Roman claps. “Impressive...for a small child. Hole Eleven.” His ball finds the green with ease, and he bites his thumb at Boaz. “I bite my thumb at you, sir!”
“Punk-ass sonuva...” Boaz drops another golf ball and the second he raises his club, Roman knocks him in the back of the knee. The ball arcs over the lagoon and falls somewhere in the bushes between Holes Five and Two. “Damnit, man!” Boaz spins around to Roman and pulls his club up with a “Bzzzz” light saber sound. “You dare try to cheat at my game.”
Roman pulls up his own golf-club-light-saber. He strikes first. Their golf clubs connect.
“Bzzzz!”
Boaz retaliates with a high swipe, but the rock star ducks and twirls behind me. Boaz throws back his head and laughs. “You dare use a woman as a shield!”
“No, just a distraction! Her cuteness will thwart you!”
“Like hell!” I reply and duck out from in front of him.
“Foiled!” He raises his club into the air and charges Roman.
They meet each other in literal slow motion. I’m almost too embarrassed to watch. Almost. On contact, Roman pretends to cut off Boaz’s hand. Boaz falls to his knees, and shakes his limp hand at the sky. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Oh.
My.
God.
They hold their poses. One second. Two. Three.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not clapping if that’s what you want.”
They slump in unison. Roman pouts.
“HEY, YOU KIDS!” A voice booms from the put-put entrance.
“Fuck,” Boaz curses, glancing in the direction of the police officers.
Flashlights cut through the darkness as the cops hurry toward the dock. Boaz shoves the golf clubs into his duffle and slings it over his shoulder. Roman grabs my hand and helps me down into the murky water.
I inwardly cringe at the things the soles of my Converses step on. “This dye’ll never come out.”
“Priorities,” Roman sings, pulling me toward land.
The policemen tell us to stop where we are. We’re resisting arrest. This is great. Not like we can hide. All three of us have outrageous hair colors. The FBI could track us from space.
“This way!” Boaz points toward the filter pump at the far end of the lagoon—it doesn’t look like it’s been used in years—and we quickly wade our way over.
There’s a splash behind us before Roman looks back. “They’re coming.” At the filter pump, he hoists me onto dry land. My shoes make squishy noises on the AstroTurf. Boaz hurtles his clubs over the fence, and crawls over himself, ripping his shirt as he slides over to the other side. Next, Roman hoists me up, and quickly follows. We reach the top together. A policeman’s flashlight catches me in the face, and I lose my footing. Roman grabs a hold of my forearm to steady me.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says, looking me dead in the eyes.
I purse my lips and nod. He helps me down the other side safely and follows. The next few moments are a blur—reaching the car, getting in, peeling away—but once we’re on King’s Highway Boaz thrusts his fists into the air.
“Veni, vidi, vici, mother fuck’ahs!”
And I’m sitting on the food wrappers and moldy socks in the backseat. This doesn’t feel like a victory to me. “I think I’m going to puke.”
“You did great,” Roman says over his shoulder comfortingly, although his hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, too. “You were perfect. Just...don’t look at what you’re sitting on.”
“One word.” Boaz turns back to me, a single finger raised. He looks dead serious as he says, “Oxyclean.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Home sweet home.” Roman puts the hatchback in park in front of the main breezeway. “Do you want me to walk you to your door? Fend off some more Barney Fifes for you?”
I roll my eyes and kick open the broken back door. “I think I can handle it.”
“You sure?” he calls out of his window.
“I’m pretty sure. I don’t think I’ll get lost.”
“...But there’s still a possibility?”
I climb the steps to the breezeway and turn back to the car. “Goodnight, Roman. Boaz,” I add when Boaz sticks out his bottom lip.
“’Night!” the boys call at the same time. “See you at my concert tomorrow!” Boaz adds, waving out of the window, and I return it.
I stand in the lip of the breezeway until the hatchback pulls around through the parking lot and turns left onto Ocean Boulevard. Which interstate motel are they staying in, I wonder? How far away? How cruddy? It’s almost laughable, if you didn’t have a heart, to compare where Roman Holiday was to where they are now—disappearing from motel to motel like ghosts.
I summon the elevator. The light blinks down the floors slowly. I inspect the dirt under my fingernails and the scrape on my palm from the fence. I didn’t realize I even cut myself, and I don’t think the condo has a med kit.
Turning down the breezeway toward the main office, I inspect my elbows and arms to make sure I don’t have any more permanent scarring. What was I thinking? Trespassing in a put-put course?
So hardcore.
“Maggie should be proud of me,” I mutter. “I must’ve been batshit crazy tonight.”
I stop just before the door to the front office flies open and step aside to let a tall, dark-haired man pass. Wait—it’s the guy from the Stop-N-Shop and the boardwalk. He scowls at me, and I’m half-afraid he’ll recognize me, but he just shoulders past me and climbs into a beat-up white car in the parking lot.
This can’t be a coincidence.
In the office, the poor night auditor looks exactly how I feel. He’s a tall and gangly guy with a scruff of blond hair on his chin and a buzzed head. College kid, probably, unlucky enough to work at CherryTree. He gives me a wary once-over. “Can I help you?”
“What was that guy’s problem?” I thumb over my shoulder in the direction the man went.
“Wanted to know what room someone rented,” he replied exasperatedly. “I can’t tell people that—you don’t want to know either, do you?”
“Nah.” I show him my hand, and add in my worst Cockney accent, “Just need a fixin’, doc’ta.”
He wilts with relief. “That I can do.” He stoops down and pulls out a small First-Aid kit. I rub a little Neosporin on my cut before wrapping a bandage over it. “Anything else? Towels? Toilet paper?”
“Do you have any of that hazelnut coffee from last year?”
“I think you’re in luck...” He disappears into the back and comes out with three packets—enough to last me until Saturday.
Thank God.
I take them hungrily and hold them against my chest. “You are a godsend. Have a great rest of the night, and I hope that weird guy doesn’t come back. Who was he looking for?”
He shrugs. “Some girl named Junie Baltimore.” I freeze the moment before I start to turn out of the office. “You know her?”
“...Nope.” I force a smile and quickly push out of the doors, hazelnut coffee clamped tightly to my chest.
Why would someone be looking for me? My first thought is, of course, the police—but he didn’t look like police, or even a detective. My second thought comes to the only other sane conclusion I can think of.
Paparazzi.
Chapter Fifteen
It’s the same dream tonight. I’m dancing with Roman. Blurry shapes glide by us. I try to study our surroundings—but it’s a swirl of colors. Quite frankly, I don’t care. He brings my hand to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. My heart swells, as if the only thing inside of me is a universe of him.
“Junebug,” someone in the distance whispers.
I want to ask Roman if he knows the voice, but before I can, Roman drops his hand away, and suddenly I feel very, very cold.
Overwhelmed, I turn back to ask Roman for help—but he’s not there. In his place is that tall dark-haired man. He tilts back his gray fedora, a wicked smile curving across his lips l
ike a twisted, white-hot brand of metal.
“Junebug,” he says, and I scream, spinning back to face the flashes, hoping I can escape, but as I turn, row by row, an audience materializes, stretching far and wide like a sea of fireflies, holding cell phones and lighters into the air.
The syllables twist and curve into a single word, over and over. They’re chanting my name..
“Junebug!”
I bolt upright on the couch, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. I stare, wide-eyed, at the open curtains and the sun-lit beach out the window. “What time is it?”
“It’s past three, honey. I thought I’d let you sleep in for a little while,” Mom’s voice cuts through my haze.
I pull the covers off and plant my feet on the ground. The tiles under my toes are cold. Relief floods through me as I realize I’m not dreaming anymore.
“Hon, are you okay?” Mom gives me a curious look, handing me a cup of coffee. “Thank you for getting the hazelnut coffee—I can’t believe they still have it. Remember how your father loved it?”
I nurse the coffee. The hotness stings my tongue. “Yeah, he stole a few packs, didn’t he?”
“Not that it lasted long.” Mom laughs and strokes the top of my head. “Are you sure you’re okay? You screamed in your sleep...”
I shiver at the thought of the man in the gray fedora. “Yeah,” I reply, “I just...”
“I have bad dreams too sometimes, especially after your father died.” She keeps stroking my hair. For someone who hates the color, she sure doesn’t seem to mind touching it. “I know this year is weird, honey, but Charles really is trying.”
Trying and succeeding are two very different things, I want to say, but instead I just shrug. The nightmare still has my heart in my throat.
“So, tonight, Charles and I were thinking of going out for seafood at your favorite restaurant...” She knocks me in the shoulder playfully. “You know, the one with the giant crab?”
Mom still thinks I’m seven, doesn’t she?
I bring the cup to my lips again, and remember the Band-Aid on my hand. “I think I’m going out tonight with some friends.”
Mom frowns. “I didn’t know you had friends here, honey.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve known him for years.” Not quite a lie.
“Well, be careful. You know crazies come out at night.” She fishes her phone out of her purse and turns it on. She checks her messages with a frown and puts it back on the table. “We’ll both have our phones on, so if anything happens...”
I roll my eyes. “Mom. I’m eighteen.”
“And a very beautiful young woman. Even with your pink hair,” she adds, kissing my forehead, before excusing herself to the bathroom.
“Thanks for clarifying,” I mutter and lounge back on the couch.
My t-shirt still smells like last night—grass and pizza and salt water—and I smile to myself at how crazy it was. Do they always live like that? Disregarding property, rules, and social norms? I’ve never so much as scowled at a teacher, and my idea of living on the edge is firing lazy sound engineers.
Mom’s cell phone startles me out of my thoughts. It’s that annoying beep-ringing that comes generic with most phones, and starts to vibrate across the table. Should I answer it? What if it’s the bar? They are the only ones who’d call, as far as I know. My worst fear flashes through my mind. I quietly sneak over to the table to grab Mom’s cell phone and slip out onto the balcony so she doesn’t hear me answer it. The caller ID isn’t familiar, but the area code is Asheville.
As I answer, I pray it’s not the fire department. “Hello?”
“May we speak with Mrs. Baltimore?”
Definitely not the bar. Suspicion flares like a wildfire. “Who’s this?”
“This is Asheville Mortgage Bank calling on behalf of the foreclosure to your business.”
I try not to laugh. “Chuck, is this you?”
“Mrs. Baltimore, we have been trying to reach your business on behalf of—”
The deadness in his voice makes giggle.
“I’m referring to The Silver Lining on Haywood Street?” This man isn’t cracking. “If Mrs. Baltimore is there—”
“It’s Conway,” I correct, my voice small, and hang up. My hands are shaking.
Darla looks up from her pool chair and calls up from below, “Hey honey! Tell your mom to get her cute ass down here! I’m bakin’!”
I barely hear her. Dazed, I stumble back into the glass door, push it open, and return Mom’s cell phone to the table. Asheville Mortgage Bank? Chuck would pull a trick like this, wouldn’t he? He has that sort of sick sense of humor, right?
The toilet flushes as I settle back down on the couch with my cup of coffee. Mom yawns as she comes out, and digs into the refrigerator for a piece of leftover pizza, humming “Hotel California.” I watch her silently, trying to process—but I can’t function. Foreclosure? The Silver Lining... my Lining...
Foreclosure?
Why didn’t Mom tell me? How long has she known? It makes sense now, why she doesn’t answer her phone. She’s trying to prolong the reality of it, like she does with everything else. Instead of acknowledging Dad’s death, she married an architect. Instead of throwing me a graduation party, she and Chuck celebrated their fourth honeymoon in St. Martin. Instead of scolding me for my pink hair, she ignores it.
Foreclosure?
No—I refuse. I’ve sacrificed too much. While Maggie and everyone else were studying and taking the SATs, I was picking up Saturday shifts and being called “sweetie” by disgusting sound engineers. Instead of blowing my money on college applications, I was spending it replacing the bar mats. While everyone else celebrated getting into this college or that university, I celebrated finally booking a good gig that I thought might bring in the cash we needed. I spent my senior year sleeping in math class because I was busy until three in the morning keeping my Dad’s dream alive. I graduated as a mediocre student, not a genius like Maggie and not dumb as rocks like most of the football team.
I refuse to lose the Lining. Not after everything I’ve already given up.
When Mom asks me to come down to the pool with her to enjoy the gorgeous day, I have half the mind to tell her there’s nothing gorgeous about it. The sun’s too bright and there isn’t a single cloud in the sky, which means it’s hot as balls, and excuse me if I don’t feel like baking in it. Would that be too harsh?
I down the rest of my coffee and grab my cardkey and phone. “I’m going to the computer lounge,” I tell her as I leave.
The computer lounge is down the hall in a humid little room with three computers and Wi-Fi. No one’s inside, so I pick the middle computer and boot it up.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. I Google foreclosure. I Google the Silver Lining and read the two one-star reviews on Yelp. Even bad reviews that show the best about my dad’s bar—how nice we were, how beautiful the bar looked, how surprisingly clean for such a dive—don’t help. They don’t help me justify the foreclosure. Nothing does. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I dial my best friend’s number. It’s comforting, if nothing else. Two rings and she picks up.
“I feel a disturbance in the force,” she says in greeting.
That’s all it takes. My bottom lip wobbles and then, suddenly, I’m blubbering.
“Whoa, whoa! Easy on the waterworks, Juniper, I can barely hear you.”
“I’m pretty much fucked.” I sniff, rubbing my eye with the palm of my hand. “And I had an amazing night last night with that guy I met—and his friend, and we broke into a put-put course and almost got arrested and—”
“Junie Baltimore trespassing? Hold the phone. I need to get this in writing. What sort of guy makes my best friend do the stupid shit only I’d do?”
I wipe my snotty nose on my arm, leaving a trail of goo. Disgusted, I rub it off on the back of the chair. “Roman Montgomery.” The door opens to a hefty guy in a Hawaiian shirt. He gives me one look before he leaves again, secl
uding me to my snotty, crying pity-fest.
“Hello? You still there?” I croak.
Complete and total silence.
Then, “OH MY GOD, YOU BROKE AND ENTERED WITH ROMAN MONTGOMERY—”
I yank the phone away from my ear, wincing. She’s so loud, her voice echoes in the room.
“—AND DIDN’T CALL ME? DOES THE HO-CODE MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see him again! I didn’t want to get your hopes up, I...”
“YOU ARE THE WORST FRIEND IN THE ENTIRE WORLD AND I AM NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN.” There is a beat of silence where I think she hangs up, but then she adds, “Does he pack right or left?”
At that exact moment, the door opens again to the same Hawaiian shirt man. Behind him is one of the CherryTree employees. Oh, I get it. “I’m being kicked out of the computer lab, Mags. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Are you kidding me?!”
I hang up, and as I stand and shove between them into the hallway I freeze.
“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.” Orange hair. Suspenders. Tattoos.
“Oh, you,” I choke in a sob.
He studies me. If he thinks I look like hell, he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he takes his keys out of his pocket and jingles them. “Ready for a little fun?”
“Please,” I reply with honest relief.
“I’ll let you change first. And uh, you’re sort of leaking...”
I rub my hand over my eye, and smear my leftover eyeliner across my face. “Yeah, thanks.”
If Maggie’s jealous of this, she has another thing coming.
Chapter Sixteen
“What I didn’t tell you yesterday,” Roman says, spinning around on his toes to face me as we walk to his minty green car. It sticks out like a sore thumb in the parking lot. No wonder the paparazzi can follow him wherever he goes. “Is that this car? Her name’s Sweet Pea, and she is a very fickle beast. Like most women are.”
“I should take offense to that,” I reply dryly.
The Sound of Us Page 8