Perfect Escape by Jennifer Brown Page A

in the cup holder. “I can’t believe I’m going to go along with this, but okay.”

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
    I was already sick of being in the car. We hadn’t seen anything for what seemed like forever. Just miles and miles of darkness and shadowy fields on both sides. I knew people lived out there somewhere, and I spent some time wondering what it must be like to be so isolated all the time. Was it wonderful, never having to worry about parking or sales on paper towels? Or was it horrible and restless? After so many hours in the car, with nobody to talk to but my brother, who wasn’t exactly talking, I was feeling horrible and restless.
    “We’ve gotta stop,” I said, craning my neck to look for a highway sign that might give some indication of a town somewhere ahead. “My butt’s numb. And we need gas. Bad.”
    Grayson nodded and peered out the window. The
uh-uhuhuh-uh
sound had crept back into his throat. I wanted to stuff something into my ears to drown the sound out. I didn’t know about him, but it was making me feel twitchy.
    For the past hour, I’d been ignoring the noise and the pressing need for gas as best I could, entertaining myself by envisioning what it would be like to see Zoe again. I imagined running up the driveway to meet her, her parents beckoning us into their house, all forgiven. I imagined Zoe and Grayson and me, shoulder to shoulder, twining our fingers together once again, walking hand in hand, as we’d done so many times throughout our childhood. Grayson was smiling in my imagined scene. He was relaxed and smiling. And I wasn’t running away from a mess at school. We were both having fun.
    Just how we used to be, before.
    Funny how a couple lousy sentences can ruin everything.
    Listen, Linda. We need you to keep Grayson away from Zoe, okay? We don’t want her dating a kid with mental problems.
    I’d never forget my mom’s reaction to Zoe’s dad when he said that. How she’d physically recoiled from him, clutching a margarita glass to her chest, her back brushing up against a little paper lantern she and Zoe’s mom had hung earlier that day for our traditional end-of-summer luau. I’d never forget the way Mom’s eyes clouded with shock, and how she’d glanced over Mr. Monett’s shoulder, peering in embarrassment at the other guests, who had just begun to arrive.
    And I’d never forget her response to Mr. Monett:
How dare you say such a thing, Rob? You with your Thursday afternoon mistress and your Sunday binge drinking, actinglike you’re better than my son? Get out of my yard. And keep your daughter away from my son, while you’re at it! He doesn’t need some trampy little preteen giving him any pointers.
    And I’d never forget how my mom’s drink had stained the tops of Mr. Monett’s shoes as she threw her cup with a hollow plastic
thunk
down on the deck. Or how Zoe had cried, curled up in the hollow of Grayson’s arm on the edge of the sandbox underneath our old swing set. How she’d bitterly cursed my mom for calling her trampy and how she swore she’d marry Grayson someday because he was her soul mate. That she’d been in love with him since she was a toddler, and how could my mom and her dad not see that?
    And I’d never forget any of the little scenes that followed—Mr. Monett showing up on our front porch, clutching Grayson’s elbow so hard Grayson’s face was crumpled in pain; Zoe’s mom calling mine, screaming that she’d caught Grayson kissing her daughter again; Dad and Zoe’s dad almost coming to blows when Mr. Monett shoved Grayson off their porch after finding Grayson and Zoe studying rocks out of their landscaping there; Grayson moaning and pacing and rubbing the sides of his head through the night, the hardwood floor of his bedroom strewn with flyaway, frizzy tumbleweeds.
    And me, fighting for my brother. Standing by my friend. Holding her hand. Stroking her hair. Until they did that last stupid thing and Mr. Monett said it was the final straw and