Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  “That could be hot.” Pensively she chews her licorice then springs up. “But you know what could be hotter?” I marvel at her wild metamorphic eyes. She snatches my glasses. “Jaws. …” Slipping them on, she asks. “Hey, have you ever been ice blocking? I haven’t. Wanna take me?”

  Ice blocking is miserable. It’s cold and wet and the risk is not worth the reward. If you don’t get arrested for trespassing and destruction of private property you can, at the very least, expect frozen buns and grass stains.

  “Oh, yeah, for sure! I go all the time. I’d be happy to show you the ropes … of ice.”

  “Fabulous.” Standing, she hands over my Fords. They looked so right on her. I wasn’t going to ask for them back. ”I’ll meetcha Saturday at midnight.”

  “Do you wanna stick around and watch the movie?” I follow her to the door, terribly disappointed that her visit had nothing to do with her pocket pal or the rumor that she’s into me. “If you’d rather watch something else—“

  “Thanks Mike, but I should go.” Smiling a half smile, she hands me another mix CD. “See ya at hole one!”

  On the disc she’s sharpied a shark. Via word bubble, the fish is saying, “Mmm… Michael!” It’s got more of my favorite bands on it. And Justice.

  Holding the new track list, I watch her go down the stairs, then, still fascinated by her violet eyes, her violet jeans, her elusive golden toy, and her great taste in pretty much everything, make an emergency call to the coast.

  The kid picks up his phone singing, “I kissed a girl and I—”

  “Alvin, Alvin seriously,” I demand. “You gotta tell me how to ice block.”

  Chapter 32

  I promised Cruz a Rambo Premiere. Now he’s driving me. “Why are you dressed like an Eskimo?” Nordic nightmares shriek through speakers of the El Camino as we speed through the valley.

  “Um, ice blocking.” I scroll through his iPod and switch Burzum to Bona Drag.

  “That dog fur hood ain’t gonna help you get any … even though I know she likes you.” I reach over and lay on the horn as he runs a four way stop. “I told her that you were too much of a maricon to go ice blocking.” He grins. Morrissey begins to sing.

  “Really, you think so?”

  Cruz’s insight is invaluable. The girls tell him everything both during and in between his ‘how to please a penis’ seminars. If he says that Holly likes me, it may be true.

  “No,” he admits. My stomach sinks as if he’d just told me that Stella is pregnant with the worlds next Ronald McDonald and I’m the father. “I know that your brother’s man enough to handle a man but I’m not so sure about you.”

  He pulls into the 7-eleven lot and I step out of his rumbling ride.

  “Come on. Do you really think that she likes me?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Bring me an ice cream.”

  Resolute to not validate the clerk’s suspicions by participating in the tradition of stealing the ice, I drop a Pellegrino, a Dove bar, and a pack of Red Vines onto the counter then ask him to add in two of his finest blocks. Silently, he rings me up and takes my money.

  “Wait.” I look at my change. “You didn’t charge me for the ice.”

  “Nope.”

  “So, you’re not charging me for the ice?”

  “Nope.” His face looks like he’s inhaled the men’s room. “There’s no ice.”

  I get it. He’s being a good citizen by trying to subvert the town’s great ice blocking menace, while I too am trying to be a good citizen by paying for his fucking frozen hose water.

  “C’mon. …” Without looking at my phone, I text “STEAL THE ICE.” “Just sell me the ice.”

  “Nope.”

  I peripherally watch Cruz load his trunk. Fixed on me, my nemesis remains firm yet stoic. But when I finally plea, “Por favor, amigo!” to my joy, he loses it.

  “Fuck you, you little shit, I’m not Mexican I’m a Sikh!” His thick Jersey accent gets thicker when he yells. “A Sikh fucking Indian, NOT a Mexican!”

  I grab my snacks and declare in disgust, “YOU are racist.”

  They don’t turn from their flashing Funhouse machine as the clerk screams, “I am not racist you skinny little creep vampire Eskimo shit!” But I’d swear to Moz that I hear one of the eternally silent Pin Kids softly comment “nice shades” before I march out the door.

  Chapter 33

  It’s quiet and dark. A cool night breeze penetrates my hood. I can smell the grass. The greens are glowing beneath a blanket of full moonlight but I’m still having a hard time seeing. Sitting on an ice block atop hole one, I watch the shadowy form of the El Camino chase its headlights away from the clubhouse.

  “Too bright for you out here Mike?” Holly’s voice startles me.

  “Hey!” Standing, I remove my shades. “Why are you in the forest?”

  “It’s so nice out that I figured I’d come explore before you got here.” She Bjorks out from an unlikely patch of fog in the woods and eyes my parka. “What’s with the snow outfit?”

  “The blocks are usually a lot bigger. It really gets cold riding them.” I take off the coat to reveal my black thermal. “But we should be okay with this smaller ice here. … It’s much warmer.”

  “Oh, well that’s good. Cuz all I’ve got is what I’ve got on.” She’s wearing black jeans, a black faux leather jacket, and a baggy black tee.

  “What’s that shirt?” I fold my gloves into my jacket and stack them on my skateboard. “Did you make it when you were a kid?”

  I think she’s wearing a bra tonight. That can’t be a good sign. Maybe it’s a sports bra.

  “Oh, no.” She laughs, looking down at her chest. ‘Flipper’ is scratched above a dead shark that looks like it was drawn by a first grader. “This was my dad’s. I think it’s some old band shirt. I just liked it.”

  “I know. I was just kidding. My dad used to listen to them too.” Slightly tilting her head, Holly smiles. “Hey, who are The Presets?” I ask about the ‘Mmm Michael Mix.’ “I really like their accents. Brighton?”

  “They’re from Australia. They’re SO nice. One of my friends knows them. He took me to see them at The Glasshouse. I can’t remember most of the show, but it was fun. … So…” She points to the two beach-blanketed blocks. “Shall we get slippery and slidey?”

  “Absolutely!” Wishing she were asking the same question while wearing nothing but underwear and hovering above me somewhere indoors, I bravely motion to the ice. “Lady’s choice.”

  “I’ll take the sharks.” She begins to place her perfect, perky little Cheap Monday’s skull on the cube.

  “Those are actually dolphins.”

  “Oh.” With disdain, Holly jumps up, as if ice burnt. “I’ll take the sea horses then.”

  Saying a prayer to Moz, I plant my butt on the aquatic mammals, grab onto the freezing edges, and scoot myself into motion. About twenty feet later, in the midst of a totally out of control slide and minor panic attack, I bail out. Picking myself up, I check for grass stains, broken nails, and broken bones. The sound of applause draws my attention uphill. Next to my board, Holly stands with her arms circled above her head— it’s a standing O.

  I tromp back to her and immediately my Orange County snow princess proves herself to be a natural sledder. Despite the treachery and my stinging fingertips, I’m having a good time. In between our runs we sit on sea life, sharing banana bread and our excitement for the fall musical—a conversation that I hope to be an implicit expression of her desire to spend more time with me. We talk a about surf and skate modeling, her chance to pose for her favorite painter, Michael Hussar, Valley View High fries, Lady Gaga and Bat for Lashes. But we don’t bring up the last Premiere. Or the fact that tonight is the eve of the Seventies Sex and San P. Party. Instead, smothering a fortunate sea horse, Holly asks me where I want to escape to next year, after graduation.

  “I think Hollywood will be able to truly appreciate me.” I chew on a bit of walnut. “So I might grace L
A with my presence. Where do you wanna go?”

  “I have to go back home. It’s the best place to get my show made.”

  “What show?” I wiggle on the seeping ice. Her eyes are malachite. Her tiny pupils are black pearls. It must be the moonlight.

  Holly finishes her third slice of bread then, with her teeth, rips open the Red Vines. So Adorable.

  “I’ve been working on a script. It’s like True Blood meets Gilmore Girls but with supernatural sharks. It’s called El Fin.”

  “Wow, that sounds awesome.”

  I once tried to write lyrics for Band FAIL! but after staring at “Why won’t you say that you’ll stay? Why do you always run away?” for about 5 minutes, I gave up and watched porn. Wondering if there’s a role for me, I ask, “Can I read it sometime?” Holly plants herself on my lap.

  Facing me, she clings to my flannel like a sexy blonde koala, chewing licorice instead of eucalyptus.

  “Let’s go down together.” She buries her head in my shoulder.

  Her hair smells like unrefined sugar and herbs. I’m tingling everywhere but my numb buns. “Okay, hold on!”

  Precariously sliding we make it almost all the way to the tee before falling off. Still locked together, she lands on my chest and I hit the grass with a thud that knocks the wind out of me. I groan. Holly rolls off. Giggling.

  “Are you gonna survive Mike?” She hovers over me.

  I catch my breath. I’m breathing hers. She half-smiles. She’s so close. Her semi-precious eyes bewitch. This is it. This is the time. With Cruz and Lynch’s assurance echoing in my mind, I move in for the kiss.

  Holly jerks away and says, “Shit.” I follow her gaze toward the clubhouse. A flashlight is rapidly approaching our romance. Shit.

  Faster than we slid down, we bound up the hill. I grab my skate and my parka and snatch the towels from Holly.

  We flee together. About twenty steps into our sprint, she turns to me.

  “We should split up. They’ll never catch us.” Kissing her fingers, she presses them to my lips. “See ya in the seventies.” And dashes down the moonlit green.

  I’ve been here long enough. My ass is still moist but the risk of detainment has surely passed. Blocks away from the golf course, ending my Jiffy Luber impression, I roll myself and my board out from under the old Dodge van. I dust my hands and inspect my shades for scratches before losing a sizeable portion of my mind over a dime-sized oil spot on my parka. I check my phone. I have no messages and it’s far too early to wrap such a trying, stained, un-kissed evening.

  I’m going to clean.

  Chapter 34

  School starts tomorrow. I can’t believe it. There’s really no telling how the tribulations of senior life might get in the way of my party. Tonight could likely be the final Premiere. This may be my last chance to dress up before Winter Ball.

  Standing in Joey’s mirror, I adjust my suit. I refold my black bandana five times then arrange it perfectly in my breast pocket. I remove and replace my shades until I’m certain that I look good in all lighting. For forty-five minutes, I perfect my hair then, snapping open my tubular secret weapon, put the finishing GO SMiLE touches on my teeth. I smile at the handsome boy in my mirror.

  “How do I look?”

  Warmed by her nudging approval of my casual footwear, I kiss Eddie then rush down to summer’s big ending.

  Fashionably late and perfectly preened, I part the heavy curtains to find my own Studio 54 sizzling. Most of the trashed-out girls haven’t searched beyond American Apparel for their retro costumes but they all look hot. There is no absence of bare flesh tonight. Stella, wearing heart shaped glasses and a leopard print raincoat, is teetering on spray painted roller skates, drinking from a Solo cup, and talking to Holly. The vegan is shifting her gold lamé bootie shorts on green plastic while deconstructing Charlie Sheen quotes. Her black tube socks should be embroidered with a parental advisory warning. As I walk to my speech position, I glance signature side-boob peeking through Holly’s white tank top. She is fabulous.

  Leaning against the wall screen, I assess the turnout. The Prozens have glued awful moustaches to their faces. Star’s not here. Leo is smoking weed with MK in Surfers’ Paradise and … oh no.

  “Hey my brother, glad you could finally make it!” Wearing a Bert-and-Ernie-striped tank top, Donny welcomes me to my own party. “We’re about to start a new game over there.” Tossing up a bloated, fist-sized baggy of white, he over-palms it with a slap and smiles. “You should come!”

  After handing me what appears to be a cigarette case, Prius joins Soufflé, Stella, and Mia at the PlayStation.

  I can’t tell if they’re in costume but the DJs’ authentic seventies vibe is slightly compromised when they begin to chop and do lines off this decade’s latest advancement in home gaming technology. It’s a loathsome sight. But the coke is thematically appropriate and Donovan did just slip me a fully loaded, chrome GO SMiLE compact. I’m going to let their drug use and party-crashing slide. Stella leans over the console. Red satin and tight, deep cleavage makes it easy for me to ignore the pink straw. After powdering, she stands, wipes her nose, and waves at me. Donny’s pigtail dips into a rail. They all laugh. I check my face in my new compact then clap my hands.

  “Welcome, my esteemed Filmgreats and un-invited Extras, to the Seventies Sex and San P. Premiere!”

  Heaven is almost full. Cruz and Volta, both wearing huge butterfly collars, are kissing on their Love Seat. The rest of us have cozied ourselves together on the mattresses where, with the DJs’ encouragement, Stella is intent on telling me all about her reality show audition. She insists, “I know I’m perfect for the part!” Asks, “Isn’t it exciting?” Then puts her tongue in my mouth before I can answer. This cycle repeats itself several times, and every time she kisses me it’s both arousing and relieving. Finally, when Heather Graham starts stripping onscreen, she stops talking.

  Wobbling up onto the stage, Stella peels off her spotted raincoat and throws it at me.

  “Woooooh!” In red satin underwear, the revved up roller girl wildly laps the theatre twice, falls back next to me, and picks up where she left off. She tosses her feathered hair. “I know I’m perfect—”

  I toss her coat and cut straight to the making out. This time our activities are escalating. Forgetting to stop and tell me yet again how much some guy named Blake loves her blog, Stella shoves her hand down my slacks. I begin gathering blankets in hopes of masking another OJ, and she breaks away to cheer on the antics of the fifteen-year-old with facial hair.

  Upstage, in the projection, now wearing a gigantic white afro-wig, Alvin outdoes Dirk Diggler’s karate moves for his greatly pre-occupied audience. He punches, spin kicks, then front flips back into Heaven. Ninety-eight pounds of boy thuds next to Ash. He begins braiding her hair, and with her face mashed into a mondo sequined-disco-ass, she remains unconscious while Mia continues tugging. Feet away from the tranquilized twin, Lynch’s crusty eye diamond is hidden in the wrinkle of a tortured wince. In Mia’s clutches, he looks like he’s getting his Producer pierced. “Hang in there,” I supportively whisper. “A JO’s a JO!” He grimaces. Stella’s record starts skipping again.

  “Isn’t it exciting?!” With my moths tickling my throat, I watch her, waiting, hoping that she will once again answer her own question with a tongue kiss. But I have no such luck. “Isn’t it, like, SO exciting?”

  “Totally!” The two girls squeeze hands, as Holly agrees. “So exciting … so amazing … so—”

  Unwittingly saving the sober, cobalt-eyed beauty from the amphetamine fed monologue, Prius tackles the talker and begins poke-tickling Stella’s words into squeals. The display is very reminiscent of a certain popular and troubling video-blog. It’s fine. Donny has left a very desirable opening in Heaven.

  Carefully, I crawl toward Holly. When I pause to count the hickeys that MK has put on Leo’s ribs, Prius and Stella, giggling like kids on candy, bombard me. Using my pushup strength, I fend them off.
I twist out of the DJ’s embrace. Heaven trembles. I grapple with Stella. Donny pins back my arms. I laugh. I squirm, inhaling the smoky pigtails whipping my face. I’m helpless. Stella unbuttons my un-tucked shirt. She pokes my ribs. She tortures me with tickles. She begins sucking my neck. And I stop laughing. With her amped hum electrifying me into charged submission, I pant, reaching out to test the structural integrity of her sleek bra. My hands have been freed. I wonder where Donny went. My co-star works her way under the fur.

  Lying on my back, thanking Moz for answering my most recent prayers, I close my eyes and relax into my second Premiere OJ.

  Small, satisfied sounds slurp beneath the blankets as I mouth the familiar Boogie Nights dialogue. “You know what?” Casually, I wag my finger at the sandbags, “I’m the biggest star here, man, that’s the way it is. I wanna fuck. It’s my big dick, so everybody get ready fucking now!”

  Suddenly, the sounds of hardcore sex boom through the speakers. The Prozens giggle. I sit up to see what’s going on.

  “OMG fucking hot! Woooo!” Mia yells.

  Band FAIL! guffaws. Cruz exclaims, “Oh hells yes!”

  An oversized image of Jenna Jameson, getting it doggy style from a tan brunette in satin gloves and a strap-on, has mysteriously replaced my chosen film de la nuit. Emerging from the covers, Stella looks down at me like a proud mother.

  “Oh my god! Good choice Baby!” She admires the screen. “Aren’t Jenna’s necklaces gorgeous?”

  Clearly, the artful executive decision to show porn was a good one, though sadly, I cannot claim the bold move. It is my wise, carefree co-host who we all must credit for doctoring the Boogie Nights disc.

  I squeeze Lynch’s hand. He squeezes back, smiling with a slight nod of brotherhood. Not wanting to compromise our seemingly precarious position, we lay frozen, side-by-side, silently grinning as Mia shows him her appreciation and we enjoy our first simultaneous OJs.