Pop Kids (11 page)

Chapter 14

“She ate your butt?”

“Yeah, man.” Sitting in our sunny booth at The Grounds, Lynch grins. Last night after the dance party, while I walked Stella home, he and Mia stayed behind to enjoy some special features.

“Was it … weird?”

“Totally!” He takes a satisfied gulp of his coffee.

“Wow.” I’m fascinated. “Was your butt … clean?”

“She didn’t complain.”

If anyone attempted to eat my butt and found it inedible, I’d have to kill myself. Or them, so they couldn’t tell anyone. Sipping my iced Sencha, hoping to see Becca, I watch the front door as Lynch flips the brass locks of his guitar- case. His 1950s acoustic has ‘FAIL!’ sprayed across its black body in white.

“Man, Mike, that place is the best,” he says. “We’re gonna stay there again tomorrow night for a sequel. I’m hoping that she’ll finally —”

“Wait. You spent the night?”

“
Her
idea.” Looking up from his fretting fingers, he smiles proudly. “I didn’t even have to suggest it.”

“Man, I’m really glad that you’re finally getting to touch it, but we can’t be living in there or we’re gonna get caught. And I cannot get caught…” I pop a scone crumble into my mouth. “For this or anything else.”

The front door opens. The bearded guy in the Neurosis shirt is coming off of his smoke break to roast and disappoint me by not being Becca.

“C’monnnnn. Mike…” Putting a bluesy melody to intrepidness, Lynch sings, “You really need to settle. You’re still seventeen. What’s the worst that can happen?”

He won’t rehearse, but he’ll play his guitar in the fucking coffee shop
.
Grabbing the Gibson’s neck, I mute his chording.

“You wanna be locked down in this town forever?” Panicking, I pull my Zippo from my jeans. “You know what they’ll do if they catch us? We’re talking Cal Trans levels of confinement.
Click, click. Click, click.
We’re talking zero internet—”

“Dude, no one has even looked at that place in a thousand years.” He leans the guitar against the bench. “But if you’re gonna freak, I’ll just bring Jamie back to my place.” Slipping it from his breast pocket, Lynch whisks my iPod across the sheen of our table and smiles. ”Thanks. We listened to Portishead the whole time.’

“Nice. Nineties sex.”

“Yeah, that’s what she’s into.”

I turn away. Nobody has come in the back door. We’re still two of four customers—none of whom are Becca.

“Hey…” Lynch reclaims my attention. “When are we gonna do the next party? Yesterday totally fixed The Sunday Problem don’t ya think?”

The Sunday Problem: the metaphysical oppression and defeat embodied by Sundays.
Somehow Sundays always feel weightier—like the gravity has been turned up, like the hand of the Christian God is firmly pushing down on our heads to prevent any fun from being had.

“Wow, totally. I guess capital H.E. can’t find us down there. Sunday it is.”

A flash of platinum disappears down the flier-covered hallway next to the pastry case. All my body hair does an impression of Lynch’s head. And I too stand.

“You leaving?” He grabs the remainder of my scone. “You look rattled?”

Picking up his guitar, I strum the one chord I know until a soon-to-be freshman friend of Alvin’s comes out of the bathroom. His hair is blonde but long—nothing like Becca’s. And he’s wearing flip-flops.

“Hey Sandles!…” The seasick strings resound as I throw my hands. “That’s the ladies’ room!”

“The men’s is broken dude.” Confused, the kid calmly defends himself to the rest of The Grounds and me. ”What the fuck does it matter to you anyway, Mike? Is that where you keep your coffin?” Flipping me off, he walks out the front door.

Collectedly I un-strap the guitar, grab my skate, and then face Lynch’s shocked expression.

“Excuse me. Slash. What the fuck was that bathroom drama?” He laughs. “You, like,
only
use the girls’ room.”

“I know. But, that kid didn’t just throw the best party that this town’s ever seen. And did you see his shoes? What gives him the right to my exclusive bathroom privileges? Fuck him. I’m gonna go work on the next invitations.”

Chapter 15

It’s too hot. Everything is dry. And still. If I didn’t have the sense to favor wearing black, the subtle sweat marks in my pits would be completely visible; I’d have to go straight home for fear of embarrassing myself in front of Stella. Instead, I’m stopping for refreshments on the way to her house.

Stashing my deck behind the ice machines, I stroll into air-conditioned convenience. At the end of the aisles, I open the cold case. A frigid gust hits me, like a Dentyne Ice commercial and I bury my arms deep in the racks. Embracing soda, chilling, hoping the Pepsi in my pits will dry up their slightly discolored sweat circles, I can sense my judgment. I step back and check myself out in the security mirrors. My shirt Iooks the same. And my nemesis is vibing me.
Typical.

Though I’ve never stolen anything from the 7-eleven, the guy at the counter always thinks I’m going to shoplift. I find his suspicion totally offensive so, knowing very well that he’s Indian I make it a point to speak Spanish to him whenever I buy anything. Without fail, this causes him to pound the counter and insist, “I’ve told you I am NOT Mexican!” I reply, “That’s racist!” And he totally falls apart. It’s pretty cool.

Laughing at today’s agitated defense to my standard accusation, I purchase my mini San P. bottle, bid the clerk “
hasta pronto
” and exit.

Cruising down the middle of the street, I call Stella. It goes straight to voicemail:
“I’m a free bitch, baby,”
the American female pop star informs me. Maybe she’s still sleeping. I pocket my phone, and skate through Fountain Square.
I hope Barbara is gone.
Last night in The Pink Room, when I found out that her Mom was home, Stella said she’d turn up some music; that Barbara wouldn’t hear us, nor care if she did; that I had nothing to worry about. I disagreed, re-buttoned my Ksubis, went home, and comforted myself with new Vanessa Hudgins nudes.

Rounding the corner to Reisling, I avoid a sprinkler cascade, and a silver Prius slowly whirs by. It’s blasting something that sounds like a video game. And the driver seems lost. Curiously, I tail the eco-friendly ride until it crawls to a stop directly in front of Stella’s house. I can’t believe she already has another guy over. I pound my push-foot to the pavement. Only hours ago I was feeling her up on that porch. I pop up my board. If I’d known that I was to be replaced so promptly, I would’ve just asked Katy Perry to join us last night.

It’s fine.

I march up the sidewalk. The disco dies and the door of the import opens. What steps out is horrifying. He’s at least six feet tall, wearing white jeans that are way too tight, a florescent yellow scoop-necked tank top that is way too baggy, about six necklaces that are way too long, puffy silver high-tops that are way too silver and, to perfectly complete his look, the man has put his hair in pigtails—the cheerleader kind, not the braided Willie Nelson kind. Pigtails, I swear to Moz. When he takes off his aviators to address my gaping mouth, I can tell that he’s at least twenty-one.
Oh, and shockingly good looking too.

“Hello hello!” With a ravishing smile, he slings a neon canvas bag over his shoulder. “You here to see Sarah too? “ He’s too poorly dressed to be this good looking.

“Who?” Flawlessly, I feign surprise as I notice the residency to my right. “Oh, Sarah
Johnson
. Oh no, no. I was just on my way home and stopped to check out your ride. I love the Prius man. They’re so green.”

The pigtailed one grins. A screen door creaks. And the sound of pattering Havaianas adds to my discomfort.

“Donnnnnnnny!” Running down the walkway, Stella throws her arms around him.

Donny. The DJ. Of course.

Barbara’s daughter is wearing tiny yellow velour shorts, a white wife beater, a black bra, and yellow flip-flops. Her toenails are freshly painted pink. A small strip of her belly is showing and her shorts have the word ‘pink’ swooping across her captivating ass, in pink. Thinking invisible thoughts, standing here all young, unannounced, and car-less, right next to Big D, I hope, for the first time ever, that she doesn’t notice me.

“Mike! What are you doing here?” she asks. “Did you guys meet? Donny’s gonna teach me how to spin! Kickass right?”

The DJ wraps himself around her from behind. And smiles at me.

“Oh, yeah, that’s cool. ” Eyeing her, hoping to catch a look of concern, a sense of awkwardness, a tinge of guilt, I reach for my lighter. “I thought that most DJs did pool parties during the day, but that’s cool that you’ve got so much free time Donny.”

“It’s Donovan, my brother.”

“Oh, I though it was Donny. She calls you Donny. Can’t I?”

“And who are you again?” Smiling benevolently, he releases her from his toned arms and extends his hand. “I still don’t think that we’ve officially met.”

He’s too amiable. He must be stoned
. I bet you’re stoned Donny. Fucking stoner
. Giving me a raised eyebrow, Stella introduces us.

“Donovan, this is my friend Mike.” I shake hands as her
friend
Mike internally cringes at his belittling title. I would have expected ‘my super-lover,’ ‘my reason-to-wax.’ “He threw that amazing party that I was telling you about.”

My grip freezes. I turn to her, aghast. I can’t believe she told this random (albeit very good looking) guy about The Premieres
.
My stomach moths flutter at the breach of secrecy.

“Oh! You’re Score Massi!” Donny grins, and I drop his hand. It’s one thing for someone from our town to have heard preceding tale of me, but this guy doesn’t even live here. He lives in the city. Where there’s real life. He pats my shoulder. “The girls speak quite highly of you, my brother.”

“That makes sense.”
Not really.

Popping his trunk with his keys, Donny walks back to the car. “I’m gonna load in some stuff okay Sarah Baby.”

“Sure Babe.” Looking into my aviators, she offers, “You know, you can call me
Stella
Baby if you want.”

I share a smile with my sister Filmgreat.

“No worries.” Burdened with metallic duffle bags, shiny backpacks, laptops, and little speakers, Donny lugs the gear in the house.

Stella and I are alone. I clack down my board, step onto it, and push once.

“So you wanna be a DJ now? I thought you wanted to be an actress … or a model—”

“Yeah, why not? It will be fun.” She catches me as I roll into her. “And anyway, DJ, actress, model … it doesn’t matter how you get there. It just matters that you get there. Right?” Still holding onto my waist, she smiles.

I glance at something that fell from the Prius before addressing my true concern. “That guy’s not gonna tell anyone about the parties right?” Stepping off, I kick my board to her front lawn. “We can’t have all of San Francisco showing up—”

“Mike…” She pulls me back into her hum. “You really think people are going to come here from SF for, like, anything?”

“Donny doesn’t seem to mind traveling to be entertained.”

Intertwined on the sidewalk, smirking, sharing breaths, we squint at each other until Stella breaks the stalemate. Slipping her arms up the back of my shirt and her tongue into my mouth, she wins the battle of will. Her sex buzz rattles the windows of the hybrid. Her neighbors hissing sprinklers skip. And I taste artificial watermelon. As my drop-neck tee bunches and her cool belly presses to mine, I slide my hand beneath the
in
in ‘pink’ to discover that Stella is panty-free. Delighted, ignoring the creak of the screen door, I continue to search her shorts while Donovan tromps by. When Stella eventually shuts down the show, she stares me down.

“Don’t worry so much Mike. No one is going to ruin your party. And, anyway, no matter what happens, I know that you can handle it.” Removing her arms from my waist, she adjusts my hair. “You’ve got what it takes, sexy.”

“Yeah, Mike!” DJ Prius slams his trunk. With pigtails bouncing he plods toward us and takes Stella’s hand. “No worries, my brother.” He walks her into the house.

She doesn’t wave, she doesn’t say goodbye, and she doesn’t look back.

Standing on the curb, I stare at the screen door. “I Kissed a Girl” comes bouncing out. I grab my board from the thirsty grass and squat to inspect the gutter by the passenger door of the Prius. I can’t believe what I find: ‘Murder King.’ How disappointing. Donny’s carnivorous conscious isn’t as sparkling as his smile. Leaving a small breakfast-croissant-wrapper-fire behind me, I push toward the hills, humming something about cherry ChapStick.

Chapter 16

To further secure his place below me on the evolutionary scale, Frank has decided to grill tonight. And though he has prepared one of his exquisite vegan patties for me, it’s hard to stomach when I’m sitting at table surrounded by flesh eaters.

“You’re a murderer,” I accuse my father. “I’m afraid to even sit here with you … and to sleep at night. How do I know I’m not next on the Massi-man-grill?”

“Tell you what Mike…” Tearing mint leaves into his Ice Tea, he bargains. “I’ll stop eating steak when you stop killing spiders.”

Absurdity: comparing cows to spiders. Arachnids are pure evil. They’re like a cigarette manufacturer or a terrorist. They’re organized religion on eight legs.

“I hate spiders.”

“And I hate cows.” The ice in his glass clinks as he sips.

“It’s not the same, Dad. You know it’s not the same.”

I spread fresh sun-dried tomato pesto onto my Cherie Cherie rosemary focaccia bun and bite into my homemade Shiraz marinated burger. Like a mime that’s found his voice, Frank begins dramatizing his argument with gestures.

“I don’t see how it isn’t! Spiders have eyes! Eight of them! They’re not plants! And that wood spider you killed the other night probably has children at home that are still waiting for their father to bring home the flies.” Covering his mouth, he turns to Gina and gasps at the horrible thought. Gina shakes her head and forks a tomato from her salad.