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
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
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