Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  Published by

  Black Candy Publishing

  www.blackcandypublishing.com

  4096 Piedmont Ave #722

  Oakland, CA 94611

  © 2012 Davey Havok

  All rights reserved under international copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, printout, digital file or any other information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the rights holders.

  Design

  Anthony Smyrski, Smyrski Creative

  Printing

  The Prolific Group

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2012954417

  ISBN: 978-0-9859572-0-9 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9859572-1-6 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-0-9859572-2-3 (electronic)

  Distributed worldwide by

  Black Candy Publishing

  This book is dedicated to Michael and Jonna. Thank you for your endless support and strength. Without you I’d be talking to myself even more.

  Prologue

  “It’s all Screenames now.” I have a very difficult time remembering what we used to call each other before this all began, before I became a Filmgreat, but here in this silent, warming glow, I have time and cause to reflect.

  I somehow manage to fondly recall that Stella was Sarah. I just turned down a birthday surprise from her that most guys in my class would trade their entire wardrobes for. During junior year, as she was being dropped off after lunch by college-aged guys in luxury cars, I would watch her with hopeless longing. Now I have given her so much more than they ever could. And she deserves it. She deserves me. She’s hot, ambitious, knows a good thing when she sees it, and will stop at nothing to get it.

  As I think of Holly, knowing who she was, and what was supposed to happen when I opened The Pink Door, I can’t remember her old name. It’s fine. I shouldn’t bother. Thinking about her right now just heightens the screaming in my head.

  “I Kissed a girl and…”

  “Fuck you Katy,” I whisper then cough. The smoke is soothing. But there’s more of it than I’m used to.

  Stepping back into the alley past the dumpsters, I pinch a weightless piece of ash from the crackling night, and safely admire my work, clicking. My fingers are slick. My hands smell like butane. I should really get out of here. I inspect the inscription on my Zippo—one of my many gifts from Bickle, my generous guardian whose bumblebee sweater is now speckled with awful little hard-to-get out bloodstains. It’s a shame about that sweater—Shane’s sweater. Weird. His name is Shane. I used to call him that. Even now, hundreds of scenes later, I can remember naming my protective friend. He so badly wanted a Screename. Leo, Star, and Donny on the other hand, they’ve all kept their old names. That’s weird too. They’ve all remained the same this whole time. I didn’t.

  I changed. I flourished and became the leading man in all of this, the shockingly well-dressed teenaged emcee of our grand private affairs in this tired town, the glorious director of it all. I became Scorsese.“…Score. It’s Score for short.”

  Pausing before I flee, I kneel back down. When I re-introduce myself to the timid grey Manx, whose curiosity has finally drawn him close enough to be scratched behind the ear, he cringes, reminding me that I too disliked the name. Feeling that “Score” sounded too much like the name of someone who should be selling speed in Nevada, I briefly fought against it, but our Screenames stick when they’re right for us. Score was the right one for me. I’ve come to respond to nothing else.

  “My name is Score,” I confidently proclaim. “And today is my birthday.”Though my birthday technically ended a few hours ago, I accept that this cleaning is the true celebration. I am sad that after what happened tonight, the Filmgreats will never again congregate in the same way, but the fire comforts me. As the mess that has been slowly building up around us beautifully burns high into this dark October morning, the warm sound of the flames melts the rich, icy, screaming croon of Old Blue Eyes.

  “It’s fine.”

  Looking at me like there’s something terribly wrong, the Manx meows, then darts back into the alley.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  Chapter 1

  The air conditioning in Zach’s bedroom is broken. It smells like PE in here. And I’m sweating—which I hate. It’s August, and our NorCal valley has been enjoying a modern, shredded-ozone-summer that is commanding both my perspiration and the controversy that’s growing in the kitchen. This whole town revolves around grapes, and Zach’s parents own most of them. As he and I lay on the thinly carpeted floor between two electric fans, his folks are discussing how this heat wave is going to affect the upcoming harvest. Sue wants Willy to come with her on her next Parisian shopping trip. Willy is insisting that he needs to stay nearby to deal with the late summer crop. It’s all very riveting.

  Staring at the poster of Joey Ramone tacked above Zach’s head, I can hear his Mom’s voice ooze between the distorted fuzz of “Personality Crisis.” Even with Sue’s argument flowing in the background, the grit in the singer’s voice sounds perfect coming through the high-end speakers. The Prozens are one of a few rich families in this town, and Zach and his little brother all the better for it: they can basically have whatever they want (though they rarely ask for much beyond phones, computers, video games, surfboards, skateboards, and the occasional car). I’m stuck with middle-class parents, but I at least get to enjoy the benefits of the farmer’s wealth by proxy.

  Still lying on my back, I text. Sue, compromising, suggests that her husband skip his next camping trip to come to San Francisco with her for the weekend. Willy concedes before bringing up the town’s most recent church fire—it’s the second of the summer and most people seem to be in quite the tiff over it. With more curiosity than concern, he explains, “They don’t know if it was arson or just some freak incident with candles and dried flowers.”

  “I read that it was flowers,” she says, and then returns to matters of shopping. Her voice reminds me of my counselor’s whale song CD’s

  “God damn it.” Using his remote, Zach replays the trashy anthem, as his mom begins speaking French. ”If only it were the seventies. We missed all the good shows.”

  “I know man, or the nineties.”

  “Or the eighties.”

  “Yeah. And what if we were in England? Think of what we could have seen then,” I say. “But you know what city they say is like London, right? San Francisco!” Reading the text that just came in from Sarah, I sit up to beg for relief from the boredom, “Wanna roll out the ol’ CC in neutral and drive us to a party tonight?”

  “I can’t.” He stands to unplug his laptop. “Dad re-hid the keys.”

  Propped against the flyer-covered wall, stretched beside his unmade bed, he taps on his keyboard, sweating. Despite the heat, Zach has been wearing long sleeves to avoid furthering his Cadillac’s confinement. During the last week of junior year he got caught sneaking out with Jamie, Drew, and Michelle to see what The Twins’ parents deemed to be a “satanic rock band,” based on their demonic name, “Vampire Weekend.” Zach didn’t care about the show, but Jamie wanted to go. He took the opportunity both to put in some work with her and get a tattoo. Using his flawless fake ID, he had a big bearded guy at Blackheart SF drill ‘LAMF’ into his skin. The following afternoon, his father suffered a displeased call from The Twins’ dad and took Zach’s car away. Zach and I agree that his punishment comes more from Willy having been forced to listen to the zealous ranting of Mr. Todd than from Zach having cut school to drive the unregistered Caddy. Still, he now wears his GI Jacket at all times to conceal the fresh wound. Willy thinks tattoos are “seedy,” and Zach doesn’t want to risk havi
ng to walk to school this year.

  “This is awful. When are you supposed to get it back again?” I tap my touch-screen, frustrated over having lost my favorite driver. I’ve yet to get my license, as I prefer to be chauffeured.

  “Not until school starts … man, I’ve looked for those fucking keys everywhere. He must have taken them to work.”

  I suggest a hot wire.

  Considering the possibility, Zach stops clicking the keyboard. “What’s going on, again?”

  “Dub Step party at Minna Gallery. Those DJs that the girls know can get us in.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  I should have told him it was a proto-punk night.

  Normally, Zach would take any opportunity to get out of town. We all would. Even with the city being hours away and a gallon of gas being the price of a McQueen tie, we’ll do whatever it takes to escape, because nothing ever happens in our tiny little town. Ever. Temporary absences, provided by shows and parties in the city, give us the will to not hang ourselves on grape vines. It’s never enough though.

  Strategically, I use his longstanding crush as bait. “But I think Jamie has the jeep, so if you don’t want to go I can probably squeeze in the back…”

  I stare at him. Even the prospect of hanging with Jamie hasn’t persuaded Zach to break into his own car. He isn’t going to drive us and, what’s worse, he doesn’t want me to leave him. My iPhone buzzes with another text from Sarah. Zach steps over me and grabs a drink from the mini fridge.

  “Dude, Dustin found a way into that old hotel. It sounds like it might be the perfect place to do the party. We should go check it out.” Looking down, he grins, knowing how badly I’ve wanted to find a room for my Premieres.

  “Okay,” I say. “But first, I’m going over to Barbara Johnson’s.” I snatch the bottle of San Pellegrino from his hand as his fridge purges its precious mist. “She’s out being a hippie again, and I’ve just been asked to come entertain her daughter.”

  “I still can’t believe that’s happening for you man. It’s really cool.”

  I grab my splintering REAL deck from the wall by his back door. Dustin gave me the board pre-thrashed. “Well, I’ve had to wait in line, but it’s been well worth the wait.”

  Sweating from the skate across town, I stand on Sarah’s porch. I could just walk right in. But I won’t. I can’t forget my manners. I bandana my brow, and gently knock.

  “Commmme innnn!”

  I ease into the cool shadows of the living room.

  Leaning my skate against wall I close the door, blocking out the natural light that the heavy eastern blinds couldn’t intercept. As I linger in the glow of the giant flat-screen, the TV blares the news that matters, and Sarah types. Sitting on her mom’s oversized burgundy faux-suede couch, in her hot-pink boy briefs and sheer, white, loose-fitting tank top, she looks like an American Apparel ad. Usually, she doesn’t go bra-less, but here in the heat and the privacy of her living room her fantastic go-getters are getting time to breath. I glance between areola outlines and the small mirror in the entryway. And the TV yammers. And Sarah types.

  With her pink Hello Kitty Mac illuminating her downcast baby blues my freshman-year fantasy listlessly dangles her foot, full of cotton balls, in front of a whirring fan. The tangy scent of pink lacquer comforts me—as does her ability to match her toenails to her underwear.

  Tapping her keyboard, and without looking up, she greets me, “Hey Mike!”

  Clicking my Zippo from within my jeans, I turn to the screen. The guy on E! is making fun of the daughter of an old Hollywood great for having driven her Bentley across a private Malibu beach and into the Pacific. When the cops pull her out of the car she’s wasted. And in her underwear.

  “What’cha watching?” I ask.

  “Did you see this?” Sarah flicks her wrist toward the TV, as if it were a sparkling vampire mosquito. “That poor thing. I don’t see why he needs to be so vicious about it!” Her glistening nails return to tap at the keys.

  “Please. Look at her. She totally deserves it.”

  “NO, she doesn’t.” Looking up, sounding personally offended, Sarah defends the socialite’s character. “And she looked totally hot even when they pulled her from the wreck all soaking wet. See!”

  The shot of the post-crash blonde being escorted from the car flashes back onto the screen. She does look good—sort of like a Calvin Klein billboard.

  “You’re right,” I concede. “Her father must be beaming.”

  Silently, Sarah finalizes what seems like a page of typing before snapping shut the Mac.

  “Why don’t you bring that cute, sweaty, self-satisfied ass over here?”

  She called my ass sweaty. I desperately want to freshen up, but can’t bring myself to ask to use the bathroom. Hoping to pat myself down with a dishrag within the privacy of the kitchen, I say, “It’s pretty hot. Should I grab some fruit pops?”

  “Just get over here, Mike.” Her magnetic sex electrifies the room.

  Obediently, I plop down next to her. I blot my brow with toe-cotton. The E! host’s face is eclipsed by two delectable, all-natural treats. From beneath her sheer tank top they challenge me, face-to-face, as Sarah straddles me.

  She looks down. Her dark wavy hair hides us from the media and within the safety of our solitude, I watch my hands slide up her soft, lotiony thighs. My fingertips touch the elastic perimeter of boy briefs. I look back up. Sarah shifts her hips, purposefully grazing my lips with her right nipple, and something deep within the darkness of my black denim stirs.

  “Oh, dear Michael, what’s that?” She unbuttons my Ksubis.

  Since we haven’t even kissed, I might have been a bit embarrassed by my immediate readiness. If she wasn’t so pleased by what springs from my jeans.

  In a matter of seconds, she pulls my pants down to the ground, her panties to the side, and my eager Producer up inside her.

  She’s a good girl.

  Her palms push down on my chest, and her blossoming perspiration increases the marvelous transparency of her top.

  Sarah is such a good girl.

  Lounging alone in nothing but the slowly drying traces of our fluid scene, I’m watching TMZ. The captivating piece on LiLo ends. A commercial for depression meds comes on. I clean off a bit of leftover joy with some cotton balls, slip on my black jeans, black summer shirt, and black Chucks, then head into the kitchen to get the pink lemonade fruit pop I’ve been craving for the past forty minutes. Discarding the plastic wrapper in the recycling bin, I slink down the hallway to enter Hello Kitty’s lair.

  With my icy treat in hand, I walk over pink carpet, and past piles of Tarina Tarantino jewelry scattered across the pink dressers. In the pink mirror, next to the Ameripop Girl posters tacked to the pink wall above the pink bed, I pause to inspect myself before breaching the cleansing happening in Sarah’s bathroom—also pink.

  “OH MY! What ARE you doing in here?” she demands with the drama of a Silver Age starlet. I peek my head into the shower.

  “I thought I could help.”

  “Sure you can sexy!” Immediately physically excited, I’m about to take off my pants when she says, ”Hand me that razor on the sink.”

  Moz, she is so hot and so comfortable with me basking in her steamy nakedness that it’s almost making me uncomfortable. Pecking off a piece of my pop, I hand her the fortunate pink and white blade.

  She sets it on the plaster shell-shaped soap dish jutting from the pink tiles next to my shoulder, tilts her head back, and rinses her long dark hair. Hoping that she’ll ask me to shave her, I discreetly push aside the plastic kitty curtain to get a better view of her arched back, long neck, and wet boobs. She pushes the water from her face, opens her ice blue eyes, reclaims the razor that has mysteriously ended up back in my hand, and stares. I feel like I’m in a Girls Gone Wild commercial, that the possibilities are endless, until in a gentle “Why are you still here?” sort of way, she asks, “So, what’s up?”

  Shaken, I rememb
er that I did actually come in here to tell her something. “I’m not gonna go with you girls tonight. Zach’s being weird and won’t steal his car, so I’m just gonna stay and hang with him. You know, he gets lonely without me.”

  “So do I.” She pouts. “It’s not going to be the same without you, sexy.”

  This sentiment is momentary. She will sincerely miss me, up until about the time that she’s finished drying her hair. I know this. It’s fine. I’m not complaining. At least I was her first for today. Probably.

  Plus, I’ve got a hotel to sneak into and a dream party to realize.

  “Yeah I know,” I say, lingering in the steam. “But I promised him that I’d stay. I’ll probably still be around when you get home though.”

  “I’ll write you when I’m on my way back.” She motions for my fruit pop. It almost perfectly matches the tiles.

  As she sucks the pink ice beneath the steamy cascade, her inaudible hum rises. This hum is a primal, witchy sort of sex power. Sarah can turn it up and down but never off. Right now, she has it cranked up high. It feels like a private jet has landed in front of me.

  “Since you’re not coming maybe I’ll ask Becca to come.” I say a little prayer to Morrissey that she keeps her promise to text. She slides the gooey stick from her mouth. “You still have to meet her Mike. She’s SO adorable.”

  “Yeah, totally.” Enjoying the view, I hang with the shower curtain.

  Sarah slides the pop back in her mouth for a final ostentatious suck before becoming bored with the treat and dropping it. It dissolves in a pinkening stream on the shower floor, as she lathers her summer-tanned legs.

  “Mike, get out of here. I’ve gotta shave.”

  Chapter 2

  One of the few good things about having to live here is that most everything is close to everything else. I can get anywhere by board. Unfortunately, the foothill that leads to my house is too steep to skate.