Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  Had this all had happened back when he was still teen-jock supreme, Jerry would have been begging to come to my party. I’m sure he’s curious about the clip, but I swear to Moz this interrogation is mainly out of obligation. However, if the truth got out, he’d come down on me. Hard. He’d have to. I’ve got to get out of this.

  “Nice play Massi, but you’re not gonna score any points with that one.” I jump at the sound of my Screename, as he squeezes my shoulders. “Champ, your teachers have been telling me that you’re fumbling this quarter but I must admit, this kind of foul … this video smut, it just doesn’t seem like you—”

  “It’s not me Mr. McCarry,” I insist, holding my breath.

  “But your name keeps coming up. Why? Do you know who filmed it? Where was it hosted? Who’s the Chinese girl?” He sighs and beseeches, “Give me something Massi.”

  “I’m sorry.” I crane back my neck to make sincere, upside-down eye contact. “I really don’t know anything else.”

  “You’re a good kid.”

  His inverted image relents. The nut bowl rattles.

  “You’re off the hook. But I don’t want to see you back in this office unless it’s to tell me that you wanna try out for the team. And I don’t know what’s going on with you but let’s get those grades and attendance back up, Champ.”

  “Yeah, no problem. I’ve just been really tired.” I grab my Sherman and dash to the door. “Shane has been helping me work out after school, and it’s been brutal.”

  “Well, that’s good, that’s good.” He laughs. “But you gotta make time for the books too, kiddo. Shane will be the first to tell you that. He’s looking like an early favorite for valedictorian.”

  The sun is still out. But it feels like winter. Freezing, tightening my scarf, I power down the campus stairs and dial Stella to tell her what happened, to tell her that I didn’t rat her out, to see if she’d been called into Jerry’s office too—“I’m a free bitch, baby.”

  I pace in front of the cemetery. Inhaling the spicy smoke of the unseen Grave-cutters’ cigarettes, I redial. “I’m a free bitch … I’m a free … I’m a…”

  “Hayyyy Miguelito!” Cruz stops the rumbling El Camino at the curb. “You need a ride?”

  I drag open the flecked door. It feels like it weighs 1000 lbs. Mumbling something about my house, I crumble into the passenger seat. He’s staring.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine,” I say.

  “Okay, Guapo … it just looks like you’re crying.”

  Chapter 64

  Tomorrow marks my eighteenth year. I’m not going to clean. I’m going to sleep tonight. Having just covered up my fragile temperament with a chipper birthday-eve face for my folks, I scrub a marinara encrusted casserole dish. Rinsing, I ruminate.

  Everything was fabulous. Now it’s all out of control—melting, flipping, freezing-over. I squirt a stream of lavender soap on a wooden spoon and sponge it with vengeance. I want to shut it all down. But things can’t to go back to the way they were before The Premieres. That would be worse than dealing with any of this. I throw my scarf over my shoulder, away from the suds. And Moz only knows what I would do then. I wouldn’t even have the musical to go back to. Though, if I ended it all right now, I could spend all weekend learning my lines and get back in with Nalon. Suds splash on my arm. I roll my sleeves up further. Blake might not make a reality show about me right away. Stella and the rest of The Greats and Extras might never speak to me again. But Holly would be proud of me. As I begin to dry, Eddie hops up onto the counter. I ask her opinion and she agrees. The stunning sober virgin would love it if I stepped down from my attractive position as host. If there were no Premieres, there would be more time for her and I to spend alone. I could finally DV her. She would love that. Pausing my dishrag, I peer out of the kitchen window into the dry night. I should ask her what she thinks about me shutting down The Palace. I should ask her to be my girlfriend. An evening of hiding out in Hogan’s with her sounds perfect—it sounds so quiet against the screaming. I push my earbuds deeper in. I turn up the Smiths and Moz drowns out the distorted nightmarish version of “It Has to Be Me.”

  “Happy birthday to you…” At midnight, when I reach over my pillows and pick up my phone, Joseph sings to me. “Happy birthday dear. What is it now? Snatch?”

  “Score.”

  “Oh, yeah. Fabulous. Dear Score, happy birthday to you!”

  I immediately start feeling better.

  “Joey, I love the Scarf man, thanks, I haven’t taken it off since yesterday.” I proudly boast before unloading.

  Quietly, I review all that has been amiss, and my brother’s uplifting, encouraging words of wisdom put me in a good mood that will carry me through the rest of the day.

  This day. My birthday. It has arrived.

  “Kiss kiss. Love love.”

  “Kiss kiss. Love love.”

  Chapter 65

  In the Caddy, singing along with Joey Ramone, we park between two empty spots. Responding to an R-rated birthday text from an Extra, I step out of the cretin hop to dignify the quickly filling Valley View lot. This is my runway, and I am pre-maternal Kate Moss. My smile is a Go, my dotted suit is Tops, my shades are Fords, my scarf is unquestionably McQueen, and my new Chucks complement everything. I look great. I’m wide-awake and resolved in my plans for The Premiere.

  Birthday, here I come.

  Beneath the bright morning, as we lean against the Deville I play the brothers my 2:17 am suggestive video message from Mia. Thirty-two seconds of escalating squeaks build to a very cute, “Happy birthday Score!” We all giggle, hit replay, and then Bickle pulls up.

  Throwing open the door of his red Mini Cooper, my muscle runs over to hand me a black and yellow striped Zippo. “Happy birthday Buddy!” Darting back, he pulls four cases of Sterno green and four cases of lighter fluid out from the car.

  “Wow. I love it, Thank you.” I admire the ‘Score’ engraving on the lighter as my generous protector loads the inflammable boxes into Lynch’s trunk.

  “Hey! Hey Brooke Hogan!” Squeezing next to him, Alvin heroically rescues a Hustler store bag. “Don’t fuckin’ crush those!” He tosses me a liquid-filled, yellow plastic ball. “Try it!”

  “I know you asked for that jacket you saw on Kate Moss’s boyfriend.” Lynch grins. “But I didn’t wanna ruin your chances with Holly. I don’t think it’s vegan to fuck someone who wears a leather.”

  “Woah!” Pumping a drop onto my finger, I taste the sweet slime.

  “Yeah, random right?” As Al snatches the sex lube, tosses back his hair, and squirts a gooey stream into his gaping mouth, Lynch explains, “I couldn’t find banana bread but figured banana cream pie flavored would be close enough.”

  Throughout PE, the birthday messages continue to buzz in, and by the end of Biology I’ve heard from almost everyone except Stella. Standing in the small strip of shade, leaning against the cafeteria, I text her, worried. She wasn’t in class.

  “We still on for tonight Babe? I’ve got a big Xbox party that I won’t be attending.”

  “I’m playing hookie and getting ready for you Babe ;) <3 XXXOOOXXX”

  I send back a smiley emoticon as Holly appears with The Boys. Volta is carrying a delicacy that he had overnighted from New York. Singing, “Feliz cumplianos a ti,” Cruz lights the candle, then slips me an envelope containing three burned Slayer CDs and two personalized gift certificates—each good for one OJ lesson. On the detailed, professional business cards, a childlike, hand-drawn portrait of Cruz smiles, gripping an anonymous Producer. I fan my gold-leafed gifts, offering for Holly to join me for a course in oral craft. She declines.

  “It’s not that I’d think you’d need them. I’d offer you cannoli.” I motion to the Magnolia bakery box. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not vegan.”

  “It’s okay Mike, you’re right.” Her pure indigo eyes shame the candle into melting. ”I don’t need them.” She smooches my mouth. “Yo
u’ll get your present from me later.”

  “C’mon Blow Culito,” Volta insists, “Blow!”

  I inhale, as the rest join in. “Blow, blow, blow … ”

  Through lunch the tangible excitement for my birthday follows, bringing with it the rebirth of my anticipation for The Blow-off—my final Premiere. Last night, after confessing my feelings for Holly, my brother avidly alluded that I put The Palace behind me. I’m taking his advice. Tonight I’m going to tell Stella that we can no longer be anything but excessively attractive friends and tomorrow I’ll exclusively do scenes with Holly. On green plastic, my Producer shall know the ingénue. I’ve only ever wanted you Score. You’re so fabulous. Of course I’ll be your girlfriend. Simultaneously we will explode with joy, then as Moz sings his last song, I will tear myself from Holly, take my speech position, and announce the closing of The Palace. I’ve yet to fill Lynch in on any of this but together, we are working to ensure that the final Premiere will be the pinnacle of magnificence.

  My co-host and I stroll through the no man’s land at the center of the quad to recruit the three key necks, who we’ve been admiring since we first heard the rumors—during class, beneath the veil, and through the scissor-holed pouches of oversized hoodies, these winery sisters give exceptional JOs.

  “It’s a very classy and completely exclusive. It’s a good time.” I lurk over their spot on the rich-kid corner of the steps. “There’s going to be a legitimate Hollywood casting agent there too…”

  Each of them has a Coke Zero in her hand and a small blue heart drawn on her index finger.

  The skinniest one sighs. “Will there be coke?”

  I assure the innovative young ladies of the availability of a variety of refreshments. They agree to attend and on the way back to my locker, I text Prius to make sure that he’ll be bringing his usual amenities: hot new Extras, and more GO SMiLE.

  All day I’ve been coming up with special ways to make the last Premiere unforgettable. I’ve been taking notes: Cherie Cherie cupcakes; party-poppers; a retrospective slide-show montage of Alvin’s photos. Leaning against the Caddy, waiting for my driver, I add piñata to the list before responding to Prius. He’s linked me to the profile of a twenty-year-old yoga teacher from Marin. Yes, she can come. Typing, I’m wondering if I’ll hear back from Blake when I see Lynch and Mia at the top of the stairs. They step aside. Al board-slides the infamous Valley View handrail. His hair blusters like an eighties metal video. He clacks down onto the sidewalk, ollies a flowerbed, and nose-manuals through the lot.

  “Hey Grampa, can I borrow some of your banana cream pie?” Popping up his deck, he pulls out his camera. “I miss Star really fucking bad. Fuck Florida.”

  “Al, I’ve got a favor to ask you. Do you think that you could shoot this weekend without letting the pics leak?” Sucking in my cheeks, I strike a smashing pose. “I think it’s gonna be legendary.”

  “Fuck yeah!” He gets low to snap another shot. “I’ve been filming most of them anyway.”

  “Oh … okay, great.” I turn to profile. “Also, could I borrow your Flip?”

  “Sure.” He pulls the mini-cam from his jeans and tosses it to me. “You gonna film yourself jerking off and send it to Dracula?”

  “I’m going to Stella’s later, She’s got some big thing planned.”

  Al shoves his digital still into my face.

  Taking off my shades, I review the photos—I’m a hidden TMZ treasure, waiting to be discovered in a high school parking lot.

  Chapter 66

  Through the dining room window, the night’s potential sparkles up from the valley, as I share my birthday dinner with the Massis. Devouring Gina’s beautiful homemade gnocchi and soy balls, Frank and I expand then unbuckle our belts to welcome the main event. “Ooooh!”

  Pinky pounces upon the table, aflame and delicious. Sacrificing himself once again in my name, this year my kitty confection has come offering up his cakey goodness along with Guitar Hero: Warriors of Rock. I dislike video games. I really do. But it’s fine. I know that the best gifts are still to come so, when my cake tells me that he knows how much I enjoy this particular gaming franchise, I feign delight. “Thanks Pinky! Lynch will be stoked! We’re seriously gonna be up all night.”

  After the ceremonial feast, sucking my frosted fingertips, tasting traces of artificial banana flavoring, I grab my game, wrap up a frosted ear, shove my plunder into my Sherman, and conquer the dishes. Once the plates are shelved and the elders are in bed, I dim the dining room. I relight the candle stubs and sit back down at the table.

  Katy Perry, Russell Brand, Kate Moss, Leonardo DiCaprio, Morrissey, Steve Aoki, Deadmau5, Perez Hilton, Paris Hilton, Jenna Jameson, Sasha Grey, and I share a single slice of cake. I pass it around. Silently, we dab the corners of our mouths with chiffon napkins. The Caddy rolls into the driveway. They each ask “Is it I?” and I leave them chewing on a black licorice whiskers.

  Lynch tears into the pink-smeared cellophane. Stuffing his mouth, crumbing pink cake onto his jeans, he careens downhill as I type. I send out my text thirteen minutes before our headlights shine across the four-way stop by the post office. This is her cross street. Planning to have my driver change course, I’ve asked Holly if I should come over—if with her mom there she’d help me run lines. My phone remains still. We drive on. And park in front of Stella’s.

  “Hey man!” Shouting over an inquisitive lyric about having ‘fallen in love with someone’ I attempt to resign myself to another evening without like-minded virgins. “Do you have any condoms?”

  “Yeah, totally, they’re in the trunk with my bibles and Jonas Brother’s CDs,” Laughing, Lynch turns down the music. ”Wait…” Facing me, he looks terribly crestfallen. “Are you serious?”

  “Phhh no…” I sneer.

  He leers. So I admit, “It’s just that the MK thing still has me a little rattled … and if I’m going to be Holly’s first tomorrow I don’t wanna—”

  “Come on Mike! Settle. Please settle. It’s your birthday. Stella has some major shit planned for you.” He points toward the shadowy porch. “So go in there and have a fucking good fucking time!”

  Chapter 67

  It’s 11:03 pm and it’s dark. Holly hasn’t written back. Standing in the porch light with my phone dangling from the tips of my fingers, I begin a staring contest with Stella’s front door. She’s waiting.

  Last night, Joey insisted that I have a good time. “Fall in love with your birthday weekend and then see how you feel on Monday before locking anyone or anything down. Okay? You’re eighteen, Baby Brother! Kiss kiss…” His dramatic advice seemed great. But now I’m filled with doubt.

  I can’t go through with this. I feel like Holly is already my GF. We’re connected. Click, click. I’m connected to an amazing girl. Click, click. She’s vegan. She loves the Smiths. She doesn’t do drugs. Click, click. She looks like a runway model and carries herself like a lady who carries a vibrator around twenty-four/seven. Click, click. She’s even writing a hit TV series that offers a wide array of male leads. I should cancel the final parties. Both of them. Maybe. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click.

  Releasing my Zippo, I pull up Holly’s underwear pics and stare. I scroll through my phone book. I reach the Hs. I’m going to call her.

  A swift palm smacks my face. My phone hits the porch. And, with my hands pinned behind my back, I watch the door.

  “Daddy, don’t you fucking stop.” Two pixie-haired voices sternly whisper over my shoulders. “You can’t stop. It’s too good.”

  “And what about Blake? He’ll love it as much as we do.”

  “You, me, and Miss Faux Platinum Purity would be lost without it.” Something cold, metallic, and buzzy, brushes my cheek. “You know it’s true Score.”

  I re-open my photo album. I scroll through some Extras’ birthday nudes. I scroll to Stella’s fruit pop pics. If I almost exclusively limit my performance to scenes with Holly, we’d enjoy intimacy amidst the br
illiance of The Premieres. I would maintain the status of the world’s youngest renowned promoter and The Filmgreats would live on. I like this plan. A lot. I scroll to the photo that Hogan took of Holly and I at the D-hole.

  I don’t know what to do.

  “FAGGOT!” A whiskey bottle whizzes past my face and shatters against the door’s frame. Next to my Chucks, the shards of orange glass melt into the wooden planks.

  I scroll through my phone book. I hit dial. “Hey, I’m outside.”

  Chapter 68

  The front door was open. She said to let myself in.

  Hesitantly, I pace between the rows of rose scented candles, holding my breath, swallowing my moths to protect them from the low laying flames. When I reach her bedroom, I stop and inhale The Palace.

  The Pink Door is closed. But as I stand here, frozen in a scatter of pink rose petals, listening to the familiar sounds—the giggling, the groaning, the Amerigirlpop—I know what’s inside. Stella’s going to make my closing speech much harder. But it must be made—even if it means having to forsake an offstage, aboveground private threesome.

  I can do this. I’m going to go in there and tell her that we’ll forever be the greatest of Filmgreats, but that I have deep, meaningful feelings for Holly, which must be observed, explored, and reciprocated.

  Pressing the red button on the Flip, extending the camera in front of me like a VIP laminate, I twist the pink ceramic knob and step onto the set of a pink-and-white adult film. In front of me, on The Pink Bed, surrounded by soy candles, balloons, streamers, and McQueen skulls cut from pink construction paper, two Greats writhe, lost in their intimate scene.