Read Online The Sound of Us by Ashley Poston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ashley Poston
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then.”
“That’s funny.”
“Eight…”
And what would I wear? My Roman Holiday underwear and...what? The floral dress Maggie begged me to pack because it was “simply adorbs” on me? I look like a walking flower garden in it.
“Five…”
Oh, what the hell.
“Give me twenty!” I start for the bathroom door, but on second thought, I spin around and jab my finger into his face. “No more running into dumpsters, got it?”
“
Dumpsters
?” He glances around in horror. There’s a slight bruise on the bridge of his nose where he body-checked the one from last night. “Oh, God, they’re after me again!”
“Drama queen.” I roll my eyes and close myself into the bathroom. Twenty-seven minutes later as I straighten the last of my hair, the bathroom door flies open. Roman unplugs my straightener. I squawk in protest. “Hey, I’m not—”
“You are
so
done.”
“It’s only been like—”
“Thirty minutes. You look beautiful. Let’s go.” He wraps his arms around my middle and picks me up, carrying me out the door. I’m so stunned, I simply let him. He called me beautiful.
Roman Montgomery, probably the sexiest, strangest man in the world, called
me
beautiful.
And he doesn’t tell me to keep it a secret.
Chapter Ten
The Strand smells like old cigarette smoke and greasy fair food. Vendors hawking painted conch shells and oriental fans litter the boardwalk in front of old retro diners and ice cream shops, beach museums and gaming pits. The entire boardwalk is built on rotten planks of wood hovering precariously over the waves. I used to be scared one of the planks would break and I’d fall into the ocean, but I think they replace the rotten boards with fresh ones every so often.
“Didn’t there used to be a roller coaster here?” Roman asks, frowning at the expanse of weeds and dirt that takes up an entire block.
“Yeah,” I reply, shrugging. “They tore it down. Owners couldn’t afford to keep it open...but I think the roller coaster moved to another amusement park down the street.”
“The really small one with the weird kid rides?” He makes a face.
“I know, right? Ghastly.”
“I hate that everything changes.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking across the hills of grass and dirt where a theme park once sat. “Sort of unfair, you know? Everything changes and suddenly you feel like one of those bent puzzle pieces.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
At night, the boardwalk turns into a whirling, twisting stream of lights and colors. Carnival bulbs and neon lights illuminate everything as the pops and hisses and boings and whirs of games and cooking grease and children playing skeet ball crash together in idiosyncratic harmony. When was the last time I came to the Strand? I can’t remember.
Maybe it was when the magic of deep-fried Oreos wore off, or maybe it was when I realized that the carnival games were rigged, and the moving statues that line the boardwalk are really out-of-work actors.
Everything is achingly familiar, as if I can just turn around and Dad will be right behind me, asking to dance to the beach music playing at the bandstand or share a corndog. It was on this boardwalk that he taught me how to dance, my feet atop his, as we shimmied to “Good Rockin’ Tonight” and “Brown Eyed Girl.” Do they even play beach music on the Strand at night anymore?
I rub the ache in my chest, hoping Roman doesn’t notice, and lean against the railing. Waves knock against the boardwalk, trash mixed with the foamy yellow-white waves, as a flock of seagulls fight over an abandoned French fry a few feet away.
He leans against the railing next to me, and spits over the edge. Like a kid, I swear.
I turn around and gather my hair over my shoulder. “What’s it like singing in front of a crowd?”
“Odd question. What brought this up?”
I shrug. “My family owns a bar—the Silver Lining. Bands play there sometimes, and I’ve just wondered. I’m a shitty
“That’s funny.”
“Eight…”
And what would I wear? My Roman Holiday underwear and...what? The floral dress Maggie begged me to pack because it was “simply adorbs” on me? I look like a walking flower garden in it.
“Five…”
Oh, what the hell.
“Give me twenty!” I start for the bathroom door, but on second thought, I spin around and jab my finger into his face. “No more running into dumpsters, got it?”
“
Dumpsters
?” He glances around in horror. There’s a slight bruise on the bridge of his nose where he body-checked the one from last night. “Oh, God, they’re after me again!”
“Drama queen.” I roll my eyes and close myself into the bathroom. Twenty-seven minutes later as I straighten the last of my hair, the bathroom door flies open. Roman unplugs my straightener. I squawk in protest. “Hey, I’m not—”
“You are
so
done.”
“It’s only been like—”
“Thirty minutes. You look beautiful. Let’s go.” He wraps his arms around my middle and picks me up, carrying me out the door. I’m so stunned, I simply let him. He called me beautiful.
Roman Montgomery, probably the sexiest, strangest man in the world, called
me
beautiful.
And he doesn’t tell me to keep it a secret.
Chapter Ten
The Strand smells like old cigarette smoke and greasy fair food. Vendors hawking painted conch shells and oriental fans litter the boardwalk in front of old retro diners and ice cream shops, beach museums and gaming pits. The entire boardwalk is built on rotten planks of wood hovering precariously over the waves. I used to be scared one of the planks would break and I’d fall into the ocean, but I think they replace the rotten boards with fresh ones every so often.
“Didn’t there used to be a roller coaster here?” Roman asks, frowning at the expanse of weeds and dirt that takes up an entire block.
“Yeah,” I reply, shrugging. “They tore it down. Owners couldn’t afford to keep it open...but I think the roller coaster moved to another amusement park down the street.”
“The really small one with the weird kid rides?” He makes a face.
“I know, right? Ghastly.”
“I hate that everything changes.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking across the hills of grass and dirt where a theme park once sat. “Sort of unfair, you know? Everything changes and suddenly you feel like one of those bent puzzle pieces.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
At night, the boardwalk turns into a whirling, twisting stream of lights and colors. Carnival bulbs and neon lights illuminate everything as the pops and hisses and boings and whirs of games and cooking grease and children playing skeet ball crash together in idiosyncratic harmony. When was the last time I came to the Strand? I can’t remember.
Maybe it was when the magic of deep-fried Oreos wore off, or maybe it was when I realized that the carnival games were rigged, and the moving statues that line the boardwalk are really out-of-work actors.
Everything is achingly familiar, as if I can just turn around and Dad will be right behind me, asking to dance to the beach music playing at the bandstand or share a corndog. It was on this boardwalk that he taught me how to dance, my feet atop his, as we shimmied to “Good Rockin’ Tonight” and “Brown Eyed Girl.” Do they even play beach music on the Strand at night anymore?
I rub the ache in my chest, hoping Roman doesn’t notice, and lean against the railing. Waves knock against the boardwalk, trash mixed with the foamy yellow-white waves, as a flock of seagulls fight over an abandoned French fry a few feet away.
He leans against the railing next to me, and spits over the edge. Like a kid, I swear.
I turn around and gather my hair over my shoulder. “What’s it like singing in front of a crowd?”
“Odd question. What brought this up?”
I shrug. “My family owns a bar—the Silver Lining. Bands play there sometimes, and I’ve just wondered. I’m a shitty
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