Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  Confined to my desk, I’m finding it impossible to pay attention to my teacher. As he drones on about some dead existentialist named Albert, I practice my autograph on my book cover. I make hearts out of the o in Score and the a in Massi.

  The girl behind me passes me a note written on a tennis ball. Following its fuzzy instructions, I slip out the back of class to meet Cream in my Hess dressing room. Propped against my vanity, warmed by the heat of its bare bulbs, surrounded by hundreds of fragrant white roses, I pet her discarded dress as she congratulates me with celebratory opening night OJ. The cheers of curtain call echo. Cream pauses, unhooks the top of her angora Lacoste lingerie. Holly, wearing the shark embroidered version of same bra and panty set, struts into my private dressing room.

  Class is dismissed. My good sport pulls out her cell in synch with the rest of the exiting honors students. Checking my messages, I follow her to the senior lockers. Cream meets Canary, and the two sweaters continue on past my stall. After fixing my hair, I tape a small print out of Holly’s Model Mayhem graffiti pic next to the photo of Alexa Chung and then invite Leo Di to sit in on tonight’s rehearsals.

  While Mia was whining to Rick about the October deadline for script memorization, I was in a massage train. Eventually she came backstage, linked up, and calmed down. Now we’re both relaxed, hanging beneath the campus lights, awaiting our rides. She compliments me on the Let’s Not Pretend invitation. “It’s hella horny.” I agree. Stella appears at the top of the campus steps. In black patent pumps, white high-waist hot shorts, and a matching pair of suspenders, pressing my Joy Division shirt to her boobs, she intimidates the sun. It ducks all the way behind the hills as her heels tik toward us.

  “Hey kids!” She kisses me.

  “Hey, Babe.” With France’s oral occupation fresh in my mind, I furtively wipe my mouth. “How’re things going with the casting? Has that guy called again?”

  I take off my shades. Mia looks up from her texting.

  “You spoke to Blake?”

  “Yeah! He wants to meet again!” Stella types into her phone.

  “Wait. You mean on Monday? At the callbacks?”

  “He wants to do a one-on-one first! I guess there are only, like, five girls doing them!” With a hair toss and a smile, she looks up. “I’m so gonna get the part!”

  “Oh…” Mia quietly forces out, “That’s cool.” Then returns to dourly, yet rapidly, texting.

  Un-sanitarily, Stella presses a spent wad of gum against the light post before digging her last piece from her pocket. She peels open the paper, balls it up, flicks it away, and I begin flattering the soon to be TV queen.

  “You’re gonna be perfect for the show, Babe.” I kneel to retrieve the litter. “Do they need any male roles?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll ask!”

  The dainty freshman dancer who was giving me a dry shampoo minutes ago ghosts me as she walks toward the parking lot. She is holding hands with her senior boyfriend.

  I trash the wrapper and walk back to Stella. “Hey, do you want to do something Friday night? We can celebrate the one-on-ones, one on one.”

  “Yeah!” As if I’d forgotten that I’d agreed to accompany her to her first Teen’s Choice Award, she insists, “I wanna go to one of Score’s infamous Premiere parties.”

  Mia takes a fake sounding phone call to the top of the campus stairs.

  “But that’s Saturday. … I was thinking that maybe we could do something Friday, like, just the two of us. … We could go to the D-hole … or watch stuff at your place … or go to the golf course or something—”

  Stella’s sex hum pressurizes the thinning air between us as she moves closer.

  “I know Let’s Not Pretend is on Saturday. I’m on the invitation Babe.” Grinning, she throws her arms around my neck. ”But I think you should have a pre-party on Friday. Another Flash. The last one was amazing …”

  Her hips sway ever so slightly to the Katy Perry song looping through my head.

  “Have two in a row?”

  Hosting just one Premiere a week has already made it really tough to manage work, homework, script memorizing, and seven full periods of wakefulness.

  Her sugary watermelon breath hits my face and tightens my jeans. I salivate.

  “Yeah, sure. It’s fine, why not? I’ll make it happen.“

  “Rockin’!” She raises one sculpted brow, grins, grabs the back of my hair, and kisses me. Deeply. My heart beats on fast forward.

  She pulls back and, with her lips grazing mine, breaths, “It’s a date.”

  Chapter 41

  Thursday after school, I’m pleading with Lynch as he’s driving me to work. The quick invitation that I made last night for The Friday Night Pre-Premiere Party hasn’t received the response I’d hoped for. Serendipitously, Soufflé isn’t coming (he has a solo gig at some SF club called Rickshaw). Neither are the surfers. They’re throwing a pool party on the coast that, despite my current begging, the Prozens will be cutting school to attend.

  “But we’ll all be back for Let’s Not Pretend.” Nodding, Lynch lasciviously grins, “Violet’s really looking forward to it.”

  “You’re abandoning me.” Frantically, I polish the fear from my shades. “How am I going to work everything? Is MK going too? To see Leo? I haven’t heard from either of The Twins.”

  “I think she’s staying here. But Ash is coming with us.”

  “Ash?” I turn down a song about someone named Richie Dagger.

  “Yeah.” The neon of the marquee hums to life, as he pulls up to the curb. “Star’s gonna show her how to make psychedelic Kombucha.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” I grab my Sherman, slam the door, and lean through the passenger window. “Just make sure that she comes back with her brain in place. I don’t think I could handle seeing her in tie-dye. Or sandals. And don’t put any more holes in your face.”

  He begins pulling away.

  “And you better show me how to work the soundboard before you go!”

  With one thumb up and the other texting, Lynch rolls onto the main street, steering with his knees.

  I’m actually early this evening. In my dark booth, I ditch my bag on the seats and call Vegas on speaker. When I ask for Joey, the stranger that answers says, “He’s not here. Who’s this?”

  “Oh, okay.” This guy sounds just like Cruz. “Who’s this?” My brother lives alone.

  “This is Marcus.” The voice curtly lilts, as if questioning the validity of my inquiry.

  “Are you Mexican, Marcus?”

  “What?”

  “My friend is Mexican and you sound a lot like him.”

  Innocently, I remove my compact and polish my teeth in projection light.

  “NO.” He gasps. “No I’m not, and you should know that the politically correct term is ‘Latino,’ not ‘Mexican’.”

  “My friend’s family is from Mexico City and they call themselves Mexicans.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Joey’s brother.” Proudly, I toss the empty tube toward the recycling. It plinks against empty Pellegrinos.

  “Well…” The uptight version of Cruz spits, “then I imagine that you have Joe’s cell number. I suggest you use it.”

  I dial Joseph’s cell. When he picks up, I ask who the bitchy guy in his house is.

  “Oh God, I told him that he had to leave this morning. Why? What’d he say to you?”

  “Just some weird racist stuff. He hung up on me.”

  Exasperated, my brother apologizes for his rude friend’s behavior and I ask for a favor. I want to borrow one of his old outfits for the next party.

  “Wait,” He asks. “Which suit? For what?”

  Excitedly, I relate all the miracles I’ve worked thus far in my career as host and when I’ve caught him up to tomorrow night’s Flash Premiere, Joey is perfectly impressed. Praising my efforts, he tells me exactly where to look for his clothes then with older-brotherly love, imparts, “Hey Mike, you should really
bring by some condoms to this thing of yours.”

  “C’mon man.” Laughing, I scoff. “What, is it the nineties?”

  “Just do it for me. And you still gotta tell me what you want for your birthday. You name it. The tables have been as hot as your fabulous basement ballroom, baby brother.”

  “Okay, thanks Joey.” When the door opens and someone steps into the booth, I’m startled. I take my brother off speaker. “I’ll email you a list. Break a leg tonight.”

  “Thanks Mike. Kiss kiss. Love love.”

  “Kiss kiss. Love love.”

  I set down the phone and stare back at my company. A few seconds of silent, mutually questioning, proximate eye contact pass.

  “Was that Joey? I miss him.” Shane is bopping, wearing the yellow and black stripy Paul Smith sweater. Again. He’s had it on since last Friday. “Tell him I say hi.”

  “Will do. What’s going on man?”

  “Score…” Looking like he’s about to take flight, he whispers, “I know all about the party. Can I please come this time? I won’t even fuck. I just want to watch.”

  Gripping the edges of the build-up table, to prevent myself from falling to the cold grey floor in a swoon, I pray for Moz’s strength. “Who told you?”

  “Jamie… a while ago.” He meekly admits. “I never actually asked Hector anything. I made that up cuz I didn’t want you to get pissed at her. I really want to come, Mike. Just to watch. Can I come?”

  “Why did she tell you all of this Shane?” I don’t get it. I could see Mia maybe telling some guys at a club in San Francisco, or perhaps some of the freshmen that constantly follow her around school.

  “Don’t worry Buddy.” He shakes his sandy blonde head. ”We tell each other things that we’d never tell anybody else…” Abruptly, he inhales. A concerned look cuts through the shadows cast by his eighties James Bond bone structure as he holds his breath. “Shit no one else can ever know, and will never know … so, I swear, the secret is safe. Can I come? I just want to watch.”

  Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.

  Unnerved, I stare at his hopeful, bristly smile. The oddity of he and Mia being secret besties is somewhat upsetting, but I still trust him. It’s fine. I know Shane. Kind of. He’s saved me on numerous occasions. And apparently he knows my brother.Everything’s fine.

  “Okay man.” I hop off the table and grab one of the destroyed Taxi Driver reels. “It would actually be cool if you kept an eye on everything for me. There’s this French Texan that I’ve never been totally sure about, and there’s gonna be a few more new people coming on Saturday, so maybe you could kinda act like security.”

  Shane hugs me. Loving the idea of playing bouncer, he reassures me that he won’t say a word, thanks me profusely, and leaves me splicing off bad ends. But before he goes back to slinging sodas, he pauses at the door.

  “Hey Score, … do I get a Screename?”

  “Um … sure.” I search for a new roll of tape. “What do you want it to be?”

  “You give it to me.”

  The names of several different cinema badasses run through my mind before I realize that the best one is right in front of me.

  “How about Bickle?”

  “Taxi Driver?! Kickass!” Bouncing down the stairs he yells, “You’d better do some push-ups before Saturday buddy! No one wants to fuck a scorecrow!”

  When the door shuts, it blocks the sound of his exit. But I know that he’s still giggling.

  Chapter 42

  Friday night is unusual. As it begins, I graciously accept flowers and arrange them in empty bottles about the stage. While elevating the décor, the assorted bouquets only partially mask the chemical scent in the air; however, the fragrance of Barbara Johnson’s candles slowly turns everything rosy. When Stella lights the last scented soy pillar, the smell of vinegar and bleach is barely noticeable. It’s lovely.

  Inhaling, I smile and thank her as she hands me a Hello Kitty punch bowl. I set it next to the vitamins on the mini-fridge and begin filling it with bootie from my Planned Parenthood brown bag.

  “Condoms?” Stella laughs. “What, is it the nineties?”

  “Condoms and lube.” I pour the rainbow assortment into the hollowed-out cat’s head. “Joey insisted that I provide some.”

  “Oh, really? I thought we weren’t supposed to provide anyone with information about the party.”

  “My brother?” Aghast, I wave a ribbed Trojan. “You’re bringing kids who I’ve only seen online and you’re worried about Joey?”

  “C’mon Babe, I’m just playing.” She blows then implodes a bubble before tapping my cheek with an old-timey pink and white straw. “I’m gonna go warm up.”

  Standing at the soundboard, skipping my formal speech, I alert my guests to the optional prophylactics, and begin to stiltedly start and stop ‘Fourth Blood.’ I’m trying to get the sound of automatic weapons to fire through the PA but Lynch left without showing me how to work it. Instead of John Rambo, we’re hearing Kylie Minogue. And the distracting sounds of snorting.

  Mia, Stella, and Prius have formed a powder triangle over the PlayStation. They giggle. I struggle to interpret the directions that just buzzed into my phone and Volta accuses me of summer blockbuster sabotage.

  “I’m really trying!” Cuing up Slayer to appease The Boys, I continue losing my battle with electronics until a hot young secretary enlists herself in the war.

  Taking my phone, Holly reads Lynch’s notes aloud while I plug, unplug, and push useless buttons. Then, just as Cruz lets me off the hook—“It’s okay Miguelito. Don’t worry about it. I’m just gonna be sucking cock anyway”—Mia unfolds. Jerking up, she jumps back from the console, and starts screaming.

  Oh fuck! Oh my fucking god!

  From her center stage candy couch, MK begins to repeat, “Ew ew, ew…”

  And I mute the music.

  Blood is pouring out of Mia’s nose, gushing all over her face. Her scene has just gone from coke party to Carrie. It’s dripping from her chin, through her fingers, and onto her long white belted-off tee shirt. That’s a lot of blood.

  Stella and Prius flee from their friend as if she were a geyser at Hep C National Park.

  “Oh my god, oh my fucking god!”

  The hysterical girl is a horror show, and I’m completely unhappy about the whole thing. As host, I feel that I must deal with this unfortunate situation.

  “Shh, shh Mia. Its fine, everything’s fine.” Backing against the curtains, I soothe the screeching blood fountain from a safe distance. ”You’re going to be fine.”

  It seems like she can’t hear me. And the way that she’s squealing, “Fuck! I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding! Oh my god I’m gonna fucking die!” is making me question my own calming claims. I’m not entirely sure that she won’t die.

  “It’s fine, everything’s fine,” I softly mother.

  “Fuck, Fuck, Oh my god!” Ignoring my compassion, Mia runs offstage then reappears with a filthy chemical-tainted rag pressed to her face. “Sarah take me home! Take me home!” She scream-sobs, “You’ve gotta take me home!”

  “Um…” Pressed to the wall screen, her BFF hides behind the DJ. “I walked here.”

  Donny plugs his ears.

  “I have the jeep! Oh my god, I can’t drive!” Mia does a bloody jog. “I’m gonna fucking die! I can’t drive!”

  Holly hands me back my iPhone and walks upstage to put her arm around the shrieking Filmgreat’s bloody waist.

  I gasp. I can’t believe she’s touching her.

  “Just breathe, Jamie. You’re gonna be okay, it’s just a nosebleed. You probably just nicked yourself with the straw. I’ll take you to get cleaned up and then I’ll take you home.” The sober vegan comforts her as she walks the mess past me. “You’re gonna be fine, just calm down, take deep breaths…”

  Their exit sounds like crushed kittens.

  “Thanks, Holly!” While shouting through the swaying curtains, I compose a text
asking her, “Please burn her shirt! It’s too much of a conversation piece.

  “Mia, it’s fine!” I holler and hit send.

  Amidst a heavy silence, we remaining Greats look back and forth at each other.

  Prius taps an American Spirit soft pack.

  “Well that was a drag.”

  “Yeah. What the fuck was that Donny? Is she overdosing? Was that shit bad or something? Was it heroine? Is she gonna die?”

  “Nah.” He lights up and takes a drag. “It happens my brother.”

  “Huh. What a drag.”

  On purple plastic, dressed in designer forest camo and gazing at the movie, MK rattles Roxy from her purse. She dry-swallows. And the silence returns. It presses upon us like a forty-eight hour Sunday until Stella saves the evening.

  “Yeah. That was a drag. Okay…” Stepping into Heaven, she pulls off her lemon yellow shirt, throws it at me, and asks, “ Who wants to fuck me?”

  What a relief.

  After catching the pink heart dotted souvenir and admiring her especially large boobs, I quickly scroll through my iPod. While I’m replacing Slayer with Stella’s favorite Flo Rida song, Cruz walks over to inform me that he and Volta are leaving.

  “I dunno, Miguelito.” He runs his comb through his slick hair. “The blood just grossed us out. We’re not in the mood.”

  Like MK, The Boys are both wearing war paint.

  “The Blood? C’mon guys, I’m finally playing your movie.” I motion to the silent massacre on the wall. “…Rambo.”

  “I know Guapo. Thank you. I’m not mad at you anymore.” Cruz kisses my cheek. “We’re just gonna go park in the vineyards and watch videos on my laptop. We’ll see you tomorrow night, though. F’real.”

  Left behind the PA, with my Producer giving a Standing O, I admire Stella. On her back, she’s moaning in Heaven. I’m considering going in alone to try to negotiate some OJ for myself—before Donny pulls his pigtails out from between her splayed legs. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his De La Barracuda jacket, takes a drag from the smoldering cigarette hoisted in his left hand, and flashes me his GO SMiLE.