Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Kissing my cheek, she leaves me and glides toward the History building.

  Rather than admiring the curvature of her new pink jeans, I watch more black informants fly from my mouth into the grey morning sky. They settle over Stella, wreathing her blonde hair, and she blows me a kiss.

  On this side of campus, there’s no cell reception indoors. As I stand in front of the gym, the rain mists under the overhang. It blurs my touch screen and compromises my blow dry. After accepting twenty-seven new friends, I am about to make the dash to the Science building when I hear heel clicks. They sound pink. Exposed, I await unchecked verbal punishment, but when Stella tiks around the corner, she gives me shelter. Squeezing me beneath her Hello Kitty umbrella, she takes my arm and strolls me to Biology.

  Notably sober and magnanimously refraining from bringing up my D-hole Date, Stella seems to be back in a good mood. And she’s looking fabulous. Her cleavage is spilling out of her pea coat. Her upsetting hair is starting to become her and though she won’t shut up about being the next extreme teen reality queen, her sex hum is turned up high enough to sweeten her incessant bragging. Sharing the thick, moist air of our vinyl dome, I’m finding myself as attracted to her as I was before we started touching.

  “So, Babe…” After reconfirming Blake’s email and her promise to put in a good word for me, she purses her phone. “You gonna have a totally insane birthday Premiere or what?”

  Her Betsy bag jangles as she shakes out her umbrella in the breezeway outside the lab room.

  “Obviously! But it’s gonna be on Saturday … ” I mouth ‘hey’ at Grey and Crimson as they pass. Their umbrellas match their sweaters. “I still need to make the invitations…”

  “Perfect.” Nuzzling me, Stella purrs in my ear. “That means you’re coming over on Friday. I’ve got a surprise for you, and you won’t have to get all cute and nervous because Mom’s gonna be mushrooming all weekend.”

  On 452 Reisling, Katy Perry frosts herself in The Pink Room.

  Inhaling October rain and watermelon with my back against a stucco wall, I struggle to find a way to make this double-booking work. There’s no way I’m canceling on Holly.

  “Rockin!’” I agree.

  Stella presses me against the Science building and licks me. I can feel her cool satisfaction glistening on my cheek as she hums, “Tell your folks that you’re gaming at Lynch’s. You’re not gonna want to leave.”

  “I can totally do that … but I’ll have to come pretty late. If I don’t celebrate with them that night they’ll be really bummed,” I appeal.

  Stella’s mood palpably drops.

  “You know, it’s a whole big thing.” Attempting to reason away the unexpected tension, I further detail, “Mom makes homemade pasta, Dad make’s fresh pesto with his basil … we watch the Godfather Trilogy. … Pinky’s gonna be there—”

  “Oh yeah. I know…” With a touch of resentment, she snaps her gum. “Pinky.”

  The red headed grave cutter mutters ‘pink sucks’ before ducking through the door next to us.

  “That’s actually perfect, Babe.” Shaking off her fleeting sour, Stella reactivates her sugary hum and adjusts my bangs. “Later is better. It may take me a while to get your present ready anyway.”

  Standing in front of a very underwhelming chalkboard illustration of the Prefrontal Cortex, my teacher is droning on about Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. Ignoring him, practicing my autograph on a Safeway-bag-book-cover, I’m feeling like things are getting back to normal. This weekend is going to be the best. I’ll see Holly. Then Stella. Then, on Saturday, along with a huge cast of Extras, I’ll have a late birthday celebration with them both. I wonder if I should invite Blake.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us, love?” Each holding a puffy kitten, three Sweater Girls wearing angora union jack bra-and-panty sets to accompany their new British accents have walked in the back door.

  “Oh, yeah, thanks for reminding me” I whisper back. “You ladies are definitely invited. I still haven’t made the invi—”

  “You know,” The crimson Himalayan advises, “You should really have your bee bring some of his wrestling teammates in case any vengeful Sparks boys show up … or at least this time make sure that none of the Extras are violent homophobes.”

  “Or teachers,” the canary yellow cat demands before Cream’s creamy feline finalizes, “Or fertile Christians. The Christians are so frightening.”

  “That’s a good idea.” As a torch bearing, mohawked mob in bloody tall-tees crusades across The Palace stage to detain my guests and try them for heresy, I shove my hand in my pocket. “I’ll do that.”

  Stepping in time with the muffled meter of my clicking Zippo, the cats walk their sweaters out of the classroom.

  Chapter 60

  The video is back, buzzing around like the ruinous demonic twin of Holly’s angelic golden toy. It’s troubling Wednesday resurgence is due to ‘the fifth hand,’ which someone has recently discovered reaches into the frame and grabs Stella’s ass. For, like, half a second.

  “Is that another chick with you guys?” Bickle and I blow-dry in the locker room as Bobby stomps up and lecherously grins in the mirror. ”It looks like a chick’s hand to me.”

  It could have been anyone. This is not a good time for this kind of attention.

  Over the screaming hot air, I insist, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “In your sex video bro.” The shirtless man-boy jostles me. “The one with your girlfriend? What? Did you make, like, a million different ones or something?”

  “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about Bobby.” My protector unplugs our appliances. “Leave him alone.”

  Throughout the rest of the day, as I’m met with equally upsetting inquiries from random classmates, Bickle repeats the same command. “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Leave him alone,” “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Leave him alone,” “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about—”

  By the time Alvin intercepts me on my way into the cafeteria, I’m somewhat, rather, totally, freaked out.

  “Fuck, c’mere, c’mere.” He pushes me out of the slippery, rubber-boot-dotted dining hall.

  Desperately, I struggle to re-open my umbrella as Al drags me back into the rain and shoves me into a band room alcove.

  “Fucker. Six people have already asked me—today—if I was the one who shot the video of you and Stella. Six fucking people!”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told’m ‘fuck yeah it was me’!”

  The rain turns to hail. I wander back through the unforgiving ice. Alvin is laughing. “Wait, Mike, Dude, Fuck, I didn’t…” I tread away from his trailing words. The ground shifts, capsizing the entire campus. I stable myself with my broken Bob umbrella. It’s icy, it’s wet, the pavement is swaying, and I need shelter. I need to go inside. And I need to shut it all down. But it’s my birthday. My eighteenth birthday.

  Dripping on the cafeteria tile, I excuse Stella from her lunchtime celebrity gossip to speak with her privately.

  “Babe, are you okay?” She asks, as I corner her at an emergency exit. “You look terrible.”

  “No, I look fine.” I reach into my coat for my aviators. “Everything’s fine. There are a lot of people talking about that thing again. I think it might be a good idea if you took down your blog. I think it would be safer for us all if it didn’t exist—at all. And if anyone ever asks, say that it never did. And that you’re celibate.”

  “Oh Babe, don’t worry.” Surging my body’s voltage, she combs back my sopping hair with her electric fingers. “I took it down days ago.”

  “Really? That’s great. That’s perfect.”

  “Yeah. I figured that once I have the show, I’m gonna need to own my own website, so I started one: bubblegumandbordeaux.com. I just put all of my stuff up there now. It’s so amazing. Really high-end and sexy. You should check it out. There�
�s a totally hot pic of me and Holly on the front page.”

  Back in the gym—in the locker room, alone—I blow-dry my entire body. I manage to stay dry through the final bell. But no matter how tight I cinch my plain black hoodie, I can’t shake the cold that surged into me during the lunchquake.

  When I show up in Hess, weak and shivering, Rick senses my vulnerability and pounces.

  “Michael Massi!” Before I can seat my Sherman, he starts firing lines at me from the stage. Holding a script, he cues, “Well he’s not that nervous.”

  “Can I have—?”

  “NO! Well he’s not that nervous!” His rose-tinted glare stares me down. MK and I sift through the Florida sand abrading my brain, failing to find even the first word. “Do you still not know your line, Mike?”

  “No, Nalon.” Incensed for being ridiculed in front of the whole cast, in front of Holly, I insist, “I don’t.”

  “Do you know any of your damned lines?” Removing his glasses, he rubs his face.

  Insolently, I stand in the aisle, trembling amidst the chilly stares of my classmates—many of whom are now Extras, my guests.

  “The next line is your second line in the play.” Shaking his head with a sudden calm, Rick laments, “You don’t even know your second line Mike. You’re out. Jason is taking your place.”

  As if I’ve already been forgotten, he turns his back on me. “All right people. Places for the top of the second act.”

  He’s dropping me. I can’t believe it. He’s replacing me with that poorly dressed dilettante, Jason Milmo. My less talented, longhaired understudy takes my rightful mark. Upstaging Milmo, Frank Sinatra marches across the set, carrying a torch and the baby Jesus. The Christ child is wearing a Walmart onesy.

  I feel strange. This is way worse than when Philip fired me.

  “Jason?” I point at the lanky hack in the RUN DMC tank top. “He’s a sophomore. What about his hair? You can’t be serious.”

  “He knows his part Mike.” Rick doesn’t even turn around to face me. “Now get out. You’re wasting our time. You’ve held us all back long enough.”

  It’s a pointless high school musical, with no potential. Fleeing the grey campus, I jog through puddles and past the few remaining cars in the lot. I have so much more going for me. It starts to drizzle. It’s nothing. I fall apart.

  I can’t remember the last time I cried, and no matter how much I try to reason with them, the tears keep coming. If someone saw me right now they’d think my cat had just died. I must look terrible. I’ve got to get off the street.

  In a cascade of silent weeping, I wander unseen through the woods of the park, down the empty suburban roads, and into The Grounds. In the girls’ room, rinsing the mud from my boots, I try to pull myself together. I wash my face, shine my teeth, dry my hair with the hand blower, tug my hood further down, and then drift to the counter to order black coffee. Gleaming in the pastry case, there’s an ornate silver tray of bread. Stuck in the top slice, there’s a little sign. On it is a hand-drawn hungry-shark about to eat a happy banana that’s perched atop a frowning vegan loaf.

  I feel worse. I wish Holly were with me. Sort of.

  Strewn over my table, I text Lynch. “Can you come get me?”

  Three minutes later, the Caddy lurches to the curb out front. I put down Stella’s copy of US Weekly, leave my drink, buy all of the banana bread, and go to my partner.

  “Hey man, I was just on my way to get gas. What’s up?”

  “Nalon said he didn’t need me.” I shut the door. I watch the windshield wipers, listening to their rhythmic cleansing. “Ever. He kicked me out.”

  “Whoa. Lame.”

  Turning down the music, he eyes me, and the bursting compostable on my lap.

  “Are you okay? You don’t look good.”

  “I look fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just really tired. Rick has no vision.”

  “Fuck him and fuck the play…” He flips off the 8-Plex as we drive by. “Fuck you too, Phil. … Mike … your birthday weekend is gonna rule.” Helping himself to the bread I’ve just unwrapped, he chaws. “But, am I not invited or something?”

  “I’m gonna make the invitations tonight.” I duly promise us both then hesitantly explain the necessity of Friday’s cancellation.

  “Man, that’s awesome.” Parked beneath a 76 carport, Lynch opens his door, and I roll down the window.

  The smell of high-octane rain soothes me.

  “You’re gonna DV Holly, and Stella is for sure gonna have some filthy twisted birthday sex carnival set up for you. Then on Saturday, it’s you and me against the sweaters. Tag-team! Two against six!” In awe, as if it were a winning lottery ticket, he holds his treat up to the dome light then bites it in half. Smacking, stepping toward the pumps, he settles. “I was actually starting to worry about you man, but you’ve obviously got your priorities back in line.”

  “Please…” Bolstered by my best friend’s admiration, I snatch my bread back from his hand. Crumbs fly everywhere. I take a bite and smile. “I’ve never once lost sight of what’s important.”

  Chapter 61

  With a quart of chocolate Silk and a decimated bag of baked goods on my desk, I’m adding the subtext ‘Get eaten at the JAWS Premieres’ to the glowing heading ‘Score’s Birthday Blow-off’ when Holly calls. Rehearsal must have just ended. Mortified, I pick up the phone.

  “Are you okay Mike?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m fine.” Everything’s fine.

  “Listen, I spoke with Mr. Nalon. He agreed to let you audition again.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “He says that he’ll audition you on Monday and if you have your part down, he’ll take you back.”

  This depresses me.

  “Are you kidding? I’m not auditioning. It’s my part. And anyway, that’s way too soon. There’s no way. I’ve got my birthday and—”

  “There’s time,” she, insists. “I … well … Mom’s thing got cancelled. I’ve gotta flake on our plans. I’m sorry … but I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  This depresses me even more. Since I fled Hess, Holly is all I’ve been thinking about. I was hoping she was calling to convince me to hang with her all weekend—to not send this invitation. I want her to sing The Smiths to me. I want her to watch me eat donuts. I want to try her loose-leaf tea and her Mexican cocoa. I want to do another shoot with her. I want to be her first.

  “Oh, okay.” Completely defeated, I stare at the shark on my Mac and knowing that she will demand that I cancel everything to run lines with her, bargain, “Well, then I guess that maybe I will throw a party. Promise to come?”

  “Okay. But you have to promise me that you’ll kill the audition. I kissed Jason, Mike. He tastes like milk.”

  I swoon.

  After picking myself up from the keyboard, I finish the invitation. Clearly stating that no cameras, Christians, or uninvited Extras will be allowed at Jaws 1 or 2, I send it off to my 102 closest friends in the greater NorCal area. And Blake.

  Eddie nudges my leg. I pick her up. I scratch under her chin. She purrs. Starting with the fated Sparky Premiere, I begin to tell her everything. We haven’t spoken in a while.

  As I’m about to admit, Stella doesn’t really do blonde very well, Eddie meeps. She jumps off my lap, runs out of the room, and I start crying.

  Chapter 62

  The fourth period bell rings over this strange Thursday. The rain is gone. The shocking heat hasn’t been like this since August and once again, I feel like a ghost floating through the halls, waiting for someone to catch a chill and call for an exorcism. I spent all night cleaning. I haven’t slept. My hair is a mess. And I need respite.

  Pocketing a hall pass from Pope, I drift into Hess’s air-conditioned shadows and crawl into my bed where Jason Milmo shall soon lay in sin with Holly. Wrapped in my black McQueen skull scarf, I fall into deep, dark unconsciousness. My bed begins swaying. And I awake to a man gently shaking me. I don’t know why my fath
er is whispering my Screename.

  “What?” I grumble. “Don’t call me that. Give me twenty-nine more minutes.” Prying open my eyes, I push away chiffon and peer through the dark haze toward the voice. “Mr. Snow?”

  “They’re not sure it’s you Mike.” Whispering, beside my bed, Ryan tips me off. “Don’t tell them anything.” Then, like some spy in a noir, he vanishes.

  Addled and depressed, I pull my birthday scarf back over my head and go to sleep.

  Chapter 63

  Until recently, I’d been an exemplary student. I had a 4.0 average GPA, a great attendance record, and a good relationship with Mr. McCarry. So I am able to keep some composure when I find myself sitting in front of his brown oak desk after school. Back before there was Madden for XBOX, Jerry, too, was a student at Valley View. He was the star wrestler and the leading quarterback. Now he’s the football coach and the principal.

  “Massi.” Pacing behind me, he insists for the third time, “We know that it’s you.”

  “It’s not me.” I stare at one of hundreds of framed photos of Kibble, his boxer terrier. “Why don’t you just show it to me? Maybe I could tell you who it is.”

  “Massi, I can’t do that. It would be inappropriate. And I know that you’ve seen it already, you’re in the damn thing, you lived it.”

  “I really haven’t.” Fantasizing about smacking Alvin around like he’s a blue-haired masochist, I speak to the empty leather desk chair. “And, like I said before, I don’t think it even exists.”

  “You know champ.” Behind me, he’s chewing peanuts. He keeps a big bowl of them by the door. “This kinda thing is illegal. This kinda thing can really come back to haunt you.”

  Sinatra croons, “I hope you know that this will go down on your permanent record,” pins a Walmart badge to my pea coat, then steps back out of the window.

  “Okay, this is all that I’ve heard.” In the reflection of his sporty plaques, I watch my tormentor dust husks from his Polo-shirted beer gut. “There’s an Asian chick in it who is like, twenty one. Supposedly she lives in LA. If I’m really the guy, shouldn’t you be talking to her? I’m still a minor. That would make me a victim of terrible abuse.”