Pop Kids (27 page)

“Wow, well…” I slide next to him and like a used car salesman or a minister throw my arm over his shoulder. “You’re always gonna be safe at The Palace my friend. Seriously. You guys can do whatever you want, wherever you want. And even if I have become a bit lax by letting in strangers like that French nast, I promise that I’ll remain strict on the anti padres policy.” I pat on the mattress. “C’mon. Let’s talk about
Rambo
more after our nap.”

“Thanks, but I’m gonna practice my lines playboy, so you might as well go eat lunch.” Standing, switching to his loud, weird, booming voice he points down at my repose, “You look very pale my son! Go get a cheeseburger inside of you.”

Chapter 40

By Tuesday I’ve managed to shake off the sleepiness left over from
Showgirls
. Last night I was in bed before nine. Today I had the fortitude to remain conscious through all of my classes and now, at my desk, in my room, I still have enough clarity to ignore my Biology homework and do research while making the Let’s Not Pretend invite. It is an unapologetic and orgiastic photoshopped flesh menagerie featuring some great Alvin shots and the caption ‘Dress To Undress!’ I’m pretty pleased with the tagline, but as a whole the work is admittedly unimpressive.
It’s fine.
I save and send the invitation. It’s already past midnight. Eddie purrs on the pillowcase paps behind me.
I should go to bed.
I click on my Firefox window.
Right after I memorize at least two new techniques from bestsexpositions.com.

Since the last Premiere we’ve all become more relaxed about discussing our extra-curricular activities and though I am slightly concerned by any public discussion of our controversial affairs, I’m finding our graphic conversations comforting. I feel that the vocalization of our aspirations will further ensure another great party this weekend. Plus, I was starting to think it was really weird that no one was talking about the good stuff.

On my way to Wednesday’s last period, I step out from the shady overhangs to quietly ask Alvin about his special guest. For the first time since the sex scenes began, I’ve agreed to allow Extras. I’ve already seen Al’s photos of Violet. I now only need to make sure that he can vouch for pre-teen Cameron Diaz’s character.

“Stella’s friends are gonna bring flowers. She’ll bring flowers, right?”

“Violet is a flower.” Standing above me on concrete planter, Al moonwalks away.

I follow him. “Oh, and do you have any idea how old she is? She looks twelve—”

“Hey Mike.” One of the Sweater Girls—the cream one, the hottest one on the tennis team—has just walked up to mute us with her cream, low cut, short sleeve angora sweater dress. She’s speaking to me for the first time in our four years of sharing the same English period. “You coming to class?”

“Um, tennis anyone?” Alvin, completely losing control, jumps on my back, leans into my ear, and stage whispers, “Fucking invite HER! She’s not twelve!”

I shake the longhaired devil from my shoulder. He lands on his feet and pulls out his phone to take pictures of us as I, suppressing my urge to follow his advice, walk Cream to class.

I explain to her that he and I had just been discussing the fall musical.

“I’m playing the lead.” I GO SMiLE. “Would you like to be my guest for opening night?”

Happily she accepts my offer, and our animated shoulder-rubbing stroll catches the eye of her overgrown freshman friend—the moron who threw the fries at Lynch and me. Literally slack-jawed, he stops to stare. I brush away Cream’s long chestnut hair, whisper in her ear, and flash him my polished teeth. Snapping his mouth shut, Fry Guy turns his head and walks past. Having successfully blinded the potential attacker with my radiance, I safely escort the sweater into the English building.

Confined to my desk, I’m finding it impossible to pay attention to my teacher. As he drones on about some dead existentialist named Albert, I practice my autograph on my book cover. I make hearts out of the
o
in Score and the
a
in
Massi.

The girl behind me passes me a note written on a tennis ball. Following its fuzzy instructions, I slip out the back of class to meet Cream in my Hess dressing room. Propped against my vanity, warmed by the heat of its bare bulbs, surrounded by hundreds of fragrant white roses, I pet her discarded dress as she congratulates me with celebratory opening night OJ. The cheers of curtain call echo. Cream pauses, unhooks the top of her angora Lacoste lingerie. Holly, wearing the shark embroidered version of same bra and panty set, struts into my private dressing room.

Class is dismissed. My good sport pulls out her cell in synch with the rest of the exiting honors students. Checking my messages, I follow her to the senior lockers. Cream meets Canary, and the two sweaters continue on past my stall. After fixing my hair, I tape a small print out of Holly’s Model Mayhem graffiti pic next to the photo of Alexa Chung and then invite Leo Di to sit in on tonight’s rehearsals.

While Mia was whining to Rick about the October deadline for script memorization, I was in a massage train. Eventually she came backstage, linked up, and calmed down. Now we’re both relaxed, hanging beneath the campus lights, awaiting our rides. She compliments me on the Let’s Not Pretend invitation. “It’s hella horny.” I agree. Stella appears at the top of the campus steps. In black patent pumps, white high-waist hot shorts, and a matching pair of suspenders, pressing my Joy Division shirt to her boobs, she intimidates the sun. It ducks all the way behind the hills as her heels
tik
toward us.

“Hey kids!” She kisses me.

“Hey, Babe.” With France’s oral occupation fresh in my mind, I furtively wipe my mouth. “How’re things going with the casting? Has that guy called again?”

I take off my shades. Mia looks up from her texting.

“You spoke to Blake?”

“Yeah! He wants to meet again!” Stella types into her phone.

“Wait. You mean on Monday? At the callbacks?”

“He wants to do a one-on-one first! I guess there are only, like, five girls doing them!” With a hair toss and a smile, she looks up. “I’m so gonna get the part!”

“Oh…” Mia quietly forces out, “That’s cool.” Then returns to dourly, yet rapidly, texting.

Un-sanitarily, Stella presses a spent wad of gum against the light post before digging her last piece from her pocket. She peels open the paper, balls it up, flicks it away, and I begin flattering the soon to be TV queen.

“You’re gonna be perfect for the show, Babe.” I kneel to retrieve the litter. “Do they need any male roles?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll ask!”

The dainty freshman dancer who was giving me a dry shampoo minutes ago ghosts me as she walks toward the parking lot. She is holding hands with her senior boyfriend.

I trash the wrapper and walk back to Stella. “Hey, do you want to do something Friday night? We can celebrate the one-on-ones, one on one.”

“Yeah!” As if I’d forgotten that I’d agreed to accompany her to her first Teen’s Choice Award, she insists, “I wanna go to one of Score’s infamous Premiere parties.”

Mia takes a fake sounding phone call to the top of the campus stairs.

“But that’s Saturday. … I was thinking that maybe we could do something Friday, like, just the two of us. … We could go to the D-hole … or watch stuff at your place … or go to the golf course or something—”

Stella’s sex hum pressurizes the thinning air between us as she moves closer.

“I know Let’s Not Pretend is on Saturday. I’m on the invitation Babe.” Grinning, she throws her arms around my neck. ”But I think you should have a pre-party on Friday. Another Flash. The last one was
amazing
…”

Her hips sway ever so slightly to the Katy Perry song looping through my head.

“Have two in a row?”

Hosting just one Premiere a week has already made it really tough to manage work, homework, script memorizing, and seven full periods of wakefulness.

Her sugary watermelon breath hits my face and tightens my jeans. I salivate.

“Yeah, sure. It’s fine, why not? I’ll make it happen.“

“Rockin’!” She raises one sculpted brow, grins, grabs the back of my hair, and kisses me. Deeply. My heart beats on fast forward.

She pulls back and, with her lips grazing mine, breaths, “It’s a date.”

Chapter 41

Thursday after school, I’m pleading with Lynch as he’s driving me to work. The quick invitation that I made last night for The Friday Night Pre-Premiere Party hasn’t received the response I’d hoped for. Serendipitously, Soufflé isn’t coming (he has a solo gig at some SF club called Rickshaw). Neither are the surfers. They’re throwing a pool party on the coast that, despite my current begging, the Prozens will be cutting school to attend.

“But we’ll all be back for Let’s Not Pretend.” Nodding, Lynch lasciviously grins, “Violet’s really looking forward to it.”

“You’re abandoning me.” Frantically, I polish the fear from my shades. “How am I going to work everything? Is MK going too? To see Leo? I haven’t heard from either of The Twins.”

“I think she’s staying here. But Ash is coming with us.”

“Ash?” I turn down a song about someone named Richie Dagger.

“Yeah.” The neon of the marquee hums to life, as he pulls up to the curb. “Star’s gonna show her how to make psychedelic Kombucha.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I grab my Sherman, slam the door, and lean through the passenger window. “Just make sure that she comes back with her brain in place. I don’t think I could handle seeing her in tie-dye. Or sandals. And don’t put any more holes in your face.”

He begins pulling away.

“And you better show me how to work the soundboard before you go!”

With one thumb up and the other texting, Lynch rolls onto the main street, steering with his knees.

I’m actually early this evening. In my dark booth, I ditch my bag on the seats and call Vegas on speaker. When I ask for Joey, the stranger that answers says, “
He’s not here. Who’s this?
”

“Oh, okay.”
This guy sounds just like Cruz
. “Who’s this?” My brother lives alone.

“This is Marcus.” The voice curtly lilts, as if questioning the validity of my inquiry.

“Are you Mexican, Marcus?”

“What?”

“My friend is Mexican and you sound a lot like him.”

Innocently, I remove my compact and polish my teeth in projection light.

“NO.” He gasps. “No I’m not, and you should know that the politically correct term is ‘Latino,’ not ‘Mexican’.”

“My friend’s family is from Mexico City and they call themselves Mexicans.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Joey’s brother.” Proudly, I toss the empty tube toward the recycling. It plinks against empty Pellegrinos.

“Well…” The uptight version of Cruz spits, “then I imagine that you have Joe’s cell number. I suggest you use it.”

I dial Joseph’s cell. When he picks up, I ask who the bitchy guy in his house is.

“Oh God, I told him that he had to leave this morning. Why? What’d he say to you?”

“Just some weird racist stuff. He hung up on me.”