Roman Holiday Read online

  Chapter Four

  Dad used to wave his hand in front of automatic doors as they opened, beam at me with that big dopey grin of his and say, “Master Will uses the force, he does!” like a drunk Yoda. I flick my hand in front of the automatic doors to the stop-n-shop—I hope it just looks like a spasm—and try not to grin too widely as they glide open on my command. Darth Vader, eat your heart out. I make my way to the back where a small selection of clothes encircles an even smaller selection of underwear.

  Crap.

  What's worse, wearing underwear with Roman Montgomery's head on the crotch, or granny panties?

  "...Cas had his shirt off while washing his car," Maggie prattles on. "Ugh. Bb, remind me next time I do a car wash for charity, hire him to wash all of them. Oh, those abs."

  Maggie, along with being my clichéd beautiful best friend, is also a guyaholic. She's pretty enough to never reuse the same guy, so she is perfectly capable of catching any guy she sets her sights on. It's been Caspian for a while, and to my silent delight, he's as interested in her as he is a rock.

  "Too bad he's going to Berkley in the fall," I say, shifting between the granny panties and Roman Holiday underwear. "Which is worse? Roman Montgomery's face on my crotch, or saggy granny panties?"

  "Granny. I'd love RoMo's face there."

  I wince at the mental image. "Oh, I really didn't need to see that."

  "So not sorry! I have so much pent-up sexual frustration—gah! Maybe if I show up at Cas's tonight in nothing but my housecoat...you think that'll work? How big do you think he is?"

  I remember that all too well. "Probably pretty big."

  "Yeah, he's got big hands."

  "You're such a slut."

  "You know you're jealous. Go with the grannies. You'll be right at home in them."

  "Fuck you."

  "Oh bb, if I swung that way..."

  Rolling my eyes, I jerk the Roman Holiday underwear off the hook and shove the package under my arm. “You’re useless. How was that Quidditch match last night?”

  She quickly loses interest in my non-boyfriend. “Fan-effing-tastic!”

  “Score any Potters?”

  “Gave some guy my number," she replies proudly, "but he was such an über Goyle after he invited me to an after-party.”

  “You went?”

  “Duh, bb, Goyle is always better than nothing. You should've been there. I could've helped you score a Neville.”

  “You know Malfoy is more my type." I glance over at the men’s underwear curiously. "How come guys get the cool underwear? I'd rather wear Batman than a sadistically smiling rock star."

  Her earrings jingle as she shakes her head and sighs. Maggie loves her jewelry, big-hooped earrings and beaded necklaces and hairpins with sparkling cubic zirconium. She's beautiful in an exotic, geeky sort of way—flaming crimson dreads, caramel skin, and graphic tees out the wazoo. Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes, Dragon Age, Downton Abbey. I can go on and on. Everyone in high school knew her because of her nerdiness, and accepted her whole-heartedly, while they ignored me because I wasn't nerdy, cool, athletic, or smart enough. I was never enough for anything.

  That probably sucks the most.

  In the end, I graduated best known for the death of my bar-owning father, and my mom's marriage three months later. Not for my own accomplishments—not that I had any, anyway.

  "Bb," Maggie says, "you're probably the only person in the world who hates Roman Holiday."

  "Then I'm the only sane person left."

  "You should go to the vigil for me. Maybe it'll enlighten you."

  Even though we're best friends, I'd rather eat an entire plate of suicide wings. I pick up a pack of gum on my way to the register. "I love you and all but...Dream on."

  She heaves another sigh. "If there was any chance I'd see him...he just needs a big hug, you know? Someone to tell him it'll be all right."

  "Maggie, his best friend died and everyone blames him. If you died and everyone blamed me, I don't think a hug would really make a dent."

  "Or I can serenade him with my favorite song..."

  My stomach twists. "No really, that's okay."

  She starts howling, "I'm gonna crush, crush, crush you like back in high school, I'm gonna crush, crush, I've got a crush, crush on you—"

  I hang up.

  "I'm never getting away from that song, am I?" I mutter to my phone, and shove it into my back pocket. The only register open has four people in line already. I resign myself to the end, because it's not like I have anything better to do tonight than to wait in line to buy Roman Holiday underwear.

  The guy in front of me has hair so bright it matches the soda cradled in his tattooed arm. The tattoo is pretty amazing, though, a phoenix and a tiger fighting tooth and claw, a spiral of oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and purples up his well-defined bicep. There is a Los Angeles tattoo laced across the top of his right arm, half-covered by the black V-neck that fits snuggly across his shoulders. He's not broad by any means, but tall and lanky like the skater boys back home. His black jeans are frayed over scuffed red Vans that match his suspenders. Maggie would take one look at him, flip back her dreads, and ask if he was doing anything later tonight. Sometimes, I wish I had her gumption.

  But all I have is a secret relationship with the star player of the lacrosse team. Why am I so ungrateful?

  An upbeat song rattles across the speakers mounted in the ceiling. I recognize it instantly. "Rattle You Like Thunder"...another one of Roman Holiday's hits. I groan aloud and mutter to myself, "What did you do to deserve this karma, Junebug?"

  "I was wondering the same thing," the guy with the tattoos replies. Is that bitterness in his voice? A kin soul. "Every radio station. It's a plague."

  "Instead of zombies, everyone's a Holidayer," I agree. "Instead of groaning and eating brains, they're spreading terrible music. I'd rather have the groaning. And killing them wouldn't be frowned upon."

  He turns around, pushing a sweep of orange hair away from his face, and looks me square in the eyes. They are the most beautiful shade of green I have ever seen, like melted emeralds. They remind me of someone, but I can't quite put my finger on it. His emerald gaze drifts down to the pack of underwear in my hand. His grin reminds me of the cat from Alice in Wonderland—cheshire. "Big talk coming from a fan."

  I. Am. Mortified.

  "Are you kidding?" I gape, staring down at the underwear. "It was these or granny panties!"

  "I'm sure." He sounds amused as he quirks a brown eyebrow. He obviously forgot to dye them with his hair. "No hard feelings, really."

  I roll my eyes. "Whatever." I elbow past him to the cashier, quickly relinquishing my hold on the underwear. I hand her a five and dump the change in my bag.

  "Hey, I didn't mean to offend," he snickers, because obviously he did. "I'm sure Roman Montgomery would be grateful to represent your...womanhood."

  "That sounds like sexual harassment," I bite back.

  "You're just embarrassed."

  I set my jaw. "I'm leaving. Nice...meeting you. Whatever. Asshole." I turn to leave out the automatic doors when I collide into what feels like a brick wall. I stumble. "Shit, excuse me—"

  The brick wall scowls and looks at his camera to make sure it isn't broken. He's tall, with tan skin and dark hair pinned back into a gray fedora. There is a white feather—eagle?—twined into his braid. He shoots a look into the store, and I follow his gaze, but the tattooed jerkface isn't there anymore.

  Did I imagine him?

  "Look where you're going, yeah?" he grumbles, annoyed.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Won't help me much, doll." He almost knocks me down as he shoves past me into the grocery store.

  This is the worst week ever. And it only gets worse when I get back into the condo, and there's Chuck playing tonsil hockey with Mom on the living room couch. Where I will have to sleep.

  Now I'm going to have nightmares.

  Monday

  Chapter Five


  It's a dream.

  Although, that doesn't seem to deter him. His hand slides up my arm, slowly, the calluses on his fingertips feeling like sandpaper against my skin, and sends gooseflesh rippling up my body. We're swaying on a dance floor. People shift around us, shadows, moving to a song that sounds so familiar. I can't remember the name of it, but he's humming along. I feel his throat vibrates with the notes as I press my face into the nook between his shoulder and neck. He smells like cinnamon and the sticky sweetness of wine.

  I want to ask who he is—but then I stop myself. I already know.

  He pulls me closer into him. His embrace is like iron, complete, solid. It's a wholeness I can't explain, like there is nowhere safer, and no place I am more welcome or more at home. Like Dad's hugs, but this man is not my father.

  The bokeh lights spiral across the dance floor. We're not dancing anymore, but just standing there in the dark, listening to each other breathe, my heart to his, existing.

  He says my name, and my eyes draw up to his. They remind me of melted emeralds. My breath catches in my throat.

  "Junebug."

  I jolt up on the couch.

  A sliver of light leaks through the closed curtains, and between them, I can see the morning. The beach is sandy white against cobalt waves. I sit up on the couch, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. A runner jogs by down on the surf. I watch him, trying to remember my dream. What was it? Something about green...green what? I frown, and silently study the dark condo.

  I can still see Dad sitting in the kitchen chair, sipping his morning coffee. Still in those terrible red and yellow swim trunks, belly overlapping his waistband, sunscreen smothering his nose and bald forehead. Sometimes, he passes just out of the corner of my eye, flipping pancakes by the stove, humming "Tequila Sunrise." And sometimes I hear his footsteps, long but light, like he always had pep in his step, coming out of the bathroom.

  I blink away the coming tears. The memories I have of him are so insignificant compared to his life, they hardly do him justice. I've almost forgotten what he sounded like, what he smelled like. I'm scared that when I forget, a part of me will die too.

  Maybe that part of me, when I finally forget what he looked like when he smiled, will leave me hollow and dry. Maybe I am nothing without my dad.

  Sinking back onto the couch, I curl into the blankets and pretend to go back to sleep. It isn't until three in the afternoon until I finally get my lazy butt off the couch, and put on my bathing suit. I refuse to look into the mirror in the bathroom. I know what I'll see. Not enough to be anything. Not enough to be too fat and not enough to be too skinny. Not athletic enough, and not flabby enough. I'm short like my dad, and minimally endowed like my mom.

  To put it plainly, I'm a wreck in a bathing suit.

  Last night while Mom and Chuck played tonsil hockey, I found a magazine Maggie snuck into my duffle without me noticing. The Juice is probably one of the worst tabloids out there. At least, it's something to read, so I take it down to the pool with me. They didn't get the corner by the beach access. Instead, Chuck is lounged out halfway between the shallow and the deep end. Dad hated this spot. Too much thru-traffic.

  I dodge a running kid and flop down in the pool chair beside Darla.

  "It's about time you came down. I was beginning to think you'd become a hermit." She gives me a serious look over her sunglasses. She's slick with tanning oil, a beer in one hand, and her phone in the other. "Good gravy, your hair is florescent."

  "At least you can't lose me in a crowd." I shrug.

  Chancing a cautious glance over at Chuck lying face-down in the pool chair on the other side of her, she leans over to me and whispers, "Why did you dye it? You had beautiful blond hair. Is it because they aren't giving you enough attention? I know after Willy died...things must've been—"

  "Hard. Yeah." I flip open the magazine, hoping Darla will get the hint that I don't want to talk about it. I didn't dye my hair to make a statement, or because I don't get enough attention at home. I hate attention, so no attention is a dream come true.

  I dyed my hair because I realized you only live once. And, besides, it's not like the Silver Lining has a dress policy.

  "You a Holidayer, too?" She perks at the magazine.

  "No. My best friend is, though."

  "You know, I feel sorry for him. Why on earth would he kill his band mate? You know, rumor has it he got mixed up on drugs. He might have killed her for all we know but he just doesn't remember!"

  "She drowned in her bathtub. The judge ruled her death inconclusive, so whether he did or not, he got a lucky break." I flip through the magazine. Faces of unfortunate starlets stare back at me from the pages.

  "But even if he didn't do it, it must really be hard when everyone says he did. I mean, if he was a normal person this would just blow over, but he's famous. They'll be talking about this for years."

  "Infamous," I correct. "And I really don't feel bad for stars. That's just the risk when you sell yourself to fame."

  Darla barks a laugh, reaches over, and pats my upper thigh. "You're your momma's child, that's for sure—a ball-buster." She gets up, collecting her towel and beach bag. "I'm off to get a shower. Got a big night tonight!"

  "Have fun." I wave goodbye and turn to the main article in the magazine—the one Maggie has bookmarked with a sticky. READ THIS OR ELSE!

  My luck she'll pop-quiz me when I get back, so I might as well try to tough through it.

  The article was written a month before Holly Hudson's death. They reprinted it in memory of her. Holly's face stares back at me, fierce and beautiful, her hair a cascade of brown ringlets. A blue and green peacock feather is tucked behind her right ear. Throughout the article, The Juice put in the best pictures of the duo. Having picnics, at the beach, buying coffee, smiling at each other.

  I understand why Maggie loves Roman Holiday. They were America's sweetheart couple—or, they were supposed to be. Never quite official, but always skirting around the word. They did everything together—wrote music, attended charity events, recorded in the studio. Sometimes it seemed like Boaz was the odd man out. If anyone, I feel sorry for him. Did anyone ask Boaz how he felt about Holly's death?—and the blame on his best friend and band mate?

  The article—We Are Golden—is cliché, but most exposés are. Out of the corner of my eye, Chuck rolls over in his chair and slowly gets up. His entire back is as red as a lobster, and by the way he waddles over to me he can feel it, too. His swim trunks are outrageous—neon yellow and green. Even if I was blind, I couldn't miss him. I can't even read an article in peace.

  "Need something?" I ask over the magazine.

  "Sherry was wondering if you wanted to go to Dick’s tonight. Shag night, I think?" He shuffles in place nervously. "I’m from Kentucky. We line dance."

  I didn’t know he was from Kentucky. What an odd place to be from. No one ever talks about Kentucky. It’s sort of like one of those states in limbo—like North Dakota. "Just move your feet a little and don’t step on hers and you’ll do great."

  "Do you shag?"

  "My dad taught me." I try to keep reading the article, but he doesn't go away. I close the magazine. "Like, it's a four-four dance, so if you shuffle your feet in four-four you'll be fine. Think the cha-cha Just tell Mom you don't know how. She'll teach you."

  "Right...four-four...thanks, Junie."

  “No problem.”

  He stands there for a moment as if he wants me to say something to keep our enlightening conversation going, but I just want him to leave. He gets the hint after a minute, and begins to shuffle back to his pool chair.

  An ungodly shriek echoes over the pool deck. Slowly, I lower my sunglasses. He looks back at me.

  "Was that...?"

  "Yep." I reply grimly.

  The shriek was my name.

  I abandon my magazine and hurry up the four flights of stairs to the condo, Chuck quick on my heels. Is someone hurt? Did the bar burn down? When I throw open the door to th
e condo, Darla is pacing the room, her fingers knit together tightly in worry. Her hair is wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around her middle.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask breathlessly.

  Chuck almost runs me over in the doorway. His eyes are like a deer in headlights. "Someone hurt?"

  “Who burned it down?” I add.

  She gives us a strange look. “Burned what down?—No no, I have a date tonight! And I can’t—I still have to get dressed and curl my hair and—”

  “And,” Mom interrupts, pouring herself a shot of tequila at the kitchen table. She's been up here the entire time? “She needs you to run to the store.”

  Darla nods enthusiastically and whispers very conspicuously into my ear, “Booty call.”

  That’s how I end up at the local stop-n-shop for the second evening in a row, buying an economy pack of condoms. I don't even get to change clothes first. Darla shoves me into her outrageous pink muumuu and boots me out the door with a twenty-dollar bill.

  Seriously, karma hates me.

  I've never bought condoms a day in my life. I've never even held one before—the night with Caspian notwithstanding. In the store, everyone keeps a wide girth from me, probably scared that my bad mood is catching.

  I snag the brand Darla wants and situate it in the nook of my arm so it doesn't look too conspicuous. Who am I kidding? I look like I'm buying condoms. The box looks like condoms. It has latex written on the top for God's sake. The only thing I can do is make a quick getaway, but that plan is soon foiled when I get to the checkout and every single cashier is, in classic fashion, is a man. Wonderful.

  Old guy with the off-centered bald spot it is.

  I massage the bridge of my nose. The things I do for a twenty-dollar bill. Is this even worth a twenty-dollar bill? I mean, seriously. Can't Darla get her own condoms when she's feeling frisky? At the very thought of Darla and some schmuck doing the old hoedown, I want to shove the condoms into the magazine rack by the register and head for the door.

  Behind me, a hand reaches over to pick up a Stars from the rack. "'Packed on the Pounds'? That's shitty Photoshop skills."