The Sound of Us

by Poston, Ashley

  He clears his throat and pokes at his ice cream. “What gave it away?”

  “YOLO,” I reply, mimicking a mohawk with my free hand.

  “Ah.”

  A group of girls are watching him again. I swear they’re the same ones from last night, still in their florescent pink SAVE HOLIDAY shirts. Maybe they have one for every day of the week. Wouldn’t surprise me, knowing Holiday fans. I’m betting by Thursday, half the population of Myrtle Beach will be wearing them. One girl raises her phone to take a picture. The pop star quickly turns his face away.

  Why am I always so nice?

  I lean closer to him over the picnic table, and say in a loud enough voice for the girls to hear, “So, Evan, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  Hesitation flickers through his eyes for a moment. “Evan?” he mouths and I give him a meaningful look. He plays along. “Just traveling,” he replies loudly. “I’m a—um—shoe salesman!”

  “Seriously?” I say under my breath. Well, I never thought he was creative, anyway. “Sounds like fun!”

  “Lots!”

  The girls turn back to their ice creams, their shoulders slumping. He mouths a “thank you.” I bite through the top of my cherry crust in reply, and cringe a little at the sweetness.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  “Just haven’t had ice cream in a while.”

  “They don’t have ice cream in the land of the Troll Dolls?” he jokes.

  “They do. And I live in the mountains,” I add, thinking it’ll suffice.

  He scoops another spoonful of chocolate ice cream into his mouth. “Is it near the Big Rock Candy Mountain?”

  I purse my lips together tightly. “Asheville, you asshole.”

  “Oh, the hipster town with the bowtie.” He mimics straightening an imaginary bowtie. I give him a weird look. “That’s how I keep everywhere straight. Asheville reminds me of an old tattooed guy with a bowtie. Like Nashville is Dolly Parton. Helps me keep places from fading together.” He sucks on his spoon. “Why don’t you indulge in ice cream in Asheville?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “There must be a reason,” he prods.

  I divert the question. “You’re here for the memorial?”

  “Just passing through,” he replies, not answering my question. “Asheville’s pretty small, right? Comparatively. Living in a small town sounds claustrophobic.”

  “Not living anywhere sounds lonely.”

  He shrugs. “You get to meet a lot of interesting people.” Taking his cherry off the top of his mountain of ice cream, he twirls it between his fingers. “Like you. Like her” —he nods briefly to the girl who took his order— “and seeing who buys discounted underwear.” He pops the cherry into his mouth and rolls it around.

  I huff. “I forgot to pack mine, okay? So sue me. Haven’t you forgotten anything important?”

  “Not underwear.”

  I scowl. “Excuse me, Mr. Perfect.”

  “Not perfect,” he notes, and then takes something out of his mouth. He holds it up to me. It’s the cherry stem, tied in a perfect not. “But very damn near close.”

  The speakers outside of the Emporium fade from Taylor Swift to the DJ calling out a wrap-up of the week’s music events. Bon Jovi’s new CD, some rock star’s divorce from an A-list actress, and—“All you Holidayers out there getting ready for this week’s memorial, St. Michael’s Cemetery has said that they will have restricted entrance on account of too much foot traffic.”

  He frowns, annoyed, glaring up at the speaker hanging from the corner of the Emporium.

  I eat the rest of my cone and wipe my sticky fingers on my pink muumuu. “Ten bucks says the next song is ‘Ever for Always.’”

  His frown disappears, replaced by a curious eyebrow quirk. “You’re confident.”

  “I have a radio heart. I’m very confident.”

  As if on cue, the familiar catchy beat floods over the picnic area, and the table of tween girls next to us squeal in unison and wave their cell phones high in the air like lighters. They begin to sing along.

  He gives them a pained look. “A radio heart, huh?” he asks. “Can it change the station?”

  I genuinely laugh. “No, but give me the opening notes of a song, and I’ll name it. I’ll even go so far as to name the band. I’m that good.”

  “No shit. And how did you get this great gift?”

  “My dad was a music junky. I mean, vinyl was like crack to him, so I guess I just followed in his footsteps. I remember when I was little, we’d go on these mini-vacations into the mountains or to the beach, and he’d play this game where we scanned the stations, and the first one to name that song won. Good times.”

  “Sounds like it.” He nods appreciatively and shovels a spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth. The silence between us stretches. I shift, uncomfortable. The tween girls howl, “I’ll be with you ever-forever, and always for always. We are going to be for-ever and ever and for always for always for ever.”

  “Do you wanna get out of here?” I ask, trying not to sound too urgent.

  The DJ, a guy who can’t seem to get the sports-casting announcer out of his voice, follows up the song, “And now, a special world-premiere event! Are you ready? Here’s Jason Dallas’s new single, ‘Shotgun Heartache.’ Remember you heard it here first! WOKK 95! Myrtle’s number one pop music station.”

  He groans. “Oh, God, not him.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “He’s a prick. And yeah, let’s go.”

  The song blares, a guitar-heavy emo-rock homage to bands like Thirty Seconds to Mars and My Chemical Romance, that pulses over the picnic area. I mock-gasp. “What? This is my favorite song!”

  “This is a world-premiere. You’ve never heard it before,” he deadpans.

  I sniff indignantly. “Well, maybe I like it already.” It is sort of catchy.

  “I don’t think this is your type of song.” He grins, shaking his head, and begins to get up, swooping his legs over the bench.

  “And why’s that? You don’t even know me.”

  “My best friend” —Holly, I realize— “used to say there are songs that resonate with you. They’re songs that do more than just mean something—they’re songs you want to light a candle to. And this? I don’t think ‘Shotgun Heartache’ is your song.”

  I follow him to the edge of the lot. “Then what is my song, oh All-Knowing-Pop-Star?”

  He runs his thumbs underneath his suspenders thoughtfully. “You look like you listen to the Boss.”

  “I also dig some pretty mean Meat Loaf,” I reply, “but no cigar.”

  “Who can resist Meat Loaf?” He takes his spoon in hand like a microphone and belts the opening lyrics to “I Will Do Anything For Love” which runs straight into a question I almost miss.

  I give him a blank stare. “Say what?”

  “I asked,” he tosses the spoon into the garbage can in the corner of the lot, “what’re you doing Wednesday night?”

  “As in...like...”

  “Like what are you doing Wednesday night?” he repeats, and turns around to face me when I stop.

  As in a date? I want to ask. I have someone already. But do I, really? I shift on my feet uncomfortably.

  “Never mind, it was a stupid question,” he begins to say, but for some reason I catch him by the back of his suspenders.

  “I’m not doing nothing,” I reply, and for the first time I think his smile is genuine. “I mean, I’m doing absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Well, in that case,” he says, leaning across the table on his elbows, “how about we fix that?”

  Chapter Seven

  The wind on the beach at night has a certain biting chill to it. I shove my hands into the pockets of Darla’s muumuu and shiver. Wearing nothing but my bathing suit and a cover-up was a genius plan. Thank you, Darla. I check my phone to see how late it is. She said she wasn’t going out until eight. It’s seven-thirty. N
ot too late to deliver the goods, right?

  Roman Montgomery walks beside me, slowly, and I wonder where he’s staying. Not that I want to shove him off quite yet. It’s actually kind of...nice, walking with him. And it’s definitely not the fame talking. I’m still waiting for his rumored Napoleon-sized ego to ruin everything, but he’s genuinely just quiet. And when he looks at me, it feels like he’s simply lonely.

  “So where are we going Wednesday?” I ask to fill the silence.

  He tsks. “That’s a secre—oooff!” He runs smack into a dumpster, and recoils with a metallic bong.

  I howl with laughter.

  “Ow, fuck! How did that get there?” He winces as he touches his nose and pulls away blood.

  Gingerly, I cup his face and inspect his nose, nodding. “I think you’ve successfully contracted karma,” I confirm.

  “Karma? What the hell for?”

  “For making fun of me yesterday—and today.”

  He can’t argue with that. “I said I was sorry. I won’t grovel.”

  “Poor wittle pop stars can’t grovel?” I baby talk. An annoyed scowl crosses his face as he pulls away from me. Good grief, it was supposed to be a joke. I roll my eyes and nudge my head toward CherryTree. “Come on, I’ll get you some ice for that burn.”

  “Maybe some nose plugs too,” he adds nasally, and follows me to the condo.

  By the time I unlock the condo door, blood is dripping down his face and onto his black shirt. At least black doesn’t show stains.

  “Mom, Chuck?” I poke my head into the condo. No one’s home. Strange. Before I forget, I dig the box of condoms out of my purse and set them on the kitchen counter where Darla can see them when she comes knocking. Which will probably be any second now, knowing my luck. I grab a towel and fill it with ice cubes from the cooler.

  Roman tilts back his head as he turns on the faucet to clean himself up. I hand him a dishtowel wrapped over ice, and he presses it against his nose. He hisses as the cold touches his skin. Then, for the first time, he surveys the condo. It must be nothing like he’s used to. There are no TVs in bathroom mirrors or expensive liquor cabinets—unless you count the cooler full of beer. “So you rent this out with your parents?”

  “Yeah, for a week. We’ve rented it since…well, since forever. As long as I can remember.”

  He wanders into the living room, and looks down at all of the little knickknacks we’ve unpacked, the playing cards, the guide books for the week, and then he zeros in on the one thing I should’ve tossed. He stoops and picks up The Juice. The headline reads, ‘WILL ROMAN’S HOLIDAY EVER END?’

  “Yeah…my best friend snuck that into my duffle,” I say as an excuse, making a note to kill Maggie once I get home. “She’s obsessed with, um, your band...”

  “Are you?” he asks nonchalantly, flipping through the issue with one hand.

  “Am I, what?”

  He snaps it closed and inspects me. “Obsessed. I know you said you hated Holiday at the store, but what’s the truth?”

  “The truth...” I take the magazine from his hand and toss it. “The truth is, your songs are super corny. Occasionally horrible—no offense. If I’m a fan of anything, it’s how they—you, I guess, wow—revolutionized pop culture. You and Holly Hudson and Boaz could actually sing. Your parents didn’t buy you fame or put in a few good words to the bigwigs. Didn’t you start out in a talent show or something?”

  “High school,” he confirms, his face not giving away his thoughts.

  “I mean, because of y’all now everyone else can really ask themselves, ‘Why not me? Why can’t I?’ Even if I don’t like your songs...I sort of like the story behind you. That anything’s possible...” I force a laugh and pull my hair over one of my shoulders. “I wish you would’ve asked Mags this question instead of me. She could write you an entire dissertation on your left pinky.”

  “That’s actually kind of scary.”

  “She loves your band.”

  “And apparently my left pinky.”

  I shrug. “It’s the price of fame, right?”

  There’s something in his face that changes then. Bitterness, I think. “Yeah. What a price.”

  “I mean—I didn’t mean...”

  “No, you’re right. The price of fame.” He flunks down on the couch and tilts his head back to rest the ice pack comfortably over his nose. I get two sodas from the refrigerator and sink down on the couch beside him, handing him one. “Thanks,” he murmurs as Def Leopard’s “Rock of Ages” blasts from my purse, and I jump up to get it.

  It’s Caspian. I swallow the knot in my throat and let him go to voicemail.

  “Male suitor?”

  I glance over at him. “Telemarketer,” I lie.

  “Ah. I hate those. I always pretend like I’m—”

  “Indian, right? Welcome to Havar’s Indian Cuisine,” I adopt my best Indian accent, a miserable attempt he chuckles at.

  “I prefer not to mock a culture.” Then he clears his throat and barks, “Hello, you’ve reached Bendo’s Massive Dildos, where our girth is your pleasure—”

  Laughing, I pick up a throw pillow and shove it against his face. He falls dramatically onto his side. “You’re horrible.”

  “Press one for more sizes,” he adds before I hit him again with the pillow. “Press Two to start your Sex Phone trial, where you’ll never find more pleasure in another receiver.”

  “You’re horrible!”

  “And yet startlingly good at it,” he adds and begins to grin, but then, as if realizing what he’s doing, his face drops and he gets to his feet. “Sorry, I need to get going.”

  “Oh,” I frown, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It’s only eight o’clock. I see him to the door. He looks at the makeshift icepack in his hands and stretches it out to me, but I wave it back to him. “Oh no, all yours…a souvenir.”

  “From the night I met the pink-haired radio heart.”

  “Just Junie.”

  The edges of his lips twitch up into the first signs of a real smile. He holds out the hand not holding his icepack. “It was nice meeting you, Junebug.”

  I accept his hand, and we shake like...friends? Acquaintances? I’m not sure, but it feels significant. Like the moment just after you put on a new CD and the white noise fills your car. Just before the first actual notes, when you’re thinking, this could be amazing. “You too, Roman.”

  He salutes before he leaves, fading down the hallway like a ghost.

  Only Dad ever called me Junebug. He used to say it in a slow, southern drawl, as if my name was a rumble of adoration in his chest.

  “Junebug, going with me to that boat show today?”

  “Hey, see if we got any pale ale, Junebug.”

  “Junebug, I love ya girl.”

  “Goodnight, Junebug. Sweet dreams.”

  I don’t remember when he first called me that, but I remember I was special when he called me that, one of a kind.

  Then, this stranger calls me Junebug. He said my name slowly, lingering on the u, softening the g, as if my name is…as if my name means something again. As if it’s a secret the two of us know.

  “Junie! Thank God, you’re back!”

  I snap out of my thoughts, whirling around to Darla coming out of the condo next door, throwing her arms wide to embrace me. She’s decked to the nines in silver jewelry and a form-fitting cocktail dress, ponytail pulled back into ringlets. She’s curvy and beautiful and confident in a way I don’t think I’ll ever be. “I was beginning to worry you’d gotten lost!”

  “Sorry,” I reply earnestly and retrieve the condoms from the kitchen counter. Holding the door open with my heel, I hand them to her. “Hope it’s not too late?”

  “Oh, honey, the night doesn’t really start until ten!” She winks, tossing the pack between her hands like she doesn’t care who knows she likes ribbed deluxe condoms. Like Maggie. Her eyes migrate down the hallway after the orange-headed boy, but by now he’s long gone. “Was I imagining v
oices earlier?”

  I decide to play dumb. “Voices?”

  “I swear you were talking to someone...”

  “I talk to myself a lot.”

  “Huh.” She frowns but decides to let it go. “Thanks a bunch again, hon, you saved me. Now all we need to do is find you a looker, huh?” She kisses my cheek before leaving to meet her man of the night. I close the door behind me, and fall face-first into the couch.

  Chapter Eight

  Four more days until I’m homeward bound, but it feels like forever.

  Stretching, I fix myself a cup of coffee and close myself out on the balcony so I don’t wake up Mom and Chuck. Caspian left a voicemail last night, so I should probably call him back and be a good non-girlfriend. But I find myself online instead, searching for Roman Montgomery sightings.

  There isn’t a single picture of us from last night—thank God. One person on a forum said she saw him in Myrtle Beach, but no one believed her. But she reminds me of the only Holidayer I actually care about, so I dial my best friend’s number. She picks up in two rings.

  “Good morning,” I greet happily. “How’s work hanging?”

  “Like how bad do I want to hang myself or how low Mrs. Jackie’s hemorrhoids are hanging today?”

  “I’m sort of disgusted you know the second one.”

  “She talks. A lot,” Maggie deadpans. “Like, her voice echoes in the library.”

  The palm trees sway against the breeze. The condo is on the fourth floor, so we’re eye-level with the top of them. Cyclists move in lines across the beach, leaving thin trails in their wake like comet tails.

  I begin to trace the hairline scar across my knee where I fell on a broken bottle while playing in the bar when I was nine. “I met someone last night.”

  “Ooh!” Maggie’s voice jumps an octave with interest. “Do tell! Cute? Tall? Hunky? Dorky? Sneezy?”

  “And he lives with six other men in a cottage by the woods, sure.”

  “I always loved the polygamous type. Is he hot at least?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, trying not to think about that one half-naked poster of him in Maggie’s bedroom.

  “On a scale from one to fuckable?”