Roman Holiday

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 automatic 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 encircles an even smaller selection of underwear.

Crap.

What's worse, wearing underwear with Roman Montgomery's head on the crotch, or granny panties?

"...Cas had his shirt off while washing his car," Maggie prattles on. "Ugh. Bb, 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 to Berkley 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? How big do you think he is?"

I remember that all too well. "Probably pretty big."

"Yeah, he's got big hands."

"You're such a slut."

"You know you're jealous. Go with the grannies. You'll be right at home in them."

"F*ck you."

"Oh bb, 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 proudly, "but he was such an über Goyle after he invited me to an after-party.”

“You went?”

“Duh, bb, 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 sadistically smiling rock 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. Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes, Dragon Age, Downton Abbey. I can go on and on. Everyone in high school knew her because of her nerdiness, and accepted her whole-heartedly, while they ignored me because I wasn't nerdy, cool, athletic, or smart enough. I was never enough for 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.

"Bb," Maggie says, "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 vigil 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. "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 the end, because it's not like I have anything better to do tonight than to wait in line to buy Roman Holiday underwear.

The guy in front of me has hair so bright it matches the 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 a Los Angeles 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 broad by any means, but tall and lanky like the skater boys back home. 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. Why am I so ungrateful?

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. Is that bitterness in his voice? A kin soul. "Every radio station. It's a plague."

"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."

He turns around, pushing a sweep 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!"

"I'm 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. A*shole." 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 is the worst week ever. And it only gets worse when I get back into the condo, and there's Chuck playing tonsil hockey with Mom on the living room couch. Where I will have to sleep.

Now I'm going to have nightmares.