mickey Mouse blanket of Britta's that had covered all of me only if I curled up in a ball. Over my head a ceiling fan creaked lazily, bleating out a constant waltzlike rhythm.

But it was mine, all mine.
Mine-all-mine. Mine-all-mine,
I thought to the beat.

I flopped back on the bed, covered my face with the balled-up blanket, and squealed into it. Yes, there were still ten million things to figure out, but for the moment I decided to revel in the fact that I was free. I was finally, finally free.

After a few indulgent minutes of lazing around in the bloodied shirt I'd put back on before bed, I realized I was too excited to sleep in. Plus I had made a date to go shopping for new clothes with Fiona at ten. I pushed myself up and stretched, then dropped to the floor to start my usual morning routine—fifteen minutes of meditation, followed by a full twenty minutes of tai chi. (Friday was a tai chi day. The other six days of the week I alternated between tae kwon do and karate.) Sitting with legs crossed on the hard floor, I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind, but it was next to impossible. Too much had happened in the past couple of days. The funeral, the paparazzi, my mom's speech, my escape, a new haircut, a new identity, a new job, Fiona
and Duncan and Britta and Jasper. Jasper, Jasper, Jasper.

Just thinking about the way he'd looked at me last night made me itch for a cold shower.

There was a clatter out in the common area, and I heard Britta curse under her breath. My eyes flew open. Why was she up so early? And what was she doing out there? For the first time in my life I had a roommate, and I had no clue what I was supposed to do. If I opened the door, would she think she'd woken me up? Did she want to be alone? Or would it be rude if I didn't say good morning?

I sat there, frozen by indecision, until a flash of indignation shoved me to my feet. I was not totally socially incompetent. I was just going to go out there and say hi. This was my life now. I had to take part in it.

My hand was on the doorknob when I realized I was wearing nothing but my underwear and a white button-down that looked like it had been lifted from a crime scene. I quickly changed back into Fiona's clothes and walked out. Britta was in the small, open kitchen area, dumping coffee into an ancient-looking coffeemaker. She wore unflattering khakis and a white polo shirt, her hair pulled back in a conservative bun. Gone were the fake glasses, the dark lipstick, and the Band-Aids. For a second I wasn't even entirely sure it was her.

“Um, hey,” I said.

She looked over at me. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

I slowly padded toward the kitchen, taking in the rest of the apartment, which I hadn't seen much of in the pitch-black exhaustion of last night. The living room was actually quite large, with high ceilings and three long windows looking out over Main Street. Each of these was hung with a sheer, red, flowered curtain drawn aside to let in the light. There were two mismatched couches—one brown plaid, the other white with pink stripes—and a large-screen TV that was so new and sleek it looked out of place with the thrown-together décor. There was some workout gear piled in the corner: a BOSU, several hand weights, a couple of kettlebells, and a yoga mat, all of it collecting dust. Along the far wall—the one that backed what I assumed was Britta's bedroom on the other side of the apartment—were five huge bookcases all packed to the gills with books. More piles of books were stacked in front of them, some listing precariously.

“Wow. You must really like to read,” I said.

“I have a book blog too,” Britta said, yawning. She stood with one hand on either side of the coffeemaker's base, as if holding on to it was keeping her upright, and stared at the dripping brown liquid.

“Yeah? What kinds of books?” I asked.

“Mystery, mostly.”

She didn't elaborate. Fiona was right: Britta was a girl of few words. I clicked my teeth together, feeling awkward as the coffee­maker's burbling peppered the silence. I slid onto a stool at the kitchen table, which was covered by magazines—everything from the
Atlantic
—which was one of my mother's ­favorites—to
Entertainment Weekly
,
Travel and Leisure
,
Rolling Stone
,
Food Network
,
Star
,
US Weekly
,
InStyle
,
Every Day with Rachael Ray
,
O
,
Fitness
,
Lucky
,
and on and on. It looked like Britta subscribed to every periodical still being printed in the USA.

“What's with all the magazines?” I asked finally.

“I like to read.” She poured two mugs of coffee and brought them over to the table, finding a square inch in front of me, where she placed mine. Then she went back for milk and sugar and perched them atop one of the piles, covering Jennifer Lopez's sultrily smiling face.

It wouldn't be long before the weekly tabloids started running stories about me. What if my mom finally did release a new photo? How long would it take for Britta to realize she was living with the supposedly kidnapped daughter of the Montgomery family?

The next swallow of coffee felt like a baseball going down my throat.

Britta took a last slug of her coffee, then dumped the mug in the sink. “I'm out.”

“Where're you going?” I asked.

“Work. I'm at the coffee shop on Braxton in the mornings and the Book Nook in the afternoons.” She grabbed a set of keys out of a small drawer and tossed them on the counter. “Big one's for downstairs. Smaller one's for this door. Have fun shopping with Fiona.”

“Thanks!” I said.

With that, she let herself out, slamming the door behind her. I took a deep breath and a sip of my coffee. A laugh sounded from somewhere below the legs of my chosen stool. Shoppers at Hadley's Drugs just downstairs. Part of me wanted to crawl back into bed—such as it was—and hide. The very idea of going out into the world, of constructing a life or even a day for myself, suddenly felt exhausting. I even got up and walked back to my room, but one look at the bare mattress and a couple of nebulous stains I hadn't noticed before passing out on top of them the night before knocked some sense back into me.

I needed clothes. And clearly, I needed sheets. And also? I could not prove my mother right. I could make it on my own. I could, and I would. I turned around and headed for the shower.

Chapter Six

The sun was warm on my face
as Fiona and I walked up Main Street together later that morning. As we crossed Peach, I noticed that the wall on the far side of the street had changed.
IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU'D BE HOME NOW
had been painted over by a new message, this one in black, white, and teal.

THE BEGINNING IS ALWAYS TODAY.

Okay. This wall was really speaking to me. I was so ­startled I sort of slid off the curb.

“You okay?” Fiona asked.

“Yeah. It's just . . . that wall. It said something different yesterday.”

“Oh, that. Yeah. It says something different every morning.”

“Someone paints over it every night?” I asked.

Fiona shrugged, like I was asking whether or not the sun came up each morning. I stepped around the waist-high shelves of
PREVIOUSLY LOVED BOOKS
outside the Book Nook's front door.

“Who?” I asked.

“No one knows. Benedict McCann—he owns the Book Nook—once had a security camera installed, and the person stopped painting it, but then everyone in town got upset.” She gave me a wry look. “Apparently the good people of Sweetbriar wanted their daily dose of inspiration back, so Ben took the camera down and the painting was back the next day.”

“But couldn't you just camp out on the corner and wait to see who it is?” I asked.

“Duncan and his friends tried once, but the guy—or girl—didn't show,” Fiona told me. “Now people just avoid that area between, like, midnight and five a.m. It's a pretty quiet corner anyway, so it's not hard.”

“Wow. That's actually kind of cool,” I mused.

“I guess,” Fiona said. She seemed bored.

“You don't think so?” I asked.

“No. It's not that. It's just . . . I'm so over this town,” Fiona told me, plucking a white bloom from a flowerpot in front of
Daria's. “I can't wait to get to the University of Tennessee in the fall.”

An image of my Harvard acceptance letter popped into my mind. It was the only school I'd been allowed to apply to—the only future my mother would allow for me. Never even asked what I wanted. I cleared my throat. None of that mattered anymore.

“But this town is beautiful! And the people are so nice,” I said, feeling oddly offended. Of all the places in the world, I'd chosen to come here.

Fiona sighed. “I guess. If you haven't lived here your entire life. Those of us who have generally want out. That's actually how Britta and I met. When she was a senior and I was a freshman, she started a club called the Wanderlust Society, for anyone who wanted to see the world. The school made her change it to the International Travel Club to attract more students, but it didn't matter. It ended up just being me and her, sitting around and researching all the places we want to go. That's why Britta works so many jobs. She's saving to go to Europe.”

In the park that bordered the far side of the street, a group of young moms moved through yoga poses in a circle while a full zydeco band—washboard player and all—jammed nearby.

“See what I mean? The town runs a class called Yoga 'n' Zydeco. Like, what?” Fiona said.

“But where else are you going to get yoga and zydeco?” I pointed out.

“Exactly!” she cried, as if I was agreeing with her. “Also, it's not ‘
and
Zydeco,' it's ‘
'n'
Zydeco.' The people over at town hall are very particular about the ‘
'n'
,'” she added, rolling her eyes.

“I'll try to remember that,” I said, and laughed.

“Do,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “'Cause they'll run you right outta town.”

Fiona paused next to a small shop with three dress forms in the window, each one wearing a wildly different outfit—one preppy, one hippie, one biker chic.

“This is Second Chances—my favorite store. Britta's mom owns it, which unfortunately means Britta's sister works here,” she said wryly. “But the clothes are worth the torture.”

“Britta has a sister?” I asked as Fiona started to open the door.

“Yeah. You met her yesterday. Remember Shelby?”

My jaw dropped. “Shelby and Britta are sisters?”

“Believe me, they're just as surprised about it as you are,” Fiona said.

Inside, the store was small and cozy and smelled like lavender and cinnamon toast. Racks of clothing lined the walls, and the shelves above them were stuffed with hats and bags. A
glass counter near the back corner displayed trays of glittering rhinestone costume jewelry and pegs holding belts and more handbags hung behind the counter. Shelby was at the register with her back to us, wearing a yellow sundress, her straight black hair hanging down her back in a perfect blunt cut.

My mother and her stylist would have loved this girl.

When she turned around, she was smiling, but as soon as she saw us, she stopped.

“Can I
help
you?” she said, in a tone that made it clear she thought both of us were beyond help of any kind.

“We can take care of ourselves,” Fiona replied.

Shelby was opening her mouth for a comeback when the curtains behind her snapped sideways and out walked a tall woman with olive skin and curly black hair, wearing a green and black halter dress and big gold jewelry. She took one look at me and her jaw dropped.

“As I live and breathe! It's
you
!”

I felt as if the floor had just crumbled beneath me, and my vision tilted sideways. This was it. I was done.

“It's who?” Shelby asked snidely, looking me up and down.

“The fiddle player from last night!” The woman stepped forward and took both my hands in hers. “Girl, you know how to play!”

“Doesn't she?” Fiona said.

I pulled in a breath and the world straightened out again. Okay. I was okay. She didn't actually recognize me. But my blood still hammered in my ears, as if it hadn't gotten the memo yet. I took another deliberate breath, then another, knowing it was my turn to say something, but unable to get myself together enough to do it.

I swear my life had just flashed before my eyes.

“Do I even want to know what you're talking about?” Shelby asked impatiently.

“This girl right here played a mean ‘Jolene' last night at the Mixer,” the woman said, releasing me. “You shoulda been up there in your own right, not just as part of Ryan Fitzsimmons's silly hidden-talents thing.”

“Thank you,” I said finally.

“Awesome. So glad to know my mother's hanging out at bars again,” Shelby groused, closing a jewelry cabinet with a bang.

“Woman's gotta meet a good man somewhere,” her mother singsonged.

“You met a good man already,” Shelby said irritably.

“Yes, and your daddy
was
a good man all the way up until the day he walked out on us.” Shelby's mother said this like she was reading the weather out of the newspaper. No big thing. But Shelby's face darkened.

“Mother!” she whined, looking at me. Then she turned on her heel and shoved her way into the back room.

“So sorry about that,” the woman said to me, turning to pick up a tray full of muffins. “My daughter just can't seem to accept the fact that her daddy's not coming back. Muffin?”

I hadn't eaten yet, and my stomach growled at the sight of the big, crumb-topped muffins. I was never allowed to eat anything with that much refined sugar in it. Ever. Even on birthdays we always had sugar-free frozen yogurt or pies baked by my mom's health-guru personal chef. At school, Tank kept a watchful eye on my diet and reported back to my mom. Buzzkill.

“Thank you.”

I cracked a tiny bit off the top and placed it on my tongue. It was so delicious I had to concentrate to keep from shoving the whole thing in my mouth.

“I'm Tammy Tanaka,” Shelby's mom said, replacing the tray. “And you are Lia Washington, as I recall.”

“Yeah. Yep. That's me,” I replied, stupidly. “I love your store.”

“Well, thank you,” Tammy said. “What are you looking for, Fiddler? Something to wear for your Opry debut?”

“Fiddler?” Fiona said. “That's what you're going with?”

“I give everyone nicknames,” Tammy explained. “Britta's
is Brainiac, for obvious reasons. Shelby's is Binky, because she sucked on a pacifier till she was about six years old.”

“Mo-
om!
” Shelby griped from behind the curtain.

Fiona and I stifled laughs.

“I'd give you one that comes from your name, like Fifi over here, but Lia's already sort of a nickname, right?” She narrowed her eyes. “That short for anything?”

I almost choked on a muffin crumb. “Nope. Just Lia. You can call me Fiddler, if you want. And I'm looking for everything. Whole new wardrobe,” I said, trying to distract her.

It worked. Tammy grinned and rubbed her hands together, her gold bracelets clinking. “Well, then.
This
is gonna be fun.”

*  *  *

Half an hour later I was standing inside a small dressing room, checking out one of my new outfits—low-slung jeans, a studded belt, black vintage Converse, and a white T-shirt with a blown-out stencil of the Eiffel Tower on the front, plus a gold chain with a little bird pendant on it, the wings spread out like it was taking flight. Tammy had seen me admiring it and had thrown it in for free. It was pretty and delicate and seemed symbolic of my new situation. I was still getting used to the sight of myself in glasses again, but generally? I looked frickin' awesome. My mother would have retched if she could have seen me.

“The beginning is always today,” I whispered.

Outside my little fashion cocoon, Fiona and Tammy were chatting, while Shelby continued to hide somewhere on the premises. I was just loading up my arms with the two other pairs of jeans, three summer dresses, one long gray skirt, two sweaters, and stack of T-shirts I'd picked out, when I heard the front door open. Heavy footsteps tromped in and I froze, imagining FBI, CIA, some kind of acronym in sunglasses and a gray suit. Until I heard Jasper's voice. And then my wrists began to hum.

“Good mornin', Miss T.,” he said, and I imagined him touching the brim of his cowboy hat. “Fiona.”

“Hello, Jax . . . Fitz,” Tammy said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Just stopping by to check in about my plans with . . . hey! Who's trying on clothes?”

I glanced in the mirror. Did I look okay? What if the shirt was all wrong?

“It's Lia. She's giving herself a makeover.”

“Like Lia really needs a makeover.”

“Jasper, don't—”

Suddenly the curtain was jammed aside, and there stood Jasper. He wasn't wearing his cowboy hat after all, and his blond hair fell adorably over his forehead. His smile slowly turned into a frown.

“Shucks. I was hoping to find you at least half indecent,” he said, blue eyes merry.

I tried hard not to blush, but it didn't work. Then the curtains to the back room opened, and Shelby stepped out, her slim arms crossed over her chest. “Real nice,” she said, scowling at Jasper.

He gave her a look I couldn't decipher, and they stared each other down. Weird. Awkward. Unsettling.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I told him, suddenly just wanting out of the line of fire.

Jasper turned to let me pass as I made my way to the counter with my new clothes.

“You could never disappoint, no matter how much clothing you do or don't have on,” Jasper said.

Fiona stared at me as I pretended to not be affected by him. I was certain I was failing miserably. Shelby, meanwhile, walked over to a stack of jeans and started to unfold and refold them, snapping each pair as loudly as possible. The tension was thick enough to gnaw on.

Oh, God. Shelby and Jasper weren't, like . . .

“Speaking of little to no clothing, I hope you bought yourself a bathing suit,” Ryan Fitzsimmons said, thankfully obliterating a highly disturbing image that was trying to form itself inside my mind. Without the spotlight on
him, he looked entirely different. He was a little skinnier than I'd realized last night, his skin darker and his smile blinding. But the energy was the same. He looked like he was set to pop at any moment, like he was the kind of guy who was up for anything. “Mischievous” was the word that came to mind.

“I don't sell secondhand bathing suits, Fitz. It's unsanitary,” Tammy said, shuddering as she began placing my things in a paper bag.

“Why would she need a bathing suit, exactly?” Fiona asked. Then she took one look at Ryan's face, and hers flooded with understanding. “Oh, crap! It's Fun Run tonight!”

“You know it, baby!” Ryan said, pointing at her with both index fingers. “And this one's gonna be epic.”

“Although I think the bathing suit is strictly optional, no?” Jasper said, leaning one hip against the counter as he looked me up and down. “And I mean that in the best possible sense.”

Shelby snapped another pair of jeans. I tried to ignore her.

“What the heck is Fun Run?” I asked.

“It's this thing Ryan's crazy brother came up with a few years ago, and now that he's off at college, Ryan has kept it going,” Fiona explained.

“Um, excuse me, it's just this
awesome
thing my brother
came up with a few years ago.” Ryan turned to me, rubbing his palms together, his knees slightly bent like he was about to catch a baseball. “On the first Friday of every month, we do a Fun Run. Every citizen of Sweetbriar between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five gets a text, from
moi
.” He paused to put his hand on his chest and bat his eyelashes. “The text tells them where to meet up and when. You have twenty minutes to get to the spot with the proper gear, or you have to work the party instead of enjoying it. And let me tell ya, we do enjoy our Fun Runs.”