The Sound of Us Page 3

  In other words, Dad loved her.

  Picking up my Vera Bradley duffle, I haul it into the bedroom before she sees me. Not that I don’t love Darla—because I do—but she couldn’t wait another ten minutes before barging in with her big hoorah? I press my ear against the crack in the door to listen.

  “Knock knock!” Darla trills, her flip-flops making slapping noises against her feet as she prances inside. Mom squeals in excitement, throwing her arms around her. “Oh, Sherry,” Darla says. “I’m so sorry about Willy, dear. I’m so, so sorry.”

  That sobers Mom up quickly. “It’s all right. He would’ve wanted me to move on.”

  I disagree. Wrenching away from the door, I fling myself down on the bed and clench fistfuls of duvet in my hands.

  How could she know what Dad would’ve wanted? Did he tell her to marry her high school sweetheart three months after his death? Everyone thought it was just so convenient that he died. Thought she had been cheating on Dad with Chuck. They looked at me with a mixture of pity and leprosy, as if infidelity was catching.

  I haven’t been very subtle about how I feel about her new husband. At the wedding, I boycotted the bridesmaids’ dresses, showed up late to the ceremony, and skipped the rest of the reception where I think I was supposed to give a speech. At school, I started writing lyrics to my favorite songs instead of essay papers. At Prom, I spilled my punch all over the DJ’s turntable when he wouldn’t stop playing Usher and Jay-Z. I wasn’t a bad apple. I was just sick and tired of not being heard no matter how loud I screamed.

  I unwind my earphones from around my iPod, and put it on shuffle to drown out their voices, shoving handfuls of shirts and shorts from my suitcase into the top drawer. I reach back into my suitcase for my underwear.

  My hand comes out empty.

  I pat down the rest of my suitcase, but all I find are socks and bras. “Fuck. It’s official. This vacation can’t get any worse.”

  “Junie! Darla wants to see you! Why don’t you come out and say hello?” Mom calls from the kitchen. I’ve been summoned.

  I stand, pulling out my earphones and dropping my music player into my suitcase, before I open the bedroom door and force a smile. “Darla! Didn’t even hear you come in!” Lies, all lies.

  Darla gives an overly theatrical gasp when she sees me. “Oh my gosh, what the hell did you do to your hair?”

  Keep smiling, I remind myself. “I dyed it.”

  She rakes me over with a studious look, pursing her pink lips together. “It’s definitely a change.”

  “And she will be going to the beautician as soon as we get back,” Mom adds, giving me a meaningful look.

  “I like my hair,” I defend, even though it is a little bright. Out in the sun I look like a walking bubblegum lollipop.

  “But think about what everyone else thinks,” she chides.

  Like she can talk. I clench my jaw to keep from saying as much. Darla notices the tension and eases in with a wave of her hand. “Girls just want to have fun, Sherry. Let her experiment and find herself. It’s not like she has a tattoo,” she adds.

  “She’s eighteen,” Mom tells her, as if that will finalize the argument. Yeah? She’s forty-two. That didn’t stop her from making poor life choices.

  “Well, I think she looks gorgeous. It brings out her gray eyes,” Darla replies, finally pulling me into a rib-crushing hug.

  “I’m gorgeous too,” Chuck jokes, pulling the luggage cart into the condo. He parks it in the kitchen and wipes the sheen of sweat off his wrinkled brow. “In fact, I’m damn near beau-tee-ful.”

  “For a Hobbit,” I mutter so only Darla can hear, and her cheeks balloon as she tries to keep from laughing. Chuck is short like me, but stockier, with an angular jaw and some pretty hairy feet. I really hope Mom convinced him to Nair them last night. Grabbing my purse from the kitchen counter, I pull it over my shoulder. “I’m going to the store.”

  “For what?” Chuck asks.

  “Underwear!” I call exasperatedly over my shoulder and slam the front door behind me before Mom can say, “I told you so.”

  CherryTree Ocean Club is a condominium on the north side of Myrtle Beach. It’s a nice place if you overlook the peeling tan and peach paint and the tarnished railings. The parking lot has potholes, and the palm trees planted by the entrance droop like soggy sponges, but that doesn’t stop the tourists. Overlook the smell of diapers and chlorine and you might have yourself a really good time. It’s definitely not Chuck’s kind of place because it’s no five-star resort, but Dad loved it. He said, “Places like these have character!” Sort of like the Silver Lining. One of the toilets might not work and you might find gum on the bottom of a chair, but it’s a place where everyone knows your name. Like in Cheers.

  The store is farther than I remember, four blocks down Ocean Boulevard on the right. I walk along the tiny sidewalk, passing pancake houses and new towering hotels with neon signs and twenty-story balconies. Dad hated that the old beach houses were getting sold off and torn down to make way for these vacation towers, but I always thought they were pretty at night, and that the view from the rooftops must be spectacular.

  Halfway there, my cell phone vibrates. I dig through my purse. “‘Ello,” I greet happily in a British accent so bad I make myself cringe, “you’ve reached Junie Baltimore, barmaid and best friend to the sweetest, most kick-ass pal in all the—”

  “You forgot gorgeous,” Maggie interrupts. “I felt a disturbance in the force. Although that might just be my lady parts stirring from seeing hunk-a-licious Caspian Gardener washing his car on my way to work. So sexy.”

  “Yep.”

  Maggie doesn’t even know about Caspian, so she definitely doesn’t know I gave him the hymen high-five. “Sorry I missed the sight.” I pause at the red light and wait for the walk sign. The store is across the street, beside the Ice Cream Emporium, a family-owned joint. It’s busy tonight, and it’s only six-thirty. Tourists crowd the picnic tables with their white sneakers and fanny packs. At least half of them have on pink SAVE HOLIDAY t-shirts. “Is there something going on this week or something with that Crapidayer shit?”

  “Um, yeah, the memorial. Where’ve you been living, under a rock?” She doesn’t let me answer. “Never mind, you’re out of the loop. There’ll be a memorial on Thursday at St. Michael’s cemetery in Conway—hey, that’s your last name!”

  “Chuck’s last name,” I correct. “I’m still a Baltimore.”

  “Whatever—to celebrate Holly’s life and raise awareness of teen suicide and all that jazz. Supposed to be a super big deal. MTV’s gonna be there and everything.”

  “Because MTV is such a premiere news source.”

  “Oh shush,” she scolds. “If I could be there, I totes would. Are my people there in droves?”

  “You have no idea.” I stare at the tweens nose-deep in their cell phones, pink peacock feathers in their hair to match their t-shirts. “In fact, a few of your people are eating ice cream as we speak—I hate ice cream.”

  “Which is stupid. Ice cream is the frozen nectar of the gods. I think it’s so silly you hate it because some kid body-checked you with your own ice cream.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s just a bad memory, okay? I just hate ice cream. It’s bad for my figure anyway,” I add jokingly.

  She laughs. “Right, because you’re obviously ginormous.”

  “I am!”

  “Junes, I can smuggle you into Mexico in my cleavage alone.”

  “Oh! Speaking of that, guess who forgot her underwear?”

  “Ha-ha! Karma, bitch! For not going with me last night!”

  Averting my eyes away, I make a break across the street as soon as a purple hatchback passes, to hell with walk signs. “Oh, shut up.”

  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 a
utomatic 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 surrounds an even smaller selection of underwear.

  Crap.

  What’s worse, wearing Roman-Holiday-themed underwear, or granny panties?

  “Cas had his shirt off while washing his car,” Maggie prattles on. “Ugh, 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 away for college 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?”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You know you’re jealous. Go with the grannies. You’ll be right at home in them.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Oh Juniper, 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 flippantly, “but he was such an über Goyle after he invited me to the after-party.”

  “You went?”

  “Duh, 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 pop 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. Everything from “Who’s your Doctor” Doctor Who shirts to red “It’s blue if you run fast enough” Trekkie shirts to “BAZINGA!” Everyone in high school accepted her nerdiness wholeheartedly, which in turn made her vomit-inducingly popular. Me, on the other hand, everyone ignored because I wasn’t nerdy, cool, athletic, or smart enough. I was never enough of 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.

  Maggie sighs over the phone. “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 memorial 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. “You just don’t get it. 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 wait, because it’s not like I have anything better to do tonight than stand in line to buy Roman Holiday underwear.

  The guy in front of me has hair so bright it matches the orange 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 an Isla Lona 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 a big guy by any means, but his shoulders are broad and his butt—not that I looked, I swear—is pretty fantastic. 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.

  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 after a moment. Is that bitterness in his voice? A kindred soul. “On every radio station. It’s a plague.”

  “It’s like an apocalypse, but worse. 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 then.”

  He turns around, pushing a lock 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!”

  “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 week can’t possibly get any worse...but that’s where I’m wrong, because when I get back to the condo, Chuck’s playing tonsil hockey with Mom on the living room couch. Where I will have to sleep.

  Now I’m going to have nightmares.


  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 vibrate 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’m not sure if I want to 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.

  The spheres of lights spiral across the dance floor. We’ve stopped dancing, and just stand there in the dark, listening the sound of our breath, my heart to his, existing.

  He says my name, and my eyes draw up to his. They remind me of melted emeralds. No, I don’t know him at all, but every atom in my body feels like it wants to.

  “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.

  When I fall asleep, I usually have nightmares. The same one, really, repeating the night he died, trying in vain over and over again to...I don’t know. Not save him, because he’s dead. You can’t save the dead.

  But in those nightmares, I still try.

  The stranger in my dream reminded me of him though, like vanilla reminds you of chocolate, or summer reminds you of the beach, and that only makes me miss Dad all over again.

  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.