Roman Holiday Read online

  Would he really be disappointed?

  I pour myself another glass and toast to the Big Dipper, and for the next hour, I talk with him about Roman, because Roman had begun to fill the crevice my dad left behind. What am I to a rock star if all I am in a secret?

  What did I mean to Caspian?

  What does the foreclosure mean to Mom?

  All secrets. All locked away. All unwanted.

  That is one thing I never wanted to be.

  WE ARE GOLDEN

  by Rue Norfolk

  The Juice, June Issue #317

  It’s early June, and I’ve waited outside of Muse Records for three hours. I am hot. I am sweaty. Los Angeles has never been more like Hell. However, there is one saving grace in this fire and brimstone town: Holly Hudson. She is supposed to walk through those double doors and into my life in five minutes (as long as I keep my camera tucked safely in my car, her PR agent stressed).

  Holly Hudson, best known for the sensational rock band, Roman Holiday, with playboy frontrunner Roman Montgomery and estranged pianist Boaz Alexander, reportedly celebrated her birthday last week by herself. Which is odd considering she could have more hot tail than every bachelor on the Sunset Strip combined. And yet, she is still fantastically single.

  So, my editor has dutifully charged me to find out why.

  Holly Hudson barges out of the double doors, screaming into her phone, waving her hands in the air as if channeling a lightning strike to whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the other end. Her ringlets of chestnut hair are pulled into a high ponytail, bracelets singing in a chorus of clatter, her clothes a retrograde neon 80s fashion nightmare. But she works it. After all, her sensational style has been on the cover of Elle and Vanity Fair for months. They’re calling it “eclectic.” She has tucked her trademark peacock feather behind her left ear today, bouncing with her boundless energy.

  “I told you she’d be here! Honestly, you never listen anymore! RoMo, I swear to God, if there’s one scratch on that rabbit I will cut off your penis and feed it to the sharks at the LA Zoo!”

  Mystery solved.

  She has always been one fiery phoenix of a girl, having risen from poverty to become one of the highest-paid entertainers on the market. She ends the call before her bright eyes—diamonds of blue that pin me like icy daggers—set on me. She slides her phone into her left bra strap and presses her hands on her hips.

  “The Juice,” she says deploringly.

  “Rue, actually. Rue Norfolk. I spoke with you on the phone—”

  “You’re early.”

  “Actually, you’re—”

  “Let’s skip the small-talk.” She descends the steps on her fuck-me heels and stops a foot and a half away. Her rep says she’s five foot three and one hundred and thirteen pounds, but I’m two inches smaller and twenty pounds lighter, and she looks anorexic. Closer, her cheeks are gaunt and dark rings show under her eye makeup.

  “Small talk skipped,” I confirm.

  She cocks her head. “Wait… aren’t you the little shit who wanted to order Chip 'N Dales for me?”

  “And take you out to dinner. That’s still an option.” I grin.

  “I never said no to the Chip 'N Dales.”

  Her manager interrupts then, shooting Holly a meaningful look. “But she’s much too busy with her schedule,” the man digresses.

  Holly sighs, and tells Joe Maroski she doesn't need a babysitter. “I’ll be a princess, I promise,” she says, before leading me up the street to a little corner cafe. Joe tries to deter us—I have, after all, stepped on all but one of his toes in the past—but once Holly’s mind is set there is no changing it.

  I wonder if it’s safe for her without a bodyguard. Rumor has it, she hasn’t kept the same one for more than a month; the poor man-beasts can never keep up with her. She’s like the Hope Diamond on legs. You get one look at her in the open and you’ll never remember another cheap-ass engagement ring again, but good luck catching her.

  At the cafe, she orders a skinny soy latte, no whip, in a dejected sort of tone that tells me she’d rather have the triple mocha latte with extra whip, and could you be a doll and drizzle some of that caramel on it too?

  I order a tea.

  “It must be hard,” I begin, “to be in the public eye all the time.”

  We sit at a window seat, a peculiar spot, since it’s just inviting the paparazzi to take a good shot of her. Perhaps that is her plan: playing nice with the paparazzi—after all, I'm one of them. “That’s one question you can’t ask," she replies, "so save your breath. Oh, and don’t ask about my family. Or Roman.”

  “Why is he so secretive?”

  “You can’t ask that.”

  There goes half of my interview. The world believes that they are the Cory and Topanga of Hollywood. I size up her expression, her mood, but she has sealed it all away. Even testing the waters might land me on the permanent blacklist, and that would be bad for business. So, we skim the water to find something we can talk about.

  Which is—that’s right—the weather.

  “Got a hot date on this beautiful Friday evening?”

  She’s not going for it. “I don’t see why you try to interview people like me. I’m not going to tell you what you want to know. I won’t tell you where I live or what type of car I drive. You want to know my astrology sign? Aries. My SAT scores were 1460. Someday, I want to play a gig at Madison Square Garden.”

  “Which, congratulations, by the way. Summer of next year, right? End of July?”

  “I’m stoked.” A smile blossoms onto her face like a moonflower. “It’s been my dream since, well, ever.”

  “So dreams really can come true.”

  “Sometimes…” She shrugs. “Dreams change, too. What you thought you wanted at sixteen isn’t what you want at twenty.”

  “Did you ever dream you’d be on the cover of Vanity Fair?”

  “Used to!” She forces a laugh. “Now, all I dream about is a good night’s sleep.”

  I nod sympathetically. “This sort of popularity must be tough. You’re the spokeswoman for Covergirl now, right? And a lot of charities.”

  “Yeah,” is all she says. She sips at her skinny soy latte, looking out the window. A little girl passes with her mom and pauses at the window. She recognizes Holly, who smiles and waves down to her. Holly Hudson really is a good role model, despite what the reps say about her private life. There are rumors about her maladjustment to the pressure of constant popularity, but it’s not evident in my interview with her. She smiles and she’s happy, and sometimes she stares longingly out the window.

  “If you could do it all again, would you?” I finally ask.

  Her pink lips, seen in commercials for Covergirl across the nation, press into a half-moon frown. “I would do one thing different.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Her eyes light on me, and she gives a coy grin. “You’re not allowed to ask that.”

  Four years ago, Holly Hudson was a high school sophomore, known for her killer guitar videos on YouTube and seven-year spelling bee championship. Her best friend, Roman Montgomery, was a high school deadbeat working at a mini-golf course as a pirate on the weekends (there were bounties of booty jokes, I bet). Then everything changed when Roman and Holly made the decision to film a first music video in the basement of her house. “We were just dicking around, Roman and me,” she’d reportedly told Esquire when they first catapulted into YouTube fame and scored the infamous record deal with Muse Records. “We didn’t expect people to enjoy us in our pajamas. Boaz came a few months later. We met him in Las Vegas. We really dug his style, so we became a threesome.”

  The sleeper hit, 'Crush on You', escalated to the number one hit in the nation a month later.

  The rest, they say, is history.

  A paparazzo passes the window and snaps a flurry of photos. She tugs down the blinds without even looking up.

  "Then what can I ask?" I finally cave, because all of my questions
are apparently enemy territory.

  She shrugs. “The thing I don’t like about interviews is how twisted words can get. If I say I love Roman, you think we’re having sex. What is love, anyway? I know the word in fourteen different languages. I can give you examples of their uses. Everyone wants to know about love. About my love, so you can twist it any way you want. But what about saudade? Duende? Toska? Words that should be like love—untranslatable.”

  The door to the cafe opens, and a guy in a New York Yankees baseball cap and Ray-Bans makes a b-line for our table. An errant fan? Amusement crosses Holly’s face as she pulls off his sunglasses. I’m struck dumbfounded.

  Why, hello there Roman Montgomery.

  “You really are gorgeous,” I make the mistake of saying.

  “Thanks, you, too,” he replies absently, and presses to Holly, “Joe-Blow needs us back.”

  “Needs or wants?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Roman.”

  “Holly.”

  “I’m staying. The interview isn't over yet.” Even though it pretty much is.

  “You’ve stayed long enough,” he retorts.

  “Let me finish my coffee.”

  “Is that it?” He points to her cup.

  “No.”

  He slams the entire drink back, drains it, and makes a face. “Gross, soy. Okay, now you’re done. Let’s go.”

  "You’re buying me another one.”

  They bicker like an old married couple.

  I ask if he wants to join us, partly because I don’t want to attempt to follow in fear that my knees might buckle, and partly because seeing Roman out in the daylight is like seeing a panda in the wild.

  “Pain in the ass,” he replies. “Too many people with camera phones and Twitter accounts.”

  In all accounts, that's very true.

  Their lives are swept along hidden skyways: the backdoors of music studios, their secluded apartment, and their unmarked cars. Holly gives him a pleading look and he sighs, sits, and removes his hat. He reminds me of a fugitive on the run, a tiger that has escaped his cage. If he’s a tiger, then Holly is a flightless bird, trapped in an ever-narrowing maze of cages. Even in the cafe, they’re squashed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the same predicament for however long their empire lasts.

  A lot of Hollywood starlets don’t get the buddy treatment. They should be lucky.

  “So… what’s this interview about?” he asks.

  “Me,” Holly replies.

  “What about you?”

  “Everything. My bank accounts in Switzerland, illicit love affairs, my baby’s Daddy in Zimbabwe.”

  “I didn’t know about the baby,” he replies in mock-seriousness, and then waves his hand off toward me. “You know how these cockroaches are—excuse me, paparazzi are cockroaches. You, Madame, are a vulture.”

  “Potato, tomato.” I shrug. I ask him point-blank about his drinking problem, the slew of heartbroken one-night-stands, his reckless driving ticket, the speeding tickets—all seven, the rumored drug habit...

  “I’m twenty,” he says as if it’s the end-all excuse.

  “No, you’re reckless,” Holly counters. I like her more and more, a girl not afraid to bust a super hot guy’s balls.

  “Life in the fast lane,” he impromptu-sings.

  “Did you sing that into the girl’s boobs last night?”

  “I do not serenade women’s breasts. I’m surprised you even think that, Holly,” he replies with mock-indignation. “And here I thought we were besties.”

  “The Eagles, really?”

  “Rather me sing Hall and Oats?”

  “Take that back or I’ll burn all your Elvis records.”

  “Ooh, I’m shaking in my blue suede shoes!”

  I prompt, "So, you like being infamous, Roman?”

  “Like it? I love it!” He laughs. “It’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us, right Hols?”

  “Right.”

  “Where do you get your inspiration?” I ask them. “A girl? Love? 'My Heart War' is pretty hipster,” I comment.

  He shrugs. “Everything. I do most of the lyrics, but Hols and Boaz are good at the beat.”

  Holly rolls her eyes. “And as long as I’m alive he’ll never write a song about a girl. It’s so cliché.” She scowls, although Roman is quick to argue.

  “But everyone writes songs about girls. KISS, The Rolling Stones, Justin Bieber…”

  “The Biebs has a girlfriend song?”

  “If not, he probably will.”

  “Isn’t it called 'Boyfriend'?”

  “Whatever floats his boat.”

  Before I know it, my time has run out. Holly asks if I have any last questions before they leave. And I do—one question for her. Roman says he’ll meet her outside.

  “What is one word to describe you and Roman?” I ask after he’s gone.

  She doesn’t even blink. “Ya’aburnee.”

  Three hours later, I find myself in the small hotel room I can afford on my measly paycheck. There’s a cockroach in the bathroom, and I’m not sure whether it’s alive or pretending to be dead. As I sit down and lament over my own romantic failures, and how thankful I am to have a job that I love as much as it loves me, I type Holly’s word into Google.

  Ya’aburnee.

  Arabic. Morbid and beautiful, it is a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before the other because life, no matter how wonderful and exciting, would be too difficult without them.

  It means, quite simply, “You bury me.”

  Thursday

  Chapter Twenty

  A thunderous knock wakes me out of a dead sleep. I spring ramrod straight, my legs tangled in the comforter. An empty bag of Doritos and the wine glass I lost somewhere between the balcony and the couch go rolling onto the carpet. Found it. I bend to pick it up as another loud thud quakes the front door.

  I wince, massaging my throbbing temples. Oh, God, did I drink that entire bottle of wine? Where is the wine anyway? Looking around, I find it wedged between the couch and the cushions. You know you've hit rock bottom when you sleep with a bottle of merlot.

  No wonder my head's pounding.

  A muffled voice half-yells from the other side of the door. It sounds urgent. And sort of familiar. I disentangle my legs and roll off the couch, twisting my hair up into a bun. "Coming!" I half-yell, half-moan.

  No one came home last night—Mom and Chuck probably crashed with Darla after their casino cruise. Guess I could've slept in the bedroom, but I have no idea what I might find under those covers—and that's a scary thought. The couch isn't that uncomfortable. Okay, that's a lie. It definitely is.

  Another knock, this time so urgent it rattles the deadbolt.

  This better be the fucking president, waking me up at 10:07 in the morning. Or maybe Bon? Finally read all of those love letters I sent him as a kid and realized he's the cougar I always knew he was? Come to feast on some supple Baltimore—Conway, damn it!—flesh?

  When I open the door, my hopes die quickly.

  A young woman with red dreads turns back to the door, throwing up her arms. "Oh my God! Finally!" She barges inside, all sweet coconut perfume, and four-inch heels. "Have you seen the rags this morning? You're in some deep shit, bb."

  Am I still dreaming? I blink again, squinting at the blast of magenta dreadlocks that looks ridiculously eccentric this morning against her dark chocolate skin. "…Maggie?"

  "Who else would it be? The Pope?" She rolls her eyes, digging into her purse, and pulls out a tabloid. She waves it into the air, the bazillions of bracelets on her arm jingling like sleigh bells. I wince at the sound. Hangover no likey.

  "This is deep. You're in deep. And that was one fucking long ride! Jesus" —she pushes the trash magazine into my chest, pressing her legs together— "I gotta pee like a racehorse. Read it! Oh, my God, it is bird shit yellow!"

  She slams the bathroom door as I finally inspect the magazine. My stomach flips. Gray e
yes, framed by a wild mess of pink hair and peering over Roman's shoulder, stares back at me. The memory of the Lona comes back in full force. Dancing cheek-to-cheek. The kiss. John. Caspian's sexuality.

  It wasn't a dream. "Oh no."

  The headline slapped over my splotched forehead reads, 'ROMAN'S HOLIDAY?'

  I tear through the magazine to the page written on the cover. "A full-page spread?" I groan, skimming through the article. "'Seen at an exclusive nightclub in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with this mystery girl, have Roman's expectations fallen since Holly Hudson?' What the actual fuck? Fallen?"

  "And according to the rag," Maggie shouts from the bathroom, "you are totes hipster!"

  "Hipster?" I choke. "Seriously?"

  "And the paper calls Roman the 'Resurrected Rock God'—can you believe it?" The toilet flushes and she prances out, wiggling down her skirt. "It also totes slut-shames you, bb."

  A knot forms in my throat. Yeah, no kidding. "No one will believe this, right? Right?"

  Because she's my best friend, she shakes her head and contradicts herself at the same time. "They'll believe it."

  Like they believed Roman killed Holly.

  I slam the magazine shut. Not nearly as dramatic as I hoped. It sounds like the whimper that might come from me in a few minutes if I hear any more bad news. "Bb, I know I said I didn't want to be a secret, but I really didn't want to be ousted like this, either."

  She snags a banana from the counter and peels it open. "How do you think Cas feels?"

  "You didn't," I moan.

  "I didn't know okay? And I have a big mouth. And it was sorta in the Bean, so we can't go back there for a while. Read: ever." She takes a bite, almost chews, and swallows. She's in her work clothes—as close as a pinstriped vest and an A-line crimson skirt are—but something tells me that she never went to work this morning, and won't be going. "The second I saw that on The Juice site… bb, this is a total disaster."

  "I just don't get how he could've gotten this picture."

  "Hello. Camera, click. That's how pap do it."

  Because I'm still in my clothes from yesterday, and probably smelling to high heaven, I take John's memory card out of my pocket and hold it out to her. "But I have the pictures."