Escaping Perfect (9 page)

“You good?” Britta asked when I walked out of the bathroom five minutes later.

“Oh yeah,” I said, flipping my keys once around my finger before dropping them in the second pocket. “This girl is ready to party.”

And put Jasper Case entirely out of my mind.

*  *  *

“This place is freaking amazing!” I shouted, waving my hands over my head on the dance floor.

Ruckus was like no place I'd ever been before. It was huge—about three times the size of the Mixer—and had three separate, raised dance floors. The one in the center was a circle made of wood planks where only line dancing was allowed, while the two flanking it, closer to the stage, were a couple of black lacquer free-for-alls. Along the walls were battered wooden benches, on top of which a throng of girls and guys danced like no one was watching. The Firebrand Three was bringing the house down, and I'd never danced so hard or so long in my life.

In fact, to be quite honest, I couldn't remember the last time I had danced at all, at least not outside the confines of my tiny dorm room, listening to music on my iPod so as not to disturb the serious studiers in the rooms around mine.

“Told you they were awesome!” Fiona shouted back,
her skirt flaring out around her as she twirled.

Somewhere up near the stage, Britta took notes on the band in a tiny notebook, since there were no tables to speak of. I was kind of in awe of her work ethic. How could she be surrounded by so much fun-having and not feel the need to let her freak flag fly?

Fiona suddenly grabbed my arms, her fingers around my elbows. Sweat beaded her upper lip and forehead, and her hair had come loose from its carefully woven side braid. “I need a break,” she gasped. “Let's go get a drink!”

“Works for me!”

We jumped down from the platform on which we'd been dancing and, holding hands, wove our way through the crowd to the spot where Britta was standing. She stared up at the band with a thoughtful expression, so close to the stage she could probably count their nose hairs.

“Brit! Could you go up and get us a couple beers?” Fiona asked her, screaming in her ear to be heard over the music.

Britta nodded and lifted a finger in a
be right back
gesture. Being twenty-one made Britta's job much easier, since so many music venues were bars, and a lot of them didn't allow patrons under twenty-one through the door. This one did, but they'd immediately cuffed me and Fiona with bright pink armbands, proclaiming to the world our inability to legally drink.

Luckily, we had Britta. I was already two beers in and feeling a buzz. Which was nice, because while it didn't completely erase all thoughts of Jasper from my mind, it did take the sting off. Between the dancing and the drinking and the girl bonding I was starting to feel as if everything might be okay. As if Jasper Case and what he did with his evenings didn't matter.

I lifted Fiona's hand and twirled her once under my arm, laughing like I was just so carefree. She lost her balance, forcing me to catch her, and when I looked up, the buzz was gone.

Because Jasper Case was here. And so was his date, Charlene. One of her legs was between his, and their groins were smashed up against each other as they grinded for all they were worth. As I watched, dumbfounded and sick, he trailed his hand down her back—the very hand that had held mine just a couple of hours ago—and cupped her very ample and perky ass.

“Ugh. Charlene Carson? Seriously?” Fiona said, making a disgusted face.

What would Shelby think of
that
?
I wondered.

“Here.”

Britta returned and shoved a bottle of beer at each of us. Fiona and I clinked the long necks of our bottles, then chugged. The beer went down the wrong way, and I leaned
forward, gagging foam and ale out all over my boots.

“Are you okay?” Fiona asked.

“Fine!” I shouted back, coughing. I wiped beer off my face with the back of my hand and noticed a few drops down the front of my dress. My mother would have been disgusted if she'd seen me like this, but I couldn't have cared less.

Everyone else in this town was sowing their wild oats. It was about time I started sowing mine.

*  *  *

My head was on fire, but my palms were cold and clammy. Streamers of colorful light whipped past my vision, dizzying me. I was trying to get to the bathroom, but the floor seemed to be moving. Every time I put my foot down, I stepped on someone else's. I'd never been cursed out so violently in my life by that many people in succession.

Actually, I'd never been cursed out, period. I was having a lot of new life experiences lately.

“How much further?” I asked Fiona.

But my words ran together, and it came out more like “Homfutter?”

“We're here,” she said, supporting half my weight as we staggered sideways.

She shoved open the door with one hand and dragged me past the mirrors, where I caught the grossed-out expressions
on the reflections of maybe two dozen girls. Then we were inside a tiny stall, and I saw the grit mashed into the space between the tiles and a dead fly with its legs up in the corner and the brown rim around the water inside the toilet and that was it.

I threw up.

My hands gripped the ring of the somewhat slimy bowl, and my knees hit the floor with a crack. Fiona put her hand on my forehead, supporting my head as the heaves racked my body. Finally, I spat, closed my eyes, and flushed.

“Are you okay?” Fiona asked.

My butt hit the floor as I pushed my glasses up on my nose with the side of my hand. “'M glad you're here. It's much nicer puking with you than it is with the Tank.”

I leaned the side of my face against the cool wall of the stall and closed my eyes. I remembered Tim hovering over me that time I was sick with the stomach bug that had ravaged my entire school, and the private nurse my mom had hired taking my pulse while I shook in bed. My mother had never in her life been there when I was sick. Never held my hand or read me stories or taken my temperature. Nope. No motherly love for me. Instead I got a retired pro-wrestler bodyguard and a nurse with a puggle nose and a severe attitude problem.

“The Tank?” Fiona asked with a giggle. She was a tad drunk herself, but clearly not as drunk as me. “What's that?”

“Just this guy who used to watch me,” I said, adjusting my skirt and pressing my face tighter against the wall. The wall held me up. The wall was my friend. “It's a whole big thing.”

“What? You mean like a stalker?” Fiona asked, suddenly shrill. “Did you have to get, like, a restraining order?”

My eyes popped open, and pain stabbed my skull. Damn it. What had I just said? I tried to remember the words that had, but seconds ago, spewed from my mouth and in what order, but trying to remember only made the pain worse.

“Can you just go?” I said to Fiona, waving my hands at her.

“What? No. I'm not gonna leave you in here without—”

“Go!” I shouted now, shoving myself up as best I could. “Please! Get out, Fiona. I need to be alone.”

I needed to figure out exactly what I'd told her and how to explain it later when I was sober. If I was ever sober again.

“Fine. But I'll be right outside.” Fiona opened the door, which was next to impossible with both of us in there, and slipped out.

As soon as she was gone, I slammed the bowl closed and
somehow half crawled, half hoisted myself up onto it. Sitting now, I put my head between my knees and groaned.

“Hey! Are you ever coming out of there?” someone shouted, banging on the door.

“One second!” I muttered.

I took a deep breath and blew it out. Then another. Then another. The insides of my nostrils prickled with the pungent odors of ammonia and pee. My head pounded along with the beat of the dance music vibrating the walls all around me. The band had signed off more than an hour ago and we'd been dancing to music spun by a DJ ever since. Britta had kept the beers flowing, and I'd just kept handing over the dollar bills until I was cleaned out. Cleaned out and potentially screwed.

Had any of the news outlets mentioned Tim's name? Or worse, had he actually been interviewed? If Fiona saw a news story connecting Tim “the Tank” Thompson to Cecilia Montgomery, she would definitely put it all together and realize who I really was.

Why couldn't I seem to keep my big mouth shut?

Someone smacked the door with her palm, and I was so startled that another spew of barf came up inside my mouth. With a grimace, I swallowed it—ugh. But I really didn't want to put my head near that toilet again. I stood up and slowly,
shakily opened the door. A broad girl with a flat face and a ton of eye makeup stared me down.

“Some of us have gotta pee!” she announced. Then she basically shoved me out of the way and slammed the door in my face.

I made my way to the sinks and splashed some cold water on my cheeks, then staggered out the door. I saw Fiona, but she was looking the other way, which was lucky. I didn't want to deal with her and her follow-up questions right now. Blindly, I turned around and saw a big red
EXIT
sign at the end of the hall. I made my way to it and pushed out into the alleyway, taking a big gulp of the warm, humid air outside.

The pungent scent of rotting garbage hit me like a brick wall and almost made me heave again. I turned and pressed my hands and forehead into the concrete side of the building, breathing through my mouth. After a minute my stomach seemed stable. I carefully stepped out onto the busy street where the front door of Ruckus was situated. We'd walked here, so I knew I could make it home, if I could only remember the way.

After a few minutes of extreme concentration, I was about 90 percent certain that I wanted to make a left, so I did. Ignoring the laughter and catcalls of my fellow late-night partiers, I walked very slowly until I found myself on
Main Street, where I turned around and slammed right into Duncan Taylor.

“Lia!” he blurted, sounding almost frightened. “What are you doing here?”

“Duncan!” I cried out. And then I burped.

Duncan's eyes closed as his head reeled back. “Damn. You smell like a brewery.” He locked his arm around me tight and quickly turned me entirely around, which made my head spin in an unfortunate way.

“Where're we going?”

And then I saw where we were—across the street from the Book Nook, and the wall was painted black. No message. Where was the new message? And wait, if the new message wasn't up yet, then where was the painter?

“Home! I'm taking you home,” Duncan said.

Then he pulled me forward so quickly my head snapped around, and I almost tripped on a slab of uneven sidewalk.

“Do we have to go so fast?” I asked, my skull pounding.

“No. Sorry. No. Of course not,” Duncan said. “I guess I just want to get you there before you barf on my new kicks.”

“Already did that,” I told him, puffing out my cheeks. “Barfed, I mean. Not on your new kicks.”

Before long we arrived at Hadley's, where I extricated myself from Duncan's arms, dropped down on the bench
outside the drugstore's front windows, and leaned my head back against the glass.

“You okay?” Duncan asked.

I groaned.

“So . . . that's a no, then.”

I just waved at him, unable to answer. Okay. This was not good. This was not the person I wanted to be. A girl who went out and got herself sloppy drunk all because the guy she liked had taken some other girl out dancing. That wasn't me. It wasn't Cecilia Montgomery, mature, intelligent, sophisticated daughter of America's sweetheart senator, and it certainly wasn't Lia Washington, the independent girl who'd left behind a crappy family to strike out on her own. I didn't need a guy, damn it. What I needed was a life. And this was no way to live one.

“Well, I'm not leaving until I at least get you to your door, so . . .”

I groaned again, hating that he was here to witness me in my ignominious state.

“Duncan, you are
such
a good guy,” I said.

As I lifted my head to look at him, a flash of headlights nearly blinded me. I raised my hand and my heart gave a lurch. It was the Town Car again, making its way slowly toward me around the park. Whoever was driving the car wasn't close
enough yet to see me, and with a burst of sudden adrenaline I dove off the bench and down the alleyway that led to the drugstore's back door.

“Lia? Hey! Wait up!” Duncan shouted.

I was just ducking around the corner to safety when the car eased by, and I could swear I saw a curious face staring out at me from the passenger-side window. Then Duncan appeared in front of me, cutting off my view, and the car was gone.

“What just happened?” Duncan asked.

“Nothing. I just really need to go to bed. Like now.”

Pulse skipping erratically, hands slick with a new supply of sweat, I fumbled my keys out of my pocket and they dropped to the ground.

“I've got it,” Duncan said.

He grabbed the keys and walked me over to the door, which he kindly unlocked for me.

“Thank you, Duncan,” I said, turning away. “Let's forget this ever happened.”

“Will do,” Duncan said. “Are you sure you'll be okay?” He glanced toward the stairs. “Maybe I should—”

“No. I'll be fine. I really just want to be alone right now,” I told him. All I could think about was getting upstairs and hiding under the covers. “But thanks again.”

And then I let the door slam in his face. I'd just have to hope he'd forgive me tomorrow. The door locked automatically behind me, and I ran up the steps as fast as I could and let myself into the apartment. Everything was dark, but the moon shining through the window cast a glowing beam directly on my smiling six-year-old face atop the pile of newspapers and magazines.

“Screw you!” I shouted into the silence, not even sure who I was shouting at. My mom? The reporters? My first-grade self?