Roman Holiday

Sunday

chapter Three

The condo has a new paint job this year. Guess the sea-foam green didn't cut it anymore. There's a new pullout couch too, and a new TV to replace the one from the Stone Age that kept losing reception last year. The bedroom is a conk shell blue to match the sailboat picture hanging above the bed, and the kitchen has new tile in the pattern of a checkerboard. The only thing the renovation hasn’t touched is the bird-shit yellow bathroom Dad hated.

“I feel like I should be following the Yellow Brick Road every time I lay a brick in here,” he used to complain. Of all the things to keep, it was that god-awful yellow?

Staring around at the condo, I realize that I don't remember a lot of the other smaller details of our yearly beach week. Like who gets the ice for the cooler? Who checks us in? Who unloads the suitcases and who make coffee in the mornings?

It isn’t two minutes after we’ve walked in the door with our suitcases before Darla pays a visit. She doesn’t knock. She never knocks. She's loud, smokes a pack of Marlboros a day, and downs tequila as if it’s low-calorie soda.

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 hoo-rah? 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. “Darla!”

“Oh, Sherry,” Darla says. “I’m so sorry about Willy, dear. I’m so, so sorry.”

“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 and make me look like the bad apple my senior year of high school? Everyone thought it was just 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'm not sure which was worse.

Don’t think about it. Breathe. My fingers unfurl from the covers.

If Mom knows how I feel about her marriage, she hasn’t said a word, but it’s not like I’ve been very subtle about it. 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. I’ve kept my distance from Chuck—Charles—especially at the bar. He doesn't know the ass-end around pale ale, never mind how to shake a martini.

I begin unpacking to busy myself, shoving handfuls of shirts and shorts into the top drawer.

There are seldom things that man can do right, but making Mom laugh is one of them. Dad could do that, too. Mom's one of those women who barely cracks a smile. She's all business, little talk. Why she marries men who are complete clowns is beyond me.

“Knock knock, har-dee-har-har, I can joke too!" I mock in my worst Chuck impersonation and 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. "F*ck. 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. Can't be avoided.

I stand and open the bedroom door, forcing 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 lollipop.

"But think about what everyone else thinks," she replies.

I narrow my eyes at her. 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. And 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."

"In a coffin," I mutter so only Darla can hear, and her cheeks balloon as she tries to keep from laughing. 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.

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 further 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. Oh, bb, so sexy."

"Yep."

Maggie doesn't even know Caspian and I are non-dating, 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 a family-owned ice cream joint called the Ice Cream Emporium. It's busy tonight, and it's only six-thirty. Tourists pack 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 vigil. 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 vigil on Thursday at St. Michael's cemetery in Lynn Island 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," I deadpan.

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

"You have no idea," I deadpan, staring 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? The little shit's friend, this girl, said 'Aren't you going to clean that up?' and I was so mortified I cried in front of him. Dad had to come rescue me and asked the little snot 'Aren't you sorry?' He was egging for an apology, but snotface never gave one. He and his friend just walked away. Like I wasn't worthy of an apology."

"Children. They're like trolls, only smaller."

"I know, right? I just hate ice cream. It's bad for my figure anyway," I add jokingly.

She laughs. "Right, because you're so fat."

"I am—Oh! Also, to add to this f*ck-tastic vacation, yours truly forgot her underwear."

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

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