The Sound of Us

by Poston, Ashley

  Onstage, Boaz comes back out, situating his red and black kilt. Does he only wear kilts? And free-ball it underneath like a true Irishman? Oh God, I hope not.

  He throws up a shocker and says into the microphone, “How’s it hangin’, bro-hahos?”

  The crowd cheers.

  “Badass, bras. Badass! Let’s start with some super chillaxin’ shit. Get our grooves on, right?” His fingers glide across the notes in a messy run as he slides into a chest-pounding set.

  I elbow Roman in the side and shout over the music, “’Rock ‘N Roll All Nite’—KISS.”

  “I always wondered what KISS stood for,” he shouts back. The music is so loud; we’re inches apart and can barely hear each other. Shouting over a piano is a first for me. “Do you know?”

  “KEEP IT SIMPLE SWEETHEART,” I guess, and he throws his head back in a laugh.

  “KILLING IDIOTS SO SOFTLY,” he adds.

  “KISSING IS SILLY STUPID.”

  “Fantastic!”

  I quickly look away, trying not to think about how fantastic it would be.

  Boaz migrates into other covers. Maroon 5, The Beatles, Skrillex. There are really no holds barred, nothing but piano and some generic drum kits. It sounds flawless, though. The renditions are new and exhilarating, as if he took the old soul of those songs and put them into new bodies. They’re catchy and heartfelt. Even his pop version of “Piano Man” isn’t too shabby.

  After a few songs, he’s dripping of sweat and swigging out of a water bottle I’m sure is more ethanol than H2O, and rumbles into the mike, “Let’s do the slug for a while, yeah bro-hahos?”

  The crowd “oohs” as the bass beat drops away, and it is just him and his piano, fingers skimming over the keys like well-known friends.

  I’ve heard the song a million times on the radio, and played it on Dad’s ancient record player so often, the indention of the needle wore the song away. I close my eyes and sway. How many times have I sung this song into an empty longneck bottle? How many times have I howled it in the car with Dad?

  “’Wild Horses’,” I lean in to whisper, and he leans in, too. “Rolling Stones. It’s beautiful.”

  His lips press against my ear. “So are you.”

  I incline my head just enough to study his expression. Around us, the verses rise above the swaying crowd and into the rafters, so alive the words crawl across my skin. Do you mean that? I want to ask, but I can’t ask. My voice is gone.

  He takes my hand and coaxes me off the bar stool into the swaying crowd. Blue lights swirl down across us. This doesn’t feel like my life anymore. It feels like a 90s movie. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to girls like me.

  I close my eyes. Enjoy it.

  As he hums the melody softly into my ear, I can feel the notes seep deep into my skin and bones, and birth an ache in my soul I never knew existed. What is this, if not impossible? What is any of this? Here in this moment, with him. Here, where for the briefest of moments we are no one more than Junie and Roman, fearless and terrible and perfect.

  And then he is kissing me under the spiral hues of purples and blues that catch every crook and crevice of our bodies. His lips are soft and gentle, not quite passionate, but not apathetic either. If anything, he tastes bittersweet, lonely and tragic. Is A Lone, I remember.

  And then he presses his cheek to mine, and we dance.

  I want to hold onto this, memorize the milliseconds and molecules that make up this moment. I want to hold onto the way his hair glints in the purple, the way wrinkles spread from his eyes when he smiles, crooked and delicious. I want to hold onto the roughness of his hands, the heat that whorls between our palms, the lift of his pinky, the subtle shift of his arms when he begins to spin me around and around. I want to hold onto it all, wrap it all in my arms, and lock it deep within me so I feel nothing but beautiful and glorious and golden for the rest of my life.

  If love is supposed to feel like anything at all, it feels like dancing cheek-to-cheek with Roman Montgomery.

  “See,” he says, “you are not a bad dancer.”

  “I probably would be without you.”

  “Nah, you’d be perfect with any guy you want.”

  I pull away a little. Pinions of lights scatter across his hair and face, like stardust falling from a comet. “Not with you, huh?”

  A pained look crosses his face. “No, Junebug...not with me.”

  “Not even if I offer ice cream?” I try, but my heart is already sinking, sinking, because like every other girl who loves him, I am not enough.

  His forehead wrinkles in frustration. “I’m leaving in a few days. I’m probably never coming back.”

  “But your dad? Holly’s family? Next year there will probably be another memorial and—”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” He shakes his head and begins to take his hands away from the lower part of my back, but I refuse to let go. “Junebug...”

  Suddenly, a white-hot flash shatters the darkness like lightning. Roman’s hands drop away from the small of my back. I’m blinded for a moment, trying to blink the spots away.

  Another flash ignites the room, the rafters.

  Then another.

  A camera, I realize. I blink, my eyes watering before they adjust again. Like my dream, only worse because this is real. My throat constricts as I spin to try and find the source. He couldn’t have followed us, could he?

  “Shit,” Roman curses, glaring across the bar.

  I follow his line of sight. My stomach heaves. Taller than the rest of the crowd is the man with inky black hair, a fedora tipped back from the hefty camera held up to his face. The paparazzo from last night. The man from my dream.

  And I led him straight to Roman.

  The man’s finger twitches over the shutter release, and another blinding flash erupts in the dark like a flash bang.

  The bouncers push their way across the crowds of people who aren’t sure what’s happening. Boaz is singing Aerosmith now, and a girl beside me is so close to doing the vertical tango with her boyfriend it should be illegal. The bouncers won’t get there in time. If a year trailing an errant rock star hasn’t stopped him, a couple of bouncers sure as hell won’t.

  When I look back to Roman, he’s still and silent. He closes his eyes and breathes out a breath, and then opens them again. There is a subtle shift in him, as if a cold part of him slides into place like the last piece in a puzzle. It’s the slant of his eyebrow, the way his lips purse into a thin line, the bitterness that festers under his skin. Was the orange-haired hipster just a mask? A dream? Someone he could be for a few days—a lie?

  The Roman I know is gone.

  The longhaired photographer heckles, “Hey, Roman! How did it feel to kill your best friend and get away with it?”

  Another flash brightens the room like a firecracker, and another, and another. The crowd is now turning, migrating their attention away from Boaz, to Roman, to us.

  Roman takes a step back, and then two.

  Helplessly, I watch him leave me behind.

  Onstage, Boaz rounds in front of his piano, squinting out into the crowd. He points at someone and shoots a rude gesture.

  “Hey, how’s it like to lie to everyone?” the paparazzo barks. “How’s it feel to lie to Junie Baltimore?”

  The moment he says my name, Roman freezes, and whips around to me. Hurt fills his eyes, and I want to explain that he came looking for me last night, that I don’t know how he found me...but then the hurt transforms into contempt.

  “All the lies catch up to us, Roman!” Cackling, the paparazzo waves his camera in the air. This has to be the guy who’s trailed him for a year; the one Maggie always talks about. “All your lies! That cutie Junie looks like a nice little secret!”

  That’s it. Setting my jaw, I elbow through the crowd to the paparazzo himself. “Leave him alone!”

  “Thanks, doll, you really made my job easy,” he sneers.

  “I said leave him alone.”

 
He gives me a lewd once-over. “How long have you screwed him? You’re pretty enough, at least.”

  I pale. “Excuse me?”

  “You know he’s just using you, right?”

  The crowd begins to react, finally, taking out their cell phones and disposable cameras, but I barely notice. Roman, using me? “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t play dumb, doll,” the paparazzo chides. “You know Roman.”

  “He’s different.”

  A sickening, twisted grin contorts his face. “And how many girls do you think he told that to, sweetie?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Don’t call me sweetie, asshole.” I thrust my knee into his money-sack. The impact makes him gasp, and he jerks to his knees. I snag his camera as he goes down. Maggie has the exact same one. I pop open the bottom and take out the memory card.

  Then, someone grabs me by the shoulder.

  I spin around, fists raised, expecting one of the paparazzo’s friends. Boaz holds up his hands in defeat. “Calm your tits! You kosher?” he asks, glancing down at the pap. “Nice shot. C’mon.” He takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. A girl screams Roman’s name, crawling up on the barstool.

  “ROMAN?” She yells. She has on a pink SAVE HOLIDAY shirt.

  “I LOVE YOU ROMAN!” Another girl yells.

  “COME BACK ROMAN!”

  “Oh my God, they’re insane,” I mutter.

  Boaz scoffs as he pulls me into the green room and locks the door. The noise suddenly mutes, like a CD track on pause. “No shit, bro-ho.”

  In the center of the room, Roman stands with his arms crossed over his chest. His finger taps patiently on his tattooed bicep.

  I deflate in relief. “I thought I’d lost you—”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You told him.”

  My eyebrows furrow. “Told who what?”

  “Birmingham! John Birmingham. You’re the only one who knew.”

  I begin to shake my head. “I didn’t tell him anything, I wouldn’t—”

  “What else am I supposed to believe, Junie?” he barks, and begins to pace the length of the room. He didn’t call me Junebug. My own name hits me like a punch in the stomach. “I must’ve been blind.”

  “Bro-ha, that exudes harshness,” his friend chides. “Does she look like the type?”

  “For a little extra fame? Who wouldn’t?” he snaps. “She probably—”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I interrupt, fisting my hands. “You know me. I wouldn’t do that.”

  He scoffs, “And why not, huh? Don’t you just hate Roman Holiday?” I purse my lips into a thin line, and he takes that as some sort of agreement. He throws his hands into the air. “And this is why I don’t trust people! This is why I shouldn’t trust people. Because you are all the same.”

  Boaz puts a hand on Roman’s shoulder to calm him down, but he just shoves Boaz off. “Bro-ha, you’re the one who bought her the ice cream.”

  “Yeah.” He glares. “My mistake. And now I can’t even stay for my best friend’s memorial because of her.”

  Those words, above the sharp and scathing knives in his voice, pierce the deepest. I know how much Holly meant to him, because my dad meant more to me than the whole world. The last thing I would want would be to prevent him from paying respects to his best friend.

  My throat tightens.

  Did Roman ever trust me? All those smooth words and quixotic glances? The kiss? Were they all to just to get me into bed with him before the week was through, and then leave me like some old, abandoned piece of luggage?

  “So he was right.” My voice is so sharp, I barely recognize it as my own. I’ve never felt so used, or so bitter. “You just wanted another score, right? All that bullshit about not being a man-whore? Thought you could keep me your dirty little secret?”

  His face turns stony. “No, that’s not what I wanted.”

  “Well, I’m done being someone’s secret. And stop pointing the blame at me! You’re the one who bought me the condoms. So, screw you, asshole.”

  A timid knock taps at the door. The manager, a voice says form the other side. Boaz and Roman give each other a hesitant look. I roll my eyes and shout, “Then come in with your key!”

  No answer.

  “John,” Roman concludes.

  Boaz points to the private bathroom and tells us to escape through the window. “I got this jerkoff.”

  In the bathroom, I stare up at the window. Roman climbs up onto the back of the toilet and pushes the window open. It whines outward. He heaves himself up and wiggles through the two-by-two square, then reaches his hands back in for me.

  I’m shaking my head. “I’m not getting through that.”

  “C’mon, I’ll pull you out.”

  “And that’s a definite no.”

  “Junebug.”

  Pursing my lips, I climb onto the back of the toilet and grab onto his warm hands. His muscles ripple as he heaves me out. The glittering lights of the Strand ignite the street with uncomfortable brightness. My foot catches on the ledge of the window and I stumble forward into his chest. His hands fold around my shoulders gently, and then he lets go as if I’m diseased.

  Not ten feet out of the alleyway, John bursts out of the front door to face us. Roman scowls and seethes to me, “This your plan?”

  “You’re kidding,” I deadpan.

  His hands tighten into fists in anger.

  John holds open his empty camera. “Very funny, Junie!” He calls to me. “Do I need to ask nicely for it back? Or can I just fuck you, too?”

  Curiously, Roman eyes me again, as if beginning to think that I’m telling the truth. “Run,” I tell him, “since you’re so good at it, anyway.”

  “Oh no way, you’re going to—”

  “I’m asking you to trust your dirty little secret, Roman.”

  For a split second, he doesn’t say a word. What makes him listen to me, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the three days of whatever we had, washed away in ten terrible minutes. He leaves down the sidewalk and disappears into the parking lot. He doesn’t say he trusts me, and he doesn’t say goodbye. It’s hard to say goodbye to a secret anyway, isn’t it? Because a secret isn’t something you want to begin with.

  Way to get All-American Rejected, Junie.

  “Junie-baby!” the paparazzo catcalls.

  I put my hands on my hips. John’s not getting out of this alleyway alive. “Where’s Boaz?”

  “Why don’t you give me back my memory card and I’ll tell you?” he asks, snapping his fingers impatiently, slowly creeping, like molasses, toward me.

  I steel myself and take the chip out of my pocket. “This thing?”

  “Yeah. It’s worth more than your life.”

  “Pretty confident about that,” I retort.

  “Yeah.” He nods. Five feet from me. Four.

  I curl my fingers around the card and put it back into my pocket. “You know, I think I’ll keep it. For good leverage.”

  “Leverage? Doll, you don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  I smirk. “You’re right. But neither do you.” Suddenly, I spin around on my heels and rocket out of the alleyway.

  “HEY! STOP!” John bellows after me.

  I hurtle over a fire hydrant and dart across the street, barely dodging a purple car before jumping up onto the other sidewalk and cutting through the gaming pit on the other side of the street. John follows, shouting for me to wait with words that only make me run faster. Up the other side of the pit, I hang a right and follow down the boardwalk, through couples, around children, dodging and weaving until the ends of the planks are in sight. I plant my hands on the railing and catapult myself over onto the white sand. Where the Strand is bright with neon lights, the beach is dark. The sand is cool and soft against my feet. In other words, perfect running ground. I hop out of my Converses, stumbling, but John’s voice is so far back now it’s only an echo.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I don’t stop running until I
reach the CherryTree Ocean Club and lock myself into the condo, drenched in sweat. My parents aren’t home yet. Instead of going to the seafood restaurant with the big crab, they went on the gambling boat instead so I doubt they’ll be back before dawn. Catching my breath, I lean against the wall to keep myself up, sure if I sit down I’ll never get back up, and dial my best friend’s number. I’ll call Caspian after and explain why Roman Montgomery answered my phone. Then I’m going to tell him I don’t want to be a secret anymore—to anyone.

  Because I’m worth more than a secret, right?

  Aren’t I?

  Maggie picks up on the first ring. “Trouble again, I see.” Her voice is so sharp I wince.

  “Sorry, was followed by—called as soon as I—” I lean against the Jacuzzi to try and catch my breath. “I know you’re mad.”

  “Mad?” she scoffs. “I’m livid! When were you going to tell me that Caspian Gardener’s gay?!”

  I sink down onto the couch and wish the ground would just swallow me whole. Or that a carnivorous seagull would come in and eat my heart out. Or a serial killer would break into the condo and end my poor, pathetic life. I’m a secret girlfriend of a gay guy. Of a gay, hot guy.

  Of a gay hot guy who took my virginity.

  “I think I’m going to puke,” I moan, curling my free hand around my stomach.

  “I know, right! Totes terrible! Oh, my poor va-jay-jay is crying in agony! Agony I tell you! But it’s totes ballsy, you know? If his parents found out...”

  I really do think I’m going to puke. I stumble to my feet and b-line it for the bathroom. I’m not even a secret. I’m a shame-scape. Just in case he is found out, he can whip me out and I’ll play girlfriend. No one would ever know.

  Just like Roman will never tell anyone he sang to me or danced with me to the Rolling Stones. Or kissed me.

  Maybe I’m not worth more than a secret.