Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  “Oh, no, no.” He nervously laughs. “Yeah, no. I made it. In tailoring. Cost me like ten bucks.”

  “That’s really impressive.” Suspiciously I look up at him. “Thanks.”

  Feeling the vibration between us, Bickle releases me and smiles a sad, chiseled smile. “You’re welcome buddy.”

  I answer my phone.

  “Come back and get me.” Freeing myself from the uncomfortable lobby, I pace out of employment. “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  I hang up. Phillip affectionately calls after me. “Hey Mike, try and get it together man. Take it easy.”

  Turning, I shoot him a backward peace sign.

  In the night breeze, leaning against the humming neon tower, I put on my Fords and inspect my first eighteenth birthday present. He even made a McQueen tag for it. When The Caddy rolls up to the curb, I slip the tie into my Sherman, swing open the door, and fall back in.

  “You two are not in love,” Lynch demands, before hanging up his phone. As he guns it out of the lot, my co-host turns to me. “What’s going on?”

  “I got fired.”

  “Whoa, weak.”

  “It’s fine. I still know how to sneak in there.”

  “Phh, why would we do that?” He grins. “They’re not gonna let us fuck in there are they?”

  “Good point.”

  We pass the last of the weekenders crowded outside of the new wine bar.

  “Why’d you get fired?”

  “It’s fine. Don’t tell anyone though. I don’t want my parents to find out.”

  “Yeah man, okay.” Stopping at the stop sign in front of the closed record store, he unpeels and slaps a new sticker above me.

  The Damned.

  He shakes his head. “What a bummer. Lame day.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Totally. We’ll be out of here in a few months anyway.”

  Aimlessly he drives me further from my last day at the quaint old theatre. After all these years— I can’t believe it. I’ll never have another scene in Booth Six.

  “What do you want to do?” Turning past Cherie Cherie, he heads toward the freeway. “I’ll make you a fake ID. We can go get matching ‘Fuck Philip’ tattoos in The Sco.”

  Click, click. “Let’s go clean The Palace.” Click, click.

  Chapter 49

  It has remained grey since Saturday. The clouds have kept the sun back, though they’ve not been able to keep school from breaking through the weekend. And what’s happening on this chilly Monday is making me think that Stella’s supposedly obscure blog indiscretion was actually more pervasive than the first period warning bell.

  On my way to PE, two swim team guys pat my back and cryptically congratulate me. When I pass the benches in front of the science building, the grey and the crimson Sweater Girls cease texting to end their four-year denial of my existence. Indiscreetly they whisper about me in a ‘oooh, he’s so sexy and stylish, I wish I were in that video’ sort of way. I begin putting it together. I’ve gone viral!

  Strutting past the quad, I bask in the glow of my long-deserved universal admiration. Then I see someone grinning at me through the gym’s windows. Ceasing my swagger, I scan the campus. My protector bee is nowhere to be seen. Bobby steps out into the cold. I begin deeply fearing for the safety of my perfect facial features, and he holds open the door.

  “Those shades are hella sick Mike.” High fiving him as I pass, I duck into the locker room and he generously bellows, “I never really thought you were a fag bro!”

  By the end of second period, I’ve gathered that no one is certain of the identity of the guy who appears in the fabled seventeen-second masterpiece. Thankfully. They just know that they’ve seen or, more likely, simply heard of a sex tape that I am suspected to be starring in under Stella. It’s a shame she’s not here to enjoy all of this. Presuming that she purposefully leaked the video, I was planning to ignore her all day but she’s absent. I’ll have to text her the good news. The bell rings, our class pulls out our cells, and I type: “Where are you Babe!? Our video is a hit!!!!!;) <3”

  At break, with my hood up, leaning against my spot against the cafeteria wall, I am the man of intrigue. In the girls’ bathroom, the aloof grave cutter asks me to light her clove. On my way to Pope’s class, Cream introduces me to the crimson sweater girl. This morning is so entirely invigorating that I make it all the way to sixth period without even considering cutting for a nap. Swinging my Union Jack lunchbox, I sway across campus.

  “Hello my dear partner!” I sit down next to Lynch on the cold oversized concrete steps of the gloomy quad. “Great fucking day isn’t it?”

  “Sorry Mike, I really didn’t think anyone saw it.” Popping a Mento, he chaws encouragement, “But don’t freak. I think everyone just assumes it’s you because Stella’s told the world that she’s your girlfriend. Some people think it was Jason Milmo, and that longhair-electro Dill’s not doing anything to discourage the rumor, which is good for you, but—“

  “Lynch.” I pull out a quarter of Gina’s PB&J special. “It’s pretty awesome.”

  “What?” He looks at me like I just turned down a part in the UK version of Skins. “I figured you’d be super stressed out.”

  “No man, this is great,“ In an energized sotto voce, I explain. “The video is already urban legend and it only happened yesterday.”

  He continues to squint at me. I offer him my backup gas station shades. He declines, so I slip them back in my Sherman.

  “Listen, anyone who’s seen the clip is dying over it and the kids who haven’t are dying to see it. Either way, right now, every guy at school wishes that he were me and the girls all wish that they were Stella. The spotlights on us.” I bite into my peanutty oat bread. “Who knows? We could end up being bigger than Rebecca Black.”

  “Okay cool man.” Lynch shrugs. “I’m glad you’re not bummed.”

  I smile back at three waif-ish, rich winery girls. Drinking Coke Zero, wearing keys around their necks and striped Chanel tights on their long legs, they parade through the no man’s land at the bottom of the quad.

  “What do you think about having two parties this weekend?” I tap him with my Pompelmo Pellegrino. “Friday AND Saturday?”

  Shaking his head, Lynch smiles his huge wondrous smile. “Fuck it.”

  “Brilliant!” I grab my sage by the shoulder of his ragged GI jacket. “That’s what we’ll call it! Friday we’ll have ‘The Fuck-it Premiere’ and then on Saturday … ‘Fuck-it Again’!” Satisfied, I ask, “What do ya think? Seems apropos no?”

  “You know, a lot of people do think that it was Milmo in the video…”

  “I’m not gonna make invitations.” Frantically I tap my touch-screen. “I’m just gonna send out messages right now.”

  Chapter 50

  The whispers of Stella’s blog have turned to shouts, but my leading lady is still missing the exhilarating clamor. On Tuesday at break, Bickle approaches my confident, cool, two-piece suited stance against the cafeteria.

  “How are you buddy? Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fabulous. How are you man? Where’ve you been?” I chew up my last bite of scone, dust my hands, and check my tie. “Are you sick?” I’ll have to ask him to take this weekend off. I can’t have my security spreading germs.

  “Oh, uh, no.” Stuttering, he shoves his hands in his new waxed-canvas trench. He looks a bit melancholy and terribly anxious. “I drove Sarah yesterday. She didn’t want to go alone—”

  “Oh! Did she go to see Blake again?” He must just be exhausted from having heard about her one-on-one both to and from San Francisco. I begin texting her. “Is she back? Do you know if she told him about me?”

  “Um, I don’t know.” He pulls his salve from his breast pocket. His coat has yellow plaid lining that matches his sweater. Maybe Blake bought it for him in SF.

  “Don’t worry about it man, it’s fine.” I wave at the grey sweater girl as she walks into the band building. “I’m s
ure that I’ll get some sort of part.”

  My loyal supporter deflates, dips his middle finger into his tin, and despairingly glazes his lips.

  “Hey, I meant to thank you.” I pat his shoulder. ”Great job regulating Soufflé the other night. That French nast should know better than to try to get all handsy with Holly. She’s not into that.”

  “Sure thing,” he whispers. “But we really shouldn’t be talking about that in public.”

  “You’re right.” Lowering my shades, I wink at a pair of pale sophomores, combat booting off campus on their way to grave cut and smoke in the cemetery. “But really, it’s awesome having you there. With all the Extras that are showing up these days, I sometimes get nervous that things might get weird, you know? But then I look over and see this big killer bumblebee and I know that everything’s fine.”

  “Thanks, buddy!” With his high-pitched titter, he throws his arm over my shoulder. “But if you just keep getting big on those push-ups, you’ll be a bee someday too.”

  Twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes later, I still haven’t heard from Stella. I can’t stop thinking about her, nor can I bring myself to send another text that will surely be ignored. Looking outstanding in my new polka dotted suit that came in the mail from Grandmama Massi yesterday, I lean against the wall again, staring at my phone, deliberating as my schoolmates swarm into the ever pervasive, deep-fried odor wafting from the cafeteria. Swallowing the last crumble of cranberry pastry, I dust the crumbs from my lapels and give in. I hit her speed dial. I don’t want to seem desperate but I’ve got to know if she got the part and if she’s finally mentioned me to Blake. “I’m a free bitch, baby … boop.”

  This is ridiculous. I hit call. It’s 10:03 am in the middle of the week, my girlfriend is off partying in San Francisco with a thirty-three-year-old casting agent, and I haven’t heard from her since she was yelling about her ass last Saturday. I redial. Our film is still big news. The mysterious scandal is the hottest thing at Valley View right now. “I’m a free bitch.” Stella and I should be enjoying an esprit de corps for our new status. She should be here with me, by my side, going over the contract of our new reality show, practicing our autographs, and discussing our future. As I dial for a fifth time, Mia and Bickle walk toward me, adding bafflement to my agitation.

  “Why are you two holding hands?” I end the call. “Have you guys heard from Stella?”

  Dropping her like a flaming bible, Bickle looks desperate as he turns to Mia.

  “No,” she answers. “I haven’t.”

  “I left message at the W. Do you know Blake’s last name? What the hell is she doing? She’s been there for days.”

  Mia looks away. Bickle looks at his feet. Both look guilty. They’re acting like they’ve been caught wearing Christian Audigier Crocs.

  “Hey. Look you guys. You don’t have to get all rattled.” I gently acknowledge their weird PDA. ”I don’t care if you two are secretly dating or something.” I turn to Mia. “Lynch won’t care. No one’s gonna care. What’s the big deal?” Comically hooking my thumb at Bickle, I stage whisper, “At least you won’t have to worry about this guy screwing around with twelve-year-old surfers. He just likes to watch.”

  “Yeah, I think she’s in SF.” Un-amused, she sighs. “And we’re not dating, we’re just friends.”

  “Yeah.” Bickle pulls a little round metal thing out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Just like me and you buddy.”

  I stare into my palm at the second gift from my buddy. It’s a black pin—like Holly’s button but instead of a shark, there’s a golden bumblebee on it.

  “That’s for when I’m not around to look out for ya. I made it.”

  It doesn’t look like he made it. I turn to Mia to for an explanation, but she’s not paying attention. She’s fully distracted by the white stucco behind me.

  “Thanks man.” Pinning the badge onto my bag, I dryly declare, “Now you’ll always BEE around.”

  He smiles. Mia doesn’t. She just shakes her head and leaves us both leaning against the wall, simultaneously dialing Stella.

  I’m a free Bitch, baby … boop.

  Chapter 51

  This evening at rehearsal there are only three of us. Rick relieved the rest of the cast so that Holly and I wouldn’t have to rehearse kissing for the first time in front of everyone. Though I’m a professional, I do appreciate the unnecessary courtesy. I don’t much care for public displays of affection.

  In our prop bed, running through the scene, I’m finding it very difficult to get into character. Rick is in another one of his foul moods. Every time I call for a line, he tirelessly reminds me that today was the deadline for having them all memorized. I improvise with Holly. He harasses me. I shoot him weary looks. Sprightly eyes peer through the black, mood-killing aura of his irritation.

  In hopes of glimpsing the impending lip-lock, cast members are sneaking into Hess. Dancers whisper from the back row. Rick kicks them out. A techie snickers from backstage. Rick kicks him out. After the first three disruptions, if anyone so much as cracks open the side door he threatens to drop them from the play. When I again effortlessly improve upon a few of the bland words of my dialogue, Rick imparts this same threat upon me.

  “Mr. Nalon.” Knowing that the show would surely stop without its leading man, I patronize him. “I’ll have my lines down by Monday. I just need one more weekend to brush up.”

  He accepts my oath and, to his dismay, I continue to artistically liberate the rest of my lines until, finally, we arrive at the moment of truth. Between the sheets of my nap shelter, with only two agitated rose-bespectacled eyes watching, my lips are about to make their second impression on Holly’s. I touch her hand. I move in. And we both giggle.

  “Come on you two, this is a serious moment.” With regard for our uncomfortable position, Rick puts down his coffee, stands, and fluidly conducts with his chewed-up pencil. “This isn’t Michael and Becca remember? Be your characters.”

  “Okay, sorry.” Centering herself, Holly takes a deep breath. “I’ve got it this time.”

  Picturing Alvin filming from offstage right, I put on a drop-dead-sexy kissin’ face and move in again. This time, Holly relaxes. She opens her mouth and softly we melt into each other. I taste citrus-sweetness. Rick is wrong. I breathe cucumber. This is not acting. I gently caress her face. This is the furthering of a deep connection that was established between a flawless girl with great taste and a fabulous guy with flawless style last summer at The Grounds over Britpop and tea. Under the sheets Holly presses her palm down on my polka dots. My Producer pushes back.

  “Slow it down kids.” Our director taps his coffee mug with his pencil as I reel at my first full taste of my untouched Filmgreat.

  How could a vegan be so creamy and delicious? She’s exquisite. I want her to meet Gina.

  I begin sliding my hand up her hoodie.

  “Hey you two, that’s enough!” Frantically, Rick dings his java-stained time-out bell, until a familiar voice overpowers his ineffectual frustration. My driver is early.

  “Wooooah! Can I get in on this scene?”

  Holly unzips my fly and I look up just in time to catch Nalon pushing Lynch out of Hess.

  “Student battery!” he cries. The stage door slams, shutting out his laughter.

  “That’s it!” Rick throws his notes into the cheap seats. “You both be gone when I get back. And you Massi! …” He points, as if trying to summon lightning upon my head. ”Monday! Lines! Get it together or you’re out!”

  The door slams again. And we’re alone.

  “Please. …” I slide on my shades. “Draaamatic.”

  “Well…” Holly sighs, adorably sticks a wad of gum behind the headboard, and turns to me. “That was nice.”

  “Yeah. He’s really tiring lately.” I shake my head. “He needs to settle.”

  “No.” She flicks the tip of my tie. ”That was nice.”

  She’s not being sarcastic. She’s reviewing our spi
ritual frenching.

  “OH! Yeah. Yes. Yes it was.” Overheating, I anxiously pull off my blazer. “I think we work quite well together.”

  “I agree.” I pause my folding, and face her warm hazel eyes. In the following silence, I’m hoping that she’ll follow my lead, and take off her shirt. “Have you heard from Sarah lately?”

  I put my coat back on. “Not since the party.” I don’t feel like talking about Stella right now. Not here, alone in bed with you. It feels too temporal, too mundane. I tug on my London Underground cufflinks. I used my eyebrow tweezers to poke holes for them in my shirt. “Why? Did she get the part?”

  “I’m just wondering if she’s okay. I figured that you might know. … You guys are official now right? She changed her profile status.”

  “Oh, yeah.” As if for Rick, I improvise my lines with natural eloquence. “Well … I don’t know. Not really?” I search for my lighter. “We’re Filmgreats…”

  Click, click. Holly tilts her head like Iman does when she hears that sound. Click, click.

  I don’t want her to think Stella stands between us. Nor do I want the world’s next reality celebrity to hear that I take our relationship lightly. I drop my Zippo and begin waving my hands like a Massi.

  “And what kind of girlfriend disappears to the W for days and doesn’t return her boyfriend’s calls? Right? I think we’re more like BFFs … Best Filmgreat Friends.”

  I nod with the satisfaction of having perfectly illustrated our relationship.

  “Oh, Okay.”

  “Yeah,” I smile. “So, do you want to do something on Friday night?”

  Holly looks confused. “You mean, before the party?”

  “Well … no.” Moz, I forgot. It’s Fuck-it Weekend. “I was thinking you and I could just hang out … maybe go to a movie?” Fearing their own intention, my words start sprinting away from me. “…Or ice blocking or something. I’ll cancel Friday so we can have all night to ourselves.”

  “Really?” Holly’s eyes go hentai.

  I’m as surprised as she is.