Pop Kids (15 page)

“That was Donny. We’re at his apartment. He’s DJing this private party tomorrow in The Mission, so I decided to come with. Steve Aoki’s spinning! And there’s going to be an open bar! Amazing right?”

The booth grows darker as a pigtailed shadow eclipses my rising star.

“Yeah, that’s pretty fabulous.”
I can’t believe she left.
Aimlessly, I pace the concrete. I put my phone on speaker and toss it to the chairs.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be amazing!” Her voice beams into the especially deep solitude of my little booth, in this little theatre, in this little town. I can hear Donny’s insistence in the background.

“Oh, okay, okay,” she says, surrendering the phone. “Babe, someone wants to talk to you.”

“Hello, my brother!”

“Hello, Donovan.” I can hear his smile. Bending, I press my forehead to the window.

“Did you like that whitener?”

Yelling (probably from his bed), Stella demands burritos. Gum. Mochas. Weed.

“Yeah, thanks. It’s great.” Slowly, I bounce my head against the glass.

“It’s very compact. Very whitening.” The resounding thuds remind me of when I shoved Stella against the window. I stop. And sit down.

“Amazing, yeah? My friend at Sephora hooks me up. I’ll get some more for you. But remember, you still owe me some syrup! Here’s your girl.” He passes the phone.

“Isn’t he the sweetest?”

“So, you haven’t responded to the invitation.” I flick open my lighter and snap the flame to life. “Are you not going to be back for the
Pulp Fiction
party on Sunday?” I set fire to a red thread fraying from the chair next to me.

“Oh, I’ll for sure be back! I can’t wait, Babe.” I smack out the flame. My phone bounces and I start clicking. “But I should go right now. I’ll see you at the bank!”

Prius yells,
“Bye my brother!”
Just before she hangs up.

Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click…

I scroll through my phone, intent on deleting all of Stella’s nudes. A few minutes later, after I’ve spread a not-insignificant amount of my joy into a recycling bin, they’re still in my photo album. And I’m still on edge. I pull up my jeans, snap my flint, and light the inseminated renewable paper.
I’ve got to calm down
. The fire ignites the bin. The smell of melting plastic further turns my stomach.
It’s fine
. I put out the flames with mineral water. Coughing, I un-button my fly and re-open my photo album.
Everything’s fine.

Downstairs in the theatre’s girls’ room, I turn on the hot water and brutally scrub the hands that have just nurtured me through three consecutively dwindling releases of joy. My fingers are now as raw as my abused Producer. And I don’t feel any better. I stare into the partially steamed mirror—there’s nothing to see. I find Becca’s Vespa pic in my phone.
I wonder if she was in London when she shot this.
I want to call her. I can’t. It would just be bizarre. Inappropriate. Unhealthy. Especially at 1:58 am. The hour is all wrong.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

With “Deep Hit of Morning Sun” blowing out my ear buds, I step into the back of the broom closet at the end of the stalls. I kneel down, push away jugs of industrial bleach, and pry up the corner floor tiles. Reaching my stinging hands into the dusty hollow, I grab my cleaning supplies. I stuff them in my Jansport.
This isn’t enough
. I grab more fluid from the cache.
I’m sure it’s filthy out there tonight.

After setting the alarm, I lock up and step into the back parking lot. I’m met by the long awaited preface to fall: a cool night breeze kisses my neck. Welcoming it, I zip my black Obesity and Speed sweatshirt, gently pull my hood up over my hair, and disappear down the back alley.

On the south side of town, I start off small, eliminating a very unsightly church funded ‘I am not a choice’ bus-stop bench-ad that features a photo of an ugly baby. Then I move north, onto greater blights. Working my way toward the unholy mess on Rousette St., I illuminate the morning like a fashionable superhero in Ksubis. And as each little intermediate moment of warmth erupts from my touch, betrayal burns away with the filth. I feel better, lighter, like I’m floating, just inches above the ground. I tear through the valley, cutting like a cleansing angel, dancing like a tidying Timberlake, slipping through the littered alleyways, softly singing,

Shine on everyone
.

Chapter 22

Through the bay window, I can see both elder Massis milling about the breakfast table. Frank’s wearing overalls, eating sausage and peppers. Gina is reading her paper. The sun had crept up to catch me, and it sent me up my hill to a wakeful household.
It’s fine.

Stealthily, I slink up the driveway. Keeping low and close to the house, I creep underneath the kitchen window. I slip quietly around the garage and through the varnished wooden gate. The iron hinge creeks. I pause, then tiptoe through Frank’s garden. The herbs are wet.
Thank Moz the sprinklers aren’t still on.
Overcoming an urge to uproot a pot plant, I gently push open my window and crawl through to the safety of my room.
Gross.
The whole house smells like scrambled embryos. Plopping down in front of my mirror, I pull my head from the smoky tangle of my hoodie. I freeze in fear. But luckily, the smudge on my favorite black boat-necked sweater turns out to be a harmless patch of soot. I pat off my sleeve, finish undressing, and fall onto my bed. I badly want to shower but I’m down. I just can’t get back up. I can’t even get under the covers.

“Again? Are you fucking serious?” After what feels like two minutes of being asleep, I quietly inquire, “What time is it?”

“Hey man, sorry.” Lynch laughs through the phone. “This was the only time I could get away from everyone.”

Trying to focus, without lifting my head, I reach over to grab my hand mirror from the nightstand. “Why are you trying to get away from everyone? Where are you? Are you back?” I squint at my blurry reflection.

“No man, I’m still on the coast, but Leo and his sister are driving us back soon. They’re gonna crash at my place so I was thinking that I’d bring them to the party tomorrow. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t gonna freak. … They’re cool, man.”

“Oh wow. … I don’t know … ” I pick a speck of ash from my hair.

“Dude,” Lynch sighs. “The Palace was theirs first. We wouldn’t even know about it if it wasn’t for them so it’s not like they’re gonna tell anyone. They get it.” I inspect my teeth. They seem dull. “Oh, and Star has a present for you, I guess.”

“She does?” I drop the mirror and roll over. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I showed her your profile and she said she had something that you’d be into. Some fancy shit or something.”

“She’s fabulous. She can come.” I yawn, half asleep, with half of my face pressed into my pillow. “It’s fine. Bring them both. It’s a party.”

I turn off my phone, plop it on the pillow in front of my face, and dream of McQueen.

Chapter 23

Skipping every nap opportunity and spending all day detailing our underground theatre has left me feeling drugged. Tonight, as I walk into work, I feel like I’m treading across the hazy, red-sanded floor of a popcorn-scented ocean. I bob up into the lobby for air. Shane meets me with a worried look and, upsetting me with their gestures of camaraderie, the Concession Creeps greet me with approving smiles.
Moz, don’t let me resemble those steam punk stoners right now
. I reach for my shades as I pass my manager. Tying back his silver ponytail, he comments on the non-designer bags that I’m carrying under my eyes.

“You look tired Mike. What’s with the dark circles, man?”

“Hey, better than red eyes, right Phil?” I slide on my aviators and swim further toward the stairs. My commentary on the hallucinogenic affinities of my coworkers is utterly lost.

“You should really get some rest man.”

“I plan on it Phil. I plan on it.”

Neglecting my semi-regular push-up regimen to preserve myself, I set up reels, drink San P., and slowly blink through the 5:20 pm and 7:50 pm showing. As the previews for the 10:30 pm screening start to roll, someone comes into Booth Six.

Becca’s at the door.

My sleepy breathing hitches between the clicking frames. Though she’s wearing the same outfit she wore when she last visited, to my amazement, it works. She’s simultaneously overcoming fashion redundancy and achieving that “trying to be casual” beauty without even trying. I’ve seen Kate Moss do it, but it’s not a feat that should be attempted by your average girl.

“Hey Mike.” Her rich voice soothes.
I bet that she sings contralto.
“You busy?” She eases toward me through the shadows, like a girl from another world—like a Southern Californian.

“No, not at all.” Standing, tossing my Jansport to the floor, I offer her the seat next to mine. “What’s going on?” My shades rattle on the concrete. I wince and leave them.

“After our music talk I made you this.” Sitting, she pulls a CD from the pocket of her hoodie and hands me the burnt disc.

I didn’t think that girls ever made mix CDs for guys. I didn’t think it was allowed, but there’s nothing like breaking tradition, and I’m happy to be the guy to inspire change.

“What’s on here?” I hold up what I’m hoping is my signed and stamped invitation to intercourse.

“I wrote down the tracks for you.” Taking the translucent black sleeve, she slips out and unfolds a black piece of paper. “Here. There’s no metal on it. I hope you like it.”

Her silver writing is like calligraphy. I’ve never heard of some of this stuff, but all of my favorite bands are on here.

“I’m sure I will love it.” Clearly enunciating each word of the song title as if answering a jeopardy question, I promise, “Even if there’s no
Reign in Blood
on here.” I punctuate the effort with an open mouthed, aren’t-you-proud-of-me smile.

Laughing, she shakes her head, “No, no Slayer.” And settles deeper into the chair. Covering her mouth, Becca coos out a yawn. “Ooh
,
I’m so sleepy.” She shutters like a cat awakened from a nap. “I was up all night.”

“Oh, really?” I fold up the intuitive track list and slip the disc into my backpack with my scattered aviators. “Wild date or something?”
Say no. Say no. Say—.

“Oh no, nothing like that.”
Thank you
. Overwriting the sexual DJ scene, into which I had already begun inserting her, she relieves me. “I spent the night at The Twins’.”

“Oh, and you couldn’t sleep because you were creeped out by all the crucified Nazarenes hanging on every inch of bare wall space?”

“God, I totally know what you mean. Their parents are twisted.” She slips off her Vans. “Some of the stuff that they’ve gotten Drew and Michelle to believe is pretty crazy.”

“Yeah, well, I know that The Twins call themselves Christians but they really just say that so their folks don’t freak out. They’re pretty level headed when it comes down to it. … I mean, when they’re not with Roxy—”

The Todds own Todd Pharmacy, and their daughters have a pet name for their favorite pilfered pill—Roxy. They can’t go to church without her.

“I was talking about their thing with sex.” An actor on the screen below screams. Becca sits up to glance down at the audience before turning back to me with a crooked smile. “Did you know that they think vaginal sex is a sin?”

“Like,
only
vaginal sex?” Intrigued, I lower my voice and lean in. “So, anything else is just another day at church?”

“You got it.” Raising her sculpted brows, widening her glowing greens, she moves her face closer to mine. “Extra crazy, right?”

“Wow. Yeah.” Reflexively, stupidly, I shy away to dig into my pocket. “Well, at least they haven’t taken themselves completely out of the game.”

“Good point. And they’re certainly not totally repressed.” She absently flips over her waffle soles with her bare toes. “We spent all night talking about vibrators. They know, like, everything about them but don’t have any. They just research them online. Weird, right?” She smiles.