by Havok, Davey
Prius stares at the tee, pulling it taut away from his lean torso. The cherry of his cigarette is far too close to the sacred cotton.
“So, is Stella still asleep? I lent her something. I’ve gotta get it back.”
“Oh, she’s not here.” He drops the endangered hem. “She got up early to get breakfast croissants with her mom. Now they’re at a bake sale or something. They left a note… ” He looks over his shoulder, as if expecting to see a Post-It fluttering around his hair. “You hungry? I’m about to make some pancakes with fresh huckleberries. Gluten-free, I make them with—”
“Wait, you’re here alone?”
“Yeah,” Taking another drag, he exhales. “You wanna come in?”
Kinda.
“Oh, no, no. Thanks man, no.” I back-step, “I’ve gotta get to work. I’ll text Stella and tell her that I came by.”
“Don’t bother. Her phone’s in her room charging.”
He follows me to the edge of the porch as I scurry down the steps, and hop on my board.
“If you wanna come by later we’ll both be here!” He hollers. “I can make more pancakes! I’ve got tons of batter, my brother.”
“Okay, thanks!” Escaping, flying off the curb, and bombing down the street, I yell back. “Maybe I’ll get some syrup and come by.”
Chapter 18
In the lobby, Shane is tearing tickets and wearing a nametag.
“Hey Mike, you here to see ‘Attack of the Vampire Scarecrow’?”
He giggles, tickled by his commentary on my aversion to skin cancer, my outstanding fashion sense, and my runway physique. Every time I see this animate action figure, he calls me a ‘vampire scarecrow’ and tells me to pump some iron and get some sun. We’re friends. During our freshman year, Shane saved me from being beaten by one of his wrestling teammates. I’d made the mistake of trying to talk to a sweater girl that the smaller, yet still gigantic buffo had a crush on. Shane didn’t know me at the time, but he’s an unlikely sympathizer of fragile, sensitive, stylish, artistic-genius types such as myself. He wears self-tailored indie rock tees and power lifts to Antony and the Johnsons.
“Good variation Shane.” His biceps strain to tear through the sleeves of his Death Cab For Cutie shirt as I ask, “You work here now?”
“Yeah, I heard that they were hiring. And I was bored.”
“Oh. Well, welcome to the fun.”
“Thanks! It will be great working together!” He directs some rich tourists to theatre number two.
“Yeah. So, I’ll be in Booth Six.” I walk down the matted red carpet then pause at the projection room door. “And you might want to get a tighter shirt.”
“And you might want to do some pushups!” My new coworker’s deep voice turns into his unsettling, falsetto laugh.
Shaking my head, I climb the stairs. Shane just doesn’t understand. All the biggest celebrities are smaller in person.
Swollen huge, from having just accomplished eight pushups in the privacy of my dark shelter, I google the actor on the screen: Russell Brand is a vegetarian, a writer, and British. Katy Perry is his wife. Stella may have an uber-hip DJ but she’ll be jealous when I’m hanging out with the Ameripop Star and her husband. Our friendship is inevitable. Russell and I have so much in common.
My phone buzzes.
“Donny wants to know where his syrup is! Sorry I was gone! Let’s hang out soon! <3”
I stare at the words. The audience laughs. 22 minutes of deliberation pass and I write back, asking about Kate Moss and Joy Division.
Stella replies. “I miss you!!!!”
My stomach moths flurry. Impulsively, I type, “Why don’t you ditch the DJ, come to Booth Six, and get a new shirt?”
She immediately responds, “LOL! I love you. You’re the best! XOXOXO”
In this ragged chair, I sit staring at her text.
The clicks of the projector count the seconds. Then the minutes. Suddenly, two soft hands shield my eyes. “Guess who?”
It seems that having received no response to her written profession of love was too much for Stella to handle. I turn around, with subdued sexy-cool. “Well I’m glad that you decided to come.”
“Hi! Shane let me in.” Becca whispers and begins to pace the room. “It’s cool in here. … Moody.” Turning back to me, she narrows her eyes. “I can’t believe that you knew it was me.”
Standing on the grey concrete in the flickering of the reel, she looks glorious. Her choppy asymmetrical A-line is bright white, luminescent, defined by the contrasting shadows. Her green eyes cut as they question my sincerity. Their color is unearthly—they’re like organic glow sticks formed in the crystalline waves of Hollywood Beach.
“When Shane surprises me he just kisses my neck,” I whisper back. “So I knew that you weren’t him.” Smiling, she suppresses what would have certainly been a huge laugh. I further whisper. “We don’t have to whisper. They won’t be able to hear us as long as we don’t shout.”
“Oh, okay.” Padding over, Becca sits down and squeezes next to me. “As long as you’re a gentleman, I promise that I won’t scream.” The corner of her mouth barely pulls into a subtle, lopsided half-smile.
I can’t tell if she’s flirting.
“My dear, I’m always a gentleman.” Trying to remain composed, I insist, “I’d never want to make you scream.”
“That’s good cuz I carry pepper spray.” Looking around the room—at the film creeping from the trashcan, at the empty space beneath the steel shelves, at everything but me—Becca says, “But you’re missing out.” Her voice is rich. It sounds like vegan caramel. “I’m a great screamer.”
She blinds me with her LED eyes. I want to act normally—to move in for some making out—but I can’t. I just sit, staring, trying to interpret her vague signals.
“So, are you excited for the musical?” She slips out of her Vans. “It’s gonna be my first lead.”
“Oh, that’s right! It’s me and you this year.” Perfectly feigning having forgotten our upcoming roles, I grin. “I hope you don’t suck.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me sucking, Mike. I’ve got a little experience.”
She’s got no makeup on, but Becca’s thick dark lashes reach out sharply, enhancing her gemstone eyes. Her black Cheap Mondays are form fitting and her white, chewed-up zip hoodie is baggy. Leaning back in the velvet chair, she smashes down the mouths of her slip-ons with her feet, keeping them from telling secrets. Her toenails match her fingernails—unpainted.
“Did you do drama when you were down in … where are you from again?” I ask, dying to know everything about the mysterious new beauty from tropical regions unknown.
“I’m from Newport, and I’ve been acting since I was seven.” She crosses her legs toward me; her shoe flips, waffle-sole up. Listlessly, she begins fingering the tip of my tie. “Mom would take me out of school and drive me to the workshops and castings in Hollywood. All the way up and back. Then a few weeks ago she drove me up to the middle of nowhere and stuck us here permanently. She needed to ’get away from everything’.”
“I know that story,” I huff. She drops her hand on my thigh. I straighten my back. Good posture is always attractive. “Is it just you and your mom?”
Quieting, Becca stands. She inspects the projector then pads further into the shadows. Her feet are bare, but her soles remain clean with each soft step.
“Yeah. It kinda sucks.” The back of her long neck stands regally from her lowered hood as she runs her palms across the build-up table. “She got really weird after Dad was gone. First she got into plastic surgery, and then it was wine tasting … which is really more like wine drinking. … So…” She sighs, turns to me, and motions dejectedly at the clicking air. “Here I am.”
“Fucking wine! That’s why I’m here too!” I follow her to the table, hoping that she’ll ask me to help her test its sturdiness. I boost myself up. “Did your dad stay in OC?”
She walks away. I follow her back to the seat
s.
“Well, sorta.” Easing into the torn velvet, she casts her glowing greens up at me. “He got eaten by a shark.”
“Fuck, no way.” I sit.
“He was an ex-pro-surfer. … One morning he left with a case of Corona and his board and never came back. So I guess if the shark is still in OC waters, then he is too.” She shrugs. “I went vegan after the fish got him.” She pulls a Red Vine from her sweatshirt pocket and snaps off a bite.
“So … fuck.” For the first time, I notice the small, round, black pin that is eternally stuck to her hoodie. On it is the silhouette of a great white. “He was eaten whole?”
“That’s what Mom says.” She waves the waxy whip. “But I’ve seen him a couple of times on the beach. He’s always with this Hurley model that was three years ahead of me in school. We all act like we don’t see each other.” Chewing, she asks for a cigarette. “Do you smoke?”
“No, I don’t. … ” Moz. I hate kissing girls that smoke. But she’s so runway. Maybe Shane has some gum I can give to her. “You can’t smoke up here anyway. It will wreck the film.”
“I’d heard that you didn’t drink or do anything. I only asked because you’re always playing with that lighter… “
“Oh…” I hadn’t realized that I was clicking. Dropping my Zippo, I pull my hand out of my pocket and set it on the armrest. “So you don’t smoke either?”
“No. Just sometimes, when I drink. Which is, like, hardly ever. Or if I’m at a show or something—”
“Have you ever seen Morrissey? My brother has.”
“No … one of my friends back home has. I stole all my Smiths shirts from him.”
“I steal all my shirts from my brother. It’s pretty crazy how much we have in common. What other bands are you into?”
“You know, I pretty much like everything … the usuals—“
“Joy Division? Depeche Mode?” Why couldn’t have you moved here sooner?
“Totally, that kind of stuff. … And Slayer.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“You don’t like Slayer?” She offers me a Red Vine. “I’ve never met a guy who doesn’t like Slayer.”
“Oh, they’re cool. I’m just really only familiar with their radio hits.” I slide the licorice into my chest pocket. “I pretty much exclusively listen to UK bands, like the rest of the stuff that you’re into. I listen to Primal Scream every morning—“
“I know, Sarah told me. I love them too.” She chews, “Do you like The Jesus and Mary chain?”
I wince. “Oh, no I’m not really a big fan of Jesus.”
“They’re not Christian, Mike.” She grins. “They’re great. The main Primal Scream guy was in JAMC first.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll check’m out! I just figured because of the name. … But that’s cool.”
Click, click. Click, click.
“So, I think it’s pretty cool that you don’t do drugs.” Curiously, Becca eyes my freshly reanimated Zippo. I immediately stop clicking and pocket it.
“Really? Thanks. Why? Do you? Not do drugs?”
“Not really. Rarely. Sometimes just for fun, but barely ever—”
The theatre below us erupts in laughter. It sounds canned. With a Red Vine trapped between her teeth, Becca stands and walks toward the window.
“I love these kinds of comedies.” She peers down at the silenced crowd, sucking on the hollow tube. “Back home I’d see everything. And we’d go to midnight movies in Santa Monica and Hollywood. It was so fun. I really wish there was something like that here … ”
This is too perfect. I have to do it.
“Well, can you keep a secret?”
A black moth flies from my mouth. She turns. It lands on her cheek. I rise to bat it away. The reel scolds us, tsk, tsk, tsk. It’s fine. Becca is trustworthy. She’s vegan.
Tsk, tsk, tsk…
“Are you going to ask me if I want to see a dead body?”
“Um … no.” I cringe, creeped out by the weird suggestion. “I want to send you an invite to a party that I just started throwing … promoting … it’s very exclusive. I think you’re gonna love it … but you really can’t tell anyone about it, okay?”
“Well, I am honored that you’d like to include me Michael Massi.” Speaking beautifully, she grabs both of my hands. “I promise. Your secret’s safe with me.” I return her grip. She pulls out her phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you my email.”
This is going so very well. I save her name to my phonebook. She says, “Guess it’s over.” And, surprised, I look up from my tapping.
She’s watching the credits of the film.
“Oh, shit. I thought … excuse me.” Dashing away, I quickly adjust the house lights.
“I should probably go anyway, Mike.” As I scurry about the projection room, Becca slips on her shoes and glides toward the door. “Maybe I’ll see you before the party…” She hovers at the top of the stairs. “At the Grounds or something…”
I shelve a reel and rush over to her.
“Okay, yeah. That would be fabulous.” Lacking even half of my usual confidence, I stand with my hands shoved into my pockets. Moz. I left my Zippo on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotta set this up. But you can just walk into any of the movies downstairs—”
“Thanks, but I don’t like to go to the movies alone.”
Neither of us move. But somehow, suddenly, she’s closer. She must have used her angelic powers to pull us together. Her lips are mere inches from my moth trap. She smells like cucumber ocean rain. We linger. I’m supposed to kiss her. I’m paralyzed with doubt. Her signals are far less clear than what I’m used to with Stella. And her abrupt exit is throwing me.
Becca kisses her fingers. “Bye Mike.” She presses them to my lips. “See ya soon.” And disappears down the stairs.
I lick my tingling lips. They taste like candy. Quietly, I tell her echoing footsteps, “You can call me Score.” Then my phone buzzes, calling me back to the booth.
After starting the film, I fall back into the chairs and think about my impressive party. Now that Becca is going to be there, the movie choice is even more important. I’m about to search IMDB for a Slayer documentary when I remember to check my new text. It’s from Stella. It simply reads: “:)”
Chapter 19
I got up so early. I shouldn’t have. I abbreviated my morning ritual, skipped the scone that Gina left me, pillaged a Jesus and Mary Chain shirt, put on my shades, and Somnambu-skated to The Grounds. Becca’s not here. It sucks. Checking my messages, I wait outside for fifteen minutes before the Neurosis roaster finishes his morning cigarette and lets me in. After ordering a green tea from the beardy smoker, I stumble across the checkerboard tile and fall into my favorite booth. Next to me, on the warm bench, in a ray of light, lays a forgotten copy of US Weekly.
Sipping my eastern eye opener, I frequently glance up in hopes of seeing my vegan dream. I text Lynch, then begin searching for guidance from paparazzi’d panty-less pop stars and sharp dressed men. I flip through the mag. Its pages are totally marked-up. Certain socialites and leading men are circled in hearts, other actresses have blackened eyes—a few have had their heads smeared off with an eraser. I’ve just identified an Alexander McQueen suit on a Jonas, when a text buzzes in.
“I miss you!”
I respond. “You’re up!?”
Three minutes later, Stella replies with a cell phone picture that she’s taken of herself. She’s topless in a pile of pink sheets. From out of my iPhone she stares up at me with a filthy smile. Her nipples barely make it into the frame. “I’m not up. I’m still in bed.”
As I scan the neighboring tables to find someone with whom to share my nice surprise, Donny snubs his cigarette on the concrete sidewalk then strides in the front door. He’s got on aviators, the same converse that I do, and a giant grin.
“DJ Prius just walked into the Grounds.” I type, “He just littered outside.”
Donny heads straight for my boot
h. He’s dressed like someone who got eaten by the sixties and puked out by the late-seventies—but his bone structure is amazing. He sits down across from me.
“Morning Score! So good to see you my brother!” He smiles. His teeth are perfect.
“Morning, Donny.” I force a yawn. “How are the DJ lessons? You up early to head home?” I glance back at the boobs in my lap.
“Lessons are good my brother, very good. Sarah’s actually teaching me a few things.” Removing his shades and raising both eyebrows he nods. “But we still haven’t spent that much time on DJn’.” Sighing, giving him a hidden-lipped smile, I shoot him an affirmative, one fingered point but he still finds it necessary to detail, again. “Too much sex.”
“Gotcha.”
“I just came to grab her drink. She’s still in bed.”
“Oh is she?” Blinded by the gleam of his teeth, I revert my eyes to my buzzing lap.
“He’s leaving Friday. I’ll come visit you at work after he’s gone. Mia and I think that the next Premiere should be Pulp Fiction XOXO.” With this text, Stella has included a tight shot of her hand shoved into her pink panties—they match her nails.
“That all sounds fabulous!” I quickly type back, “XOXO.” Then look back up.
“Sorry man. Just working on the next party. It’s a lot, you know?”
“No worries my brother.” Prius nods then grins. I shift in my seat before trying to pull the truth out of Mr. Pigtails.
“Your teeth are really white Donny. You just brush a lot or are those veneers?”
“It’s Donovan, my brother,” he cordially corrects, “And, nah man, they’re not veneers. They’re mine. I use these.” Fishing a chrome compact from his teeny smurf-blue shorts, he flips it open, pulls out a small white plastic cylinder, and tosses it to me.
Admittedly, I’m impressed. There’s something right about a man who carries teeth whitener, even if his tie-dye tank top begs to differ. Wondering if green tea stains enamel, I roll the tube between my fingers. It says ‘GO SMiLE.’
“I’m gonna go order.” Donny stands. He doesn’t push in his chair. “You want a scone Mike?”
