Faces of unfortunate starlets stare back at me from the pages.
"But even if he didn't do it, it must really be hard when everyone says he did. I mean, if he was a normal person this would just blow over, but he's famous. They'll be talking about this for years."
"Infamous," I correct. "And I really don't feel bad for stars. That's just the risk when you sell yourself to fame."
Darla barks a laugh, reaches over, and pats my upper thigh. "You're your momma's child, that's for sure—a ball-buster." She gets up, collecting her towel and beach bag. "I'm off to get a shower. Got a big night tonight!"
"Have fun." I wave goodbye and turn to the main article in the magazine—the one Maggie has bookmarked with a sticky. READ THIS OR ELSE!
My luck she'll pop-quiz me when I get back, so I might as well try to tough through it.
The article was written a month before Holly Hudson's death. They reprinted it in memory of her. Holly's face stares back at me, fierce and beautiful, her hair a cascade of brown ringlets. A blue and green peacock feather is tucked behind her right ear. Throughout the article, The Juice put in the best pictures of the duo. Having picnics, at the beach, buying coffee, smiling at each other.
I understand why Maggie loves Roman Holiday. They were America's sweetheart couple—or, they were supposed to be. Never quite official, but always skirting around the word. They did everything together—wrote music, attended charity events, recorded in the studio. Sometimes it seemed like Boaz was the odd man out. If anyone, I feel sorry for him. Did anyone ask Boaz how he felt about Holly's death?—and the blame on his best friend and band mate?
The article—We Are Golden—is cliché, but most exposés are. Out of the corner of my eye, Chuck rolls over in his chair and slowly gets up. His entire back is as red as a lobster, and by the way he waddles over to me he can feel it, too. His swim trunks are outrageous—neon yellow and green. Even if I was blind, I couldn't miss him. I can't even read an article in peace.
"Need something?" I ask over the magazine.
"Sherry was wondering if you wanted to go to Dick’s tonight. Shag night, I think?" He shuffles in place nervously. "I’m from Kentucky. We line dance."
I didn’t know he was from Kentucky. What an odd place to be from. No one ever talks about Kentucky. It’s sort of like one of those states in limbo—like North Dakota. "Just move your feet a little and don’t step on hers and you’ll do great."
"Do you shag?"
"My dad taught me." I try to keep reading the article, but he doesn't go away. I close the magazine. "Like, it's a four-four dance, so if you shuffle your feet in four-four you'll be fine. Think the cha-cha Just tell Mom you don't know how. She'll teach you."
"Right...four-four...thanks, Junie."
“No problem.”
He stands there for a moment as if he wants me to say something to keep our enlightening conversation going, but I just want him to leave. He gets the hint after a minute, and begins to shuffle back to his pool chair.
An ungodly shriek echoes over the pool deck. Slowly, I lower my sunglasses. He looks back at me.
"Was that...?"
"Yep." I reply grimly.
The shriek was my name.
I abandon my magazine and hurry up the four flights of stairs to the condo, Chuck quick on my heels. Is someone hurt? Did the bar burn down? When I throw open the door to the condo, Darla is pacing the room, her fingers knit together tightly in worry. Her hair is wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around her middle.
“What’s wrong?” I ask breathlessly.
Chuck almost runs me over in the doorway. His eyes are like a deer in headlights. "Someone hurt?"
“Who burned it down?” I add.
She gives us a strange look. “Burned what down?—No no, I have a date tonight! And I can’t—I still have to get dressed and curl my hair and—”
“And,” Mom interrupts, pouring herself a shot of tequila at the kitchen table. She's been up here the entire time? “She needs you to run to the store.”
Darla nods enthusiastically and whispers very conspicuously into my ear, “Booty call.”
That’s how I end up at the local stop-n-shop for the second evening in a row, buying an economy pack of condoms. I don't even get to change clothes first. Darla shoves me into her outrageous pink muumuu and