Roman Holiday

by Ashleyn Poston

  "Name this song!" he demands.

  I swallow hard. Of all the songs in all the world, the radio had to play this one. It's the song I wish I'd heard with Caspian that night, instead of Roman's own "Crush On You"—the one I always wanted to...

  Well, to fall in love to.

  And here I am in a minty green WV Rabbit that smells slightly of ass, listening to the song that means more to me than Roman could ever guess. What are Roman and I? What are we pretending to be? Friends? Acquaintances? Even that? There's an invisible line where whatever we are ends and something quite frightening begins.

  I look over to him to see if he's really waiting for my answer, and he is. "Bon Jovi," I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away from his melted emerald gaze, "'Bed of Roses.'"

  If he can sense my trepidation, he doesn't show it as he turns his attention back to the road. We follow a gray Cadillac up the street. "All right, Miss Radio Heart, name the album title and year."

  I don't say anything for a long moment. "You don't even know that."

  "So you concede?"

  "1993. Released as a single, but then with the album Keeping the Faith."

  Is it your favorite song? I want him to ask that so badly, it's almost a physical pain, and I would answer without a blink of hesitation. Yes, it's my favorite. It will always be my favorite. It's the first song I fell in love with, and it's the song I want to dance to on my wedding night. But we must not be friends enough for him to ask, because he begins to hum Richie Sambora's guitar solo with a makeshift air guitar before finally saying, "All right, fine, you win."

  A little bit inside of me deflates. "Awesome."

  "It is. Not everyone can say they beat the great Roman Montgomery with a Bon Jovi song."

  "No, I guess not."

  We hit a standstill at the bungee-jumping attraction on the Strand, so Roman detours off Ocean Boulevard onto King's Highway. It's pretty much the main vein of Myrtle Beach. Here there are strip malls and outlets, restaurants, Wings souvenir shops, and mini-golf courses as far as the eye can see. CherryTree is on the northern end of Myrtle Beach, where there are more beach houses than motels, and liquor stores take the place of tourist shops.

  I wonder where Roman's dad lives? It bothers me that his dad is still alive, and wants nothing to do with him. What sort of father is that? If my dad were still alive, he'd be front row at every concert. He'd buy the t-shirts, wear the visors, scream the lyrics. He'd be my biggest fan. "How long has it been since you've seen your dad?" I ask.

  He counts on his fingers. "Five...six years?"

  I gape. "That long?"

  "Don't give me that look. I call him at Christmas."

  I blow out a sign of relief. "That's good."

  "It would better if he answered."

  Frowning, I look out the window at the passing mini-golf courses that promise to take you to the Mayan ruins, or the jungle, or through an exotic plane crash. Most of the lights are shut off by now, the courses dark and vacant.

  "I'm sorry."

  He shrugs. "Price of fame, right?"

  That isn't what I meant by the phrase when I first said it, but I nod anyway. I want to say something comforting, that it'll be okay, but his phone begins to ring. He digs for it in his pocket, a cruddy disposable flip-phone, and answers it. "Yeah Boaz?"

  We ease to a stop at a red light. I recognize the liquor store on the corner. CherryTree is close now, just a few blocks away.

  "You sure?—All right, hold on. Lemme ask." He turns to me. "How adverse are you to breaking and entering?"

  "Is that rhetorical?" I deadpan.

  He tells Boaz, "We'll be there in five. Yeah, I'm right close to it—you took a taxi? Uh, huh." He flips the phone shut on his shoulder and shoves it back into his pocket. He flicks the turn signal on, looks over his shoulder, and swerves into the turn lane.

  I give him a leery eye. "Where are we going?"

  "To pay our respects to the dead."

  Chapter Thirteen

  What I don't realize until we meet Boaz Alexander in the parking lot of Arrg, Pirates! Mini-Golf is that paying respects to the dead meant breaking and entering. Into a put-put course. Dad, I'm not sure where I went astray, but I'm pretty fuckin' far.

  Boaz tosses a bag of golf clubs over the nine-foot fence that separates the parking lot from the courses. He has on a blue and black kilt tonight and a black shirt with a medic cross and "Orgasm Donor" underneath. Classy. "You two bro-has joy-ridin' without me? Making me take a yellow cab?" Then Mohawk must recognize me, because he teasingly elbows me in the side. "Yo bro-ho! Nice to meet this fine specimen of a woman. People call me Boaz, but you can call me BAMF." He winks.

  "Hi, BAMF." We fist-bump.

  I can't ignore his biceps and thick shoulders. He's supposed to be a pianist, but he looks like a long lost member of the The Boondock Saints. Maggie would be climbing his back muscles if she ever met him.

  Roman rattles the chain-link fence with a frown. "I don't remember it being this high."

  "Dude, it's been five years, and let's face it, you made this place famous. So, they heightened the fence, that gonna make you whimper?"

  "Is it sharp at the top?" He frowns.

  Mohawk claps his buddy on the back. "Now gimme a push, yeah?"

  I glance up at the building. "Aren't there security cameras? A guard? Police?"

  Boaz studies me. "You've never done this before, have you?"

  "Breaking into a mini-golf course?" My eyes flicker across the top of the fence nervously. Is it sharp at the top? "I was sort of hoping my first time would be a bank, at least. Or my ex-boyfriend's house."

  The boys chuckle in that knowing silly-you sort of way before Roman cups his hands and squats down. Boaz shoves his combat boot into Roman's hands and reaches up to the top of the fence. He eases over and lands on the other side gracefully. He wipes down his kilt and turns back with two thumbs up.

  "Okay bra, your turn."

  Roman nudges his head, still squatting down. "You next."

  I glare at him. "I don't want to get arrested!"

  He rolls his eyes. "Would you really rather break into your ex-boyfriend's house?"

  "Maybe." The fence is impossibly high. I can't do this. "Just to stick his underwear in the freezer."

  "Classy. Remind me not to piss you off. C'mon, Junebug...it's your life, it's now or never. You're not gonna live forever—unlessyou'reEdwardSparklepants," he sings it in the tune to Bon Jovi's "It's My Life."

  "Did you really make a Twilight reference?"

  "I'm full of chagrining surprises. Now, c'mon."

  For the record, this is a really bad idea. Then again, Dad always said, "The world's built on bad ideas." I never knew what he meant until now. What will I regret ten years from now—jumping over this fence, or walking away?

  I suck in a deep breath, clench my fists, and take a running start. My foot catches hold on his hand and he hoists me up as if I'm as light as a feather. My hands grapple the top of the fence, and my other shoe sticks into the chain links. I swipe my leg over, anchoring myself nine feet in the air, and hoist my other over, too. This isn't too bad.

  And that's when I lose it.

  My hand slips, and I tip backwards. I don't even have time to scream.

  "TIMMMBEEEERRRRR!" Boaz yells.

  For a moment, the sky spins before I roll off the lumpy mass that caught my fall. I shake my head, blinking, and slowly begin to sit up. Nothing's broken, but I think my butt is bruised. Yeah, I'll regret this ten years from now when I have butt-replacement surgery. Roman grapples onto the fence and shakes it. "Hey! You okay? Junebug?"

  It's funny, because he actually sounds concerned. "Yeah, I think I'm good."

  "Oh my nuts," the lumpy mass I fell on groans, sitting up beside me. Boaz rubs the inside of his leg achingly. "I think you squashed 'em."

  "Don't be ridiculous, she couldn't find them even if she tried," says Roman as he scales the fence like a cat.

  I can't help but watch how
he moves, like he's done it a million times. He feet go into the right holes, his hands reach just far enough up for his shirt to expose a sliver of stomach. Call it a concussion, but my eyes won't cooperate. I can't look away. He reaches the top, his arm muscles smooth and taunt under his skin, and swings himself over. He lands on his feet and wipes his hands off on his cut-off jeans.

  "There, that wasn't so hard."

  Both Boaz and I give him an eat-shit look as we help each other up.

  We're near the sixteenth hole on Course One—the course Dad liked the most. It has a waterfall and gives the best view of the pyrotechnic show that goes on every thirty minutes in the small lagoon. Arrg, Pirates! Mini-Golf is shaped like any fantasy Port Royal. There is a lagoon cradled in the arms of a crescent-shaped mass of land populated with put-put courses and fake eighteenth-century buildings. There's a pirate ship in the lagoon, made famous by Roman and Holly's viral music video of "Crush on You." In the video, he was in heart-printed white boxers and had shaggy dark hair, a far cry from suspenders and orange hair. In one of the clips, if you squint, you can see the faint blurs of policemen wading through the thick algae-infested water toward them.

  I follow Roman and Boaz over the different holes, taking shortcuts through the shrubbery to the dock that leads out into the lagoon. The pirate show is nothing more than sound clips and some pyrotechnics between the ship cannons and the cannon-lined building on the hill above the mini-golf entrance. I've always thought it was corny, but Dad loved it. Along with every other kid.

  At the end of the dock, Boaz heaves his golf bag high on his shoulder and jumps into the knee-deep water. Roman rolls up his jeans and jumps into the lagoon after Boaz. "Want to ride on my shoulders? The water's pretty gross."

  "We're not actually going over there, are we?" I hiss, eyeing the pirate ship. "Anyone could see us from the road! If a cop passes or anyone reports us..."

  He sneezes.

  I narrow my eyes at him. "Excuse me?"

  He sneezes again, but it sounds suspiciously like "Chickenshit."

  "Fine." I snap my fingers where I want him to stand and sit down on the edge of the dock, trying to un-see the candy-wrappers and gobs of bird poo floating near my feet. "I'll piggy-back—"

  Suddenly, he scoops me up into his arms, bridal-style, and follows Boaz across the lagoon to the pirate ship. I clamp onto his neck. I would've been cool with a piggyback. I would've been better with a piggyback. I'm not too heavy for him, am I? I soon forget to ask when a suspicious floating thing catches my eye. I hope it's an unwrapped Snickers.

  "Do you think they even clean the water?" I venture to ask.

  He shakes his head. "Why do you think I left my Vans on?"

  "Oh, your poor Vans..."

  "They'll survive."

  At the ship, Boaz is already on deck. He reaches down and pulls me up beside him. Roman climbs up after us. I stare back at the mini-golf course, darkened without the floodlights. It looks...almost mystical, the way the lights from the stores across the street reflect on the shimmering water, casting glowing strings of lights over the odd-shaped greens. You can't see the trash from here, just the shimmers of aqua and the deep shades of blue.

  "So this is what it looks like from the other side," I murmur.

  Roman comes up beside me with the golf club Boaz handed him. "This was Hol's favorite spot."

  To pay our respects to the dead, he had said. Oh. Like how I always eat frozen fish sticks on Thursdays because Dad loved fish sticks and Thursdays, and how no matter how sick of the song I am, I always stop for "Born to Run" on the radio. The air begins to taste bittersweet. If Roman killed Holly, then I killed my dad in the same way.

  The rock star drops a ball onto the deck and with an expert swing, he knocks it across the lagoon and onto the course. His orange hair picks up shades of blue from the reflective water. "FORE!"

  The ball disappears somewhere into the darkness.

  "That sucked, bro-ha." Boaz shakes his head and drops a white ball on the other side of me. He points to a distant blue-green splotch. "Hole Ten. Watch and learn." With a swift swipe, the ball arcs into the air like a comet without a tail, and lands on the Hole Ten green.

  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..." Mohawk 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 with thwart you!"

  "Like hell!" I reply and duck out from in front of him.

  "Foiled!" Roman hops up onto the bridge of the ship, twirling his golf club in his hands like a saber. He clearly watched way too much Star Wars as a child. "You will never defeat me!"

  Boaz jumps onto the bridge as well, and they exchange a quick spar—left, right, spar!—before he pins Roman back against the railing, crossing their golf sabers into Xs between them. "Come to the Dark Side!" Boaz beckons, and for a second loses all seriousness. "We have cookies, bra'. Cookies are the shit."

  Roman, however, is a complete ham. "Never!" he cries and shoves Boaz back.

  "Then, this bro-ha shall end yoouuuuuuu!" 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. "Not even snaps?"

  "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. There're two of them, their footsteps making mad stomps against the wooden planks. 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.

  We follow Boaz behind the ship to the front of the ship facing King's Highway. There's a moat of rocks separating the lagoon from freedom. One we're not going to be able to cross.

  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.

  They wouldn't, would they?

  "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."

  "I didn't want to get arrested!" I all but sob, but he grips my hand tighter in reassurance.

  That almost makes me feel better. Almost. At the filter pump, he hoists me onto dry land. My shoes make squishy noises on the Astroturf. We scale up through the courses back to the fence. Boaz hurtles his clubs over the nine-footer, and crawls over himself, ripping his shirt as he slides over 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 forea
rm 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 and far enough away to judge if they're pursuing, Boaz thrusts his fists into the air.

  "Vini veni 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."

  "I'm scared to take off my shoes."

  "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 Rabbit in park in front of the main breezeway. "Do you want me to walk you to your door? Fend off some more po-po 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.

  Goof.

  I stand in the lip of the breezeway until the Rabbit 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. I'm sure the main office does. It's one-thirty in the morning. Maybe the night auditor can help me.