by Havok, Davey
Alvin laughs. “What’s that bitch’s fucking problem?”
“She’s still mad about me leaving her tied up in the basement.“ He shrugs and turns off the car. “I guess she wasn’t passed out the whole time.”
“Phhh, whatever.”
“She’ll get over it.”
I’m exhausted. After sanitizing the stage last night I made a futile attempt at early morning studies and now blurry ghosts and sparkles haunt the corners of my eyes. I think that the amorphous, droning specters may be my teachers and classmates. I can’t account for the sparkles. Throughout Biology I’m vacant, but halfway into third period, I can sense a curly-haired, orange-corduroyed haze hovering over my desk. I’ve been starring at the same Calculus problem for over twenty minutes. All that I’ve accomplished is filling some grid paper with my autograph.
“You look like hell Massi.” Chris looks down at me through his forced Buddy Holly frames. “Are you okay?”
“I had a really long weekend.” This is my fourth year having Mr. Pope. He knows me for the exceptionally bright student that I am.
“If you took off your shades it might allow you to read the equation a little better, cool guy.” He scribbles out a hall pass. “Go get some fresh air.”
Despite his pants, Chris is pretty cool.
Thanking my charitable teacher, I pack my Sherman then float across campus, and into Hess. I sink into bed. I pull up the sheets, breathing in the ethereal smells of the set. The paint still smells new. I close my eyes. I wish Holly were here.
My prop comforter shifts. Bare, dairy-free thighs graze my balled hands. Wearing only her sweatshirt and white monochromatic Union Jack underwear, Holly slides in next to me. She feeds me a bite of banana bread, tilts a cup of The Ground’s finest Columbian into my mouth, and whispers, “Just don’t drool on me.” Entwined with her, I sleep. Our bed catches fire. Everything is good, so warm-
“GET UP!”
Startled, I reflexively pull my hall pass from beneath the pillow and hold it over my head to protect me.
“You know Massi…” Ignoring the yellow slip, the blur that sounds like Rick Nalon pokes me with its very tangible man finger. “I’d think that having missed rehearsal last Friday, you’d be spending your lunch memorizing lines rather than taking a damn nap.”
I’ve been asleep far longer than I’d thought. I wonder which period it is. I wonder how I’m going to handle this.
“Hey Mr. Nalon…” A sparkle alights the theatre. “Sorry I’m late.” It descends onto the edge of the bed. My vision clears. Holly hands me a script. I smile. Rick looks pissed.
“Why are you here Becca?” he asks.
“We came to run lines. That’s still okay to do in here right?”
“Be at every rehearsal from now on.” Shaking his head, our director pokes me again. “Get it together Massi! This BS doesn’t suit you.”
He power walks out of the theatre. The door slams.
“Boy.” I croak my first words since the rude awakening. “How dramatic. Thanks for saving me, Holly.” I run my hands through my hair then find my shades beneath the sheets. “What are you really doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Fabulous.” Still mostly asleep, I scooch over, “Hop in. We still have time before sixth period.” I snuggle up to the pillow. “Or is it sixth period now? Which lunch is it? Are you cutting?”
“Come on Mike.” She grabs my shoulders and pulls me back up. “We should practice. You know that we don’t have much more time to get our lines down right?”
“Noooo, it’s fine.” I insist. “Deadline is two weeks away.”
“It’s nine days away. Next Wednesday.” Ever so sensually, Holly grabs my Fords from my face, gently tosses them to the comforter, and shoves her unwrinkled script into my chest.
“Okay…” I flip through the pages. “Let’s start here.” I tap my favorite stage directions—the kiss’n ones.
“Hey, have you seen Sarah today?”
“Yeah.” Have you seen this part, where you and I are supposed to kiss?
“Oh, cool. I figured that she might have skipped. She was still pretty fucked up yesterday. I hope she’s okay.”
“She looked fine in class.” I put my aviators back on and grin. “How ‘bout we practice this scene now?” I tap the page.
“You don’t even know your lines.” Her sculpted brows arch. Almost smiling, she snatches back her script and flips to the front. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
Chapter 45
Before first period on Tuesday, with a Cherie Cherie scone jutting from my mouth, I’m putting away my Union Jack lunchbox when Stella appears.
“Hey Babe, did you miss me?” She leans against the lockers. Her white dress shirt is buttoned low enough to show off the lace of a hot pink bra. The shirt is far too big for her. She still looks great.
“Miss you?” I mumble then catch my falling breakfast.
“You didn’t even notice I was gone yesterday?” Pouting, she peers toward the photos taped above my notebooks.
“Biology was torture.” I shut the door, locking away Moz, Leo, and my favorite ladies. “I could barely focus on my lab without you. Luckily I still have your pics in my phone so —“
“I was in SF for the callbacks!” She hops once. The chains on her new purse jingle.
“Rockin’.”
“That’s exactly what Blake says!” She walks toward the cafeteria and I follow. “He’s always, like, “This sushi is rockin’, that shirt look’s rockin’ on you Babe—’”
“Who’s Blake again?”
“He’s my casting agent friend.”
“Oh. Right.” I chew on a dried cranberry and brush a crumb from my tie.
“He’s really hot for an old guy. He’s thirty-three but totally doesn’t act it at all!” Her pink and black Betsey bag vibrates. She reaches in. “Oh my god, this is him…” Stopping a few yards from the donut line at the snack bar, she holds up one finger to me. In her honey-dipped sex-buzzed phone voice, reserved for conversations with males, she oozes, “Hey Babe, what’s up?
“Thirty-three?” I ask, over the incoming murmur. “I thought he was, like, Donny’s age—”
“Oh, that was just my boyfriend. … Yeah, Donavon loves him. … Yeah! The party kid—”
Most of my senses shut down. After so many years of hoping to up my status with her, I’m now Stella’s boyfriend. I guess. The smell of fried dough disappears. Although I can’t imagine what this title could possibly mean. We’re Filmgreats. None of us practice anything close to monogamy. I brace myself on a nearby light post and watch Stella’s mouth move. Except for Holly. In her auto-monogamy she is well beyond faithful. She’s practically chaste—like a nun. I bet she’s a virgin. I hope my new BF status isn’t going to compromise my chances of being her first.
Absently twisting the last buttoned button on her shirt, Stella ends the call.
“He just wanted to make sure that I’ll be able to get down there again on a weekday.” Pursing her phone, she joins the queue for coffee and crullers. “He never can do weekends for some reason. He always has to fly back to LA for something. But he keeps his suite at the W and says that I can stay whenever I want—”
“Is he casting any guys?” She needs to ask Blake to audition her boyfriend.
Two kids wearing pot-leaf beanies step behind us. They smell like their hats. “Oh … ” Stella digs through her bag. The chains rattle. “Maybe. Yeah. I’ll have to ask again.” She pulls out a pack of Hubba Bubba.
“You know what could be huge? He could make a show about…“ I look around then mouth the name of our secret party.
Stella pops a pink cube into her mouth, rolls the wrapper in a ball and flicks it onto the pavement.
“Babe…” Getting very serious and soft-spoken, she chews. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, sure.” Looking up to her face, I try to pay close attention while imagining what I’m going to wear to the Emmy’s
. “What is it?”
“Do I look fat?” A varsity jacket cuts in front of us, and I step out of line.
“Phhh, no!” Kneeling, I pick up her litter, stopping it before it blows into the quad. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You look great.” I toss the wrapper in the trash then walk back to her. “Have you seen your boobs lately? They’re unstoppable.”
She looks upset. It’s odd. I know Stella appreciates a nice set of all-access passes, whether they’re hers or not. Perhaps Mr. Thirty-three-year-old-casting-agent doesn’t like big boobs. Being a sensitive boyfriend, I take her hands.
“Seriously. I should know. I spent an extra long time on them when I was cleaning you off the other night. They’re great…”
She looks worried. I’ve never seen her like this. I embrace her.
“Come on Babe.” I whisper sweet everythings in here ear, “You look like a star. The camera will love you. That ‘adds ten pounds’ BS is a myth.”
Stella gives me a fragile smile.
I bet that casting guy only likes waifs. I can understand wanting a girl to be able to wear designer, but nice boobs are nice boobs. Blake must be a real dick.
“You’re sweet Babe.” She kisses my cheek. “I’m over coffee.”
As she struts to class, shoving her hands into her tight black denim pockets, I notice that her ass may be starting to give Mia’s some competition.
“Hey Babe!” Walking back to the trash, I call out, “You can link Blake to my profile!” Then I toss the remainder of my scone.
I hope that dick doesn’t think I’m fat too.
Chapter 46
I failed my third pop quiz of the week today. My first D+ has put me in a worse mood than Thursday’s Fs, and Rick is doing nothing to help make me feel better. The memorization deadline is days away yet, despite my showing up early to his inconvenient Friday night rehearsal, he’s picking on me for reading from the script. I star in far better roles than this every weekend. Commanding the stage as he continues to taunt me, I consider quitting, until I notice Holly waiting in the wings for her cue. I will persevere. For now.
After faking my way through three dance numbers, I totally nail a duet then leave Hess with the impressed cast. On the concrete benches above the front parking lot, encircled by doting freshman chorus girls, Mia is talking tanning, techno, and six-packs, while Holly and I discuss literature. She’s remixed the vintage Smiths shirt that I gave her yesterday—it’s now sleeveless. Her side-boob is her gift to me. Standing beneath a campus light, hoping to make her giggle like a Pillsbury Dough Boy, I poke her ribs through a moth hole in Moz’s knee and she asks if I’ve read Camus.
“Oh yeah, he’s great.“ I pull back, as she swings her lunchbox at my probing finger. “I love ‘Killing An Arab’.”
Clicks of ascending unseen heels resound from the overhangs as Holly explains, “That’s just The Cure song. Have you read the novel? The Stranger?”
“Totally. I’m real a sucker for murder mysteries.” I pull another poke and Stella marches between us.
“Hey Beautiful.” She smooches Holly then leans in toward me. “Hey Babe.”
“Oh, you don’t wanna do that.” Instantly recalling cleaning Kid Pringle’s ranch dip from her lips, I recoil. “My breath must be terrible.” I cover my mouth. “From singing so much.”
“Ew!” Stella kisses my cheekbone then rummages through her purse.
Breast pocketing the gum that she hands me, I ask, “Have you heard from Blake lately?” She turns to Holly. “Becca, do you think I look fat?”
“Seriously Sarah? You always look gorgeous. You’re perfect.”
I remove my shades to see if the staunch vegan is indeed blushing. She is. And Stella is so uplifted by the fertile flattery that when her BFF comes to stands next to her she appears to have grown a few inches in height
“Let’s party ladies!” Throwing up the horns, Mia joins our trio. “Let’s go!”
I turn to Holly, “Where are you fabulous girls headed this evening?”
“Sarah’s, for True Blood. We’re having girls’ night.”
I think that I hear the faint rumble of the ‘59’s engine as Stella moves toward me. “Unless you want to do a pre-party.”
Humming, she adjusts my hair. I peer over her shoulder, waiting to see my driver.
“Sorry, what?”
“Another Flash Premiere! It could be amazing. We’ll move girls’ night to The Palace.” Her smile looks like Eddie’s does when reflected in the water of Frank’s fish tank.
“Well, yeah, that would be cool…” Wincing, I plug my ears as Mia shrieks and sprays us all with nose blood. “But I’ve gotta work.”
“We should have regular girls’ night anyway, Sarah.” Holly taps the pink bear head on her metallic box. “I brought some really good tea.”
Mia joins the campaign.
“Yeah, and The Palace isn’t as fun without Zach! I don’t think he and Dustin get back ‘til tomorrow.”
“Oh fuck. They’re on the coast!” I sleeve the blood from my Fords. “Mia, can you give me a ride to work? ”
“Sorry Mike. Daddy dropped me off. We’re walking,”
“Shit. I’ve gotta go! See you guys at the bank!” Sprinting away, wishing I had my skate, I head for the steps.
With my Sherman bouncing painfully at my side, I’m three minutes off campus when I remember a few things: sprinting sucks, I need to make a new playlist for tomorrow, and my manager is always cool. Philip is a nice, mellow hippie. They’re nothing if not tolerant and understanding. Stopping in front of the cemetery, I wave at a disinterested grave-cutter, text Phil to tell him that I’m sick and then call Cruz.
Sitting on a marble bench, inhaling secondary clove-smoke, I’m playing Words With Friends when my driver swings open the sparkling passenger door of his ride. Blasphemy blasts toward the dead. I hop in, grab the iPod, and scroll to the Ms.
Chapter 47
Fall has finally found our town and brought its transformative potential. In honor of ‘The Dark Grey Premiere’—a hybrid of Donnie Darko and Stella’s favorite porno—today was considerately sunless. Now, a cool breeze is lighting upon the WAMU lot, waving its autumnal wand and accenting outfits. With my tie tucked into my waistband and my track jacket freshly washed and ironed by Gina, I stand by our planter, greeting guests and admiring the cold nipples of my huge turnout. Tonight, Extras have brought Extras and all of them have come carrying bouquets and wearing either tightly tied raincoats or baggy sweats. Welcoming so many uninvited unknowns concerns me at first, but after one of them gifts me a pair of Varvatos Chucks, I recognize how well mannered and attractive they all are.
With Lynch at my side, and my new shoes hanging in a velvet bag strapped around my wrist, I shake hands and kiss cheeks, while discreetly pointing out which Extras I hope to work with. I overhear one of these mysterious ladies asking about me.
“Yeah it’s his party,” Stella confirms, “He’s my boyfriend. You’ve gotta try him.”
She’s a good girlfriend.
The intrigued UC Berkeley Extra glances over. Beyond her, on the bank steps, two Grave-cutters open their riding-hood cloaks to gratuitously kiss for Alvin’s camera. MK hands Lynch her ice cream cone. I clap for attention.
“Everyone. It’s time!” I raise my hands, and shoes, to the failing streetlights. “Grab your goodies, and let me show you to your new home!”
The basement is higher than usual. Stella is playing hostess in her Sanrio raincoat. The mini-fridge is obscured by a swarm of DJs, Marc by Marc shop girls, and MAC counter kids. They’re drinking, eating vitamins, smoking—someone brought a gurgling pink Louis Vuitton bong. Mia is overcoming her fear of cocaine. Jake Gyllenhaal has yet to hit the wall. And almost everyone is fucked up. It’s fine.
“I’m pleased to bring you, for the first time anywhere…” The wild eyes of my rolling audience barely focus. “Score and Lynch’s mash-up masterpiece Dark Grey!” I wave to the screen. The projection casts over
a THC tainted smoke scrim. Trench coats fall open, strangers start licking each other, and I begin with what I know.
“Come here Babe!” As Mia stumbles over a string of lights, Stella grabs her furry boot. “I wanna see my BF fuck my BFF.”
The bottled brunette drops to her knees.
Giving me unfocused OJ in Heaven, the two Greats sloppily make out with each other, giggling: “Oh my god I’m so wasted,” “Oh my god, this is so hot,” “Oh, my god I wanna fuck you,” “You’re sooo hot,” “Oh fuck, I think I’m gonna throw up—”
I gasp and tense. Standing, Stella outstretches her arms.
“C’mere, girl.” She, giggles, summoning her with both hands, “Let’s go sober up.”
As The BFFs sniff the PlayStation, their two massive butts protrude proudly toward Bickle. They glow in the Xmas lights. But my unsuspecting muscle doesn’t notice. With his arms folded, he’s looming over Cruz and Volta, completely fixated on their homo-erotica. Again. When the Blue Extra turns up the fury on the already upsettingly violent JO that she’s been giving me, my toes curl, and I distract myself with his broad stripes. If I had a Paul Smith sweater I’d wear it all the time too. My nails dig into my palms, and the raven-haired Extra begins torturing my co-star’s nipples. Cringing, The blue girl momentarily releases my abused Producer, and I notice that my security has strayed.
“You need to take your hands off her.” With one hand, Bickle forcefully grabs Soufflé’s shoulder. “She says she doesn’t want a massage.”
Dejected, the mousey Frenchman cowers out from behind Holly’s couch. Bickle bounds back to the The Boys. The Boys continue to ignore everything but their deep, deep interest in each other. I instinctively try to applaud my security’s diligence. But the Raven girl stops me.
“Oh no Daddy!” She squeezes my wrists, cinching them tighter behind my back. “Not until you give her what she deserves.”
Until now, I’d never wanted to be a father but, as the blue-haired Extra silently turns her head away and I spread my joy on her neck, I understand how fulfilling parenthood is. With her blue nail she scrapes a goopy taste from her black tattoo and feeds it to the baby bird behind me. Then they flutter away.
