Pop Kids (21 page)

My shirt is H&M. But Shane couldn’t possibly know who designed it.

“Oh, thanks.” Cautiously, I look down at my white polka dots and inform him, “It’s actually Paul Smith. It’s from the upcoming fall line.”

In the girls’ room, I dab freezing water on my non-designer bags, hide them behind my shades, and then lug them up to Booth Six. Pacing, I google Johnny Marr. .33 seconds later I’m mortified. Marr is not a high fashion label; he is not a designer. He was the guitarist of the Smiths. It’s fine. My shirt is more Moz than it is Marr. Shane doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I slump against the window and click the link that Lynch sent, hoping that Stella’s video will help me forget my Britpop
faux pas
. It helps a lot—and is indeed quite interesting.

The 1 minute 29 second long electro-underwear-dance-extravaganza takes place in The Pink Room. Under a strobe light, Prius and Soufflé prance around in panties while Stella, looking filthy-fabulous in a teal bra and golden silk boxers, stripper dances between them. The cross-dressing DJs follow her into bed and begin poke-tickling her. Giggling, she demands, “Throw it to me beautiful!” Still filming, the camera flies through the air. Stella catches it. The lens turns back on the stunning camera girl. Standing against a bubblegum pink wall in hot pink leopard print tights, a white burn out tee, and teal lace bra, Holly tilts her head and pouts her lips. The frame freezes.

“Hey Mike, it’s me.” Before my fragile mind and raging libido can even begin to process this piece of recent history, Holly peeks her head into the booth. “Cool if I come in?”

“Miss Hollywood, you are welcome anytime.”

I nervously pocket my phone like I’d just been caught watching something that’s
not
meant for universal viewing. She sits in the ratty chairs. I join her.

“I like your shirt.” She tugs on my sleeve. “It’s very Marr.”

“You think so too?” I tug at my cuffs, and channeling Prius give her a dashing smile. “Hey, you want some San P.? It’s bottled in Terme.”

She takes a long swig. I watch her welcoming lips through the translucent green glass. I want to bring up The Premiere—our moment—but I just can’t.

“Great party the other night huh?” She wipes her mouth and hands back my drink.

“Oh,” I stammer. “Yeah … it was … a lot of fun.

The bottle clinks as I set it next to my Jansport.

“Yeah.” She lightly laughs. “I had a lot of fun.” Her smile seems quizzical.

I have no answers. She’s giving me nothing. On paper I know that I’m getting all green lights, but in here it’s all flickering shadows.

Hoping it will conjure my recently deceased confidence, I imagine Stella, topless, smiling in front of me in an unzipped hoodie with a shark pin on it. My witchcraft fails.

“So, I heard you and Stella went for Mexican food? I woke up alone and confused. … It was quite awful…”

“Yeah, those DJ guys bought us burritos. They’re cool.” She flips up her hood and rests her head on my shoulder. “They know, like, everyone. Sarah and Jamie went to SF with them today to meet with some guy who loves Sarah’s blog. He’s thinking about putting her in a new reality show.”

“Whoa. What’s the premise?” I crawl my fingers toward hers.

“She doesn’t know.” Holly reaches into her pocket and pulls out a Red Vine. My hand awkwardly falls to the armrest. “The call was for ‘fierce, fearless, and fucked-up females between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.’”

“Oh. Well, three out of four ain’t bad. She’s been trying to get me to show a porno this weekend. Crazy right?”

“That could be hot.” Pensively she chews her licorice then springs up. “But you know what could be hotter?” I marvel at her wild metamorphic eyes. She snatches my glasses. “
Jaws
. …” Slipping them on, she asks. “Hey, have you ever been ice blocking? I haven’t. Wanna take me?”

Ice blocking is miserable. It’s cold and wet and the risk is not worth the reward. If you don’t get arrested for trespassing and destruction of private property you can, at the very least, expect frozen buns and grass stains.

“Oh, yeah, for sure! I go all the time. I’d be happy to show you the ropes … of ice.”

“Fabulous.” Standing, she hands over my Fords. They looked so right on her. I wasn’t going to ask for them back. ”I’ll meetcha Saturday at midnight.”

“Do you wanna stick around and watch the movie?” I follow her to the door, terribly disappointed that her visit had nothing to do with her pocket pal or the rumor that she’s into me. “If you’d rather watch something else—“

“Thanks Mike, but I should go.” Smiling a half smile, she hands me another mix CD. “See ya at hole one!”

On the disc she’s sharpied a shark. Via word bubble, the fish is saying, “Mmm… Michael!” It’s got more of my favorite bands on it. And Justice.

Holding the new track list, I watch her go down the stairs, then, still fascinated by her violet eyes, her violet jeans, her elusive golden toy, and her great taste in pretty much everything, make an emergency call to the coast.

The kid picks up his phone singing,
“I kissed a girl and I—”

“Alvin, Alvin seriously,” I demand. “You gotta tell me how to ice block.”

Chapter 32

I promised Cruz a
Rambo
Premiere. Now he’s driving me. “Why are you dressed like an Eskimo?” Nordic nightmares shriek through speakers of the El Camino as we speed through the valley.

“Um, ice blocking.” I scroll through his iPod and switch Burzum to
Bona Drag
.

“That dog fur hood ain’t gonna help you get any … even though I know she likes you.” I reach over and lay on the horn as he runs a four way stop. “I told her that you were too much of a
maricon
to go ice blocking.” He grins. Morrissey begins to sing.

“Really, you think so?”

Cruz’s insight is invaluable. The girls tell him everything both during and in between his ‘how to please a penis’ seminars. If he says that Holly likes me, it may be true.

“No,” he admits. My stomach sinks as if he’d just told me that Stella is pregnant with the worlds next Ronald McDonald and I’m the father. “I know that your brother’s man enough to handle a man but I’m not so sure about you.”

He pulls into the 7-eleven lot and I step out of his rumbling ride.

“Come on. Do you really think that she likes me?”

“Don’t be stupid. Bring me an ice cream.”

Resolute to not validate the clerk’s suspicions by participating in the tradition of stealing the ice, I drop a Pellegrino, a Dove bar, and a pack of Red Vines onto the counter then ask him to add in two of his finest blocks. Silently, he rings me up and takes my money.

“Wait.” I look at my change. “You didn’t charge me for the ice.”

“Nope.”

“So, you’re not charging me for the ice?”

“Nope.” His face looks like he’s inhaled the men’s room. “There’s no ice.”

I get it. He’s being a good citizen by trying to subvert the town’s great ice blocking menace, while I too am trying to be a good citizen by paying for his fucking frozen hose water.

“C’mon. …” Without looking at my phone, I text “
STEAL THE ICE
.” “Just sell me the ice.”

“Nope.”

I peripherally watch Cruz load his trunk. Fixed on me, my nemesis remains firm yet stoic. But when I finally plea, “
Por favor
, amigo!” to my joy, he loses it.

“Fuck you, you little shit, I’m not Mexican I’m a Sikh!” His thick Jersey accent gets thicker when he yells. “A Sikh fucking Indian, NOT a Mexican!”

I grab my snacks and declare in disgust, “YOU are racist.”

They don’t turn from their flashing Funhouse machine as the clerk screams, “I am not racist you skinny little creep vampire Eskimo shit!” But I’d swear to Moz that I hear one of the eternally silent Pin Kids softly comment “nice shades” before I march out the door.

Chapter 33

It’s quiet and dark. A cool night breeze penetrates my hood. I can smell the grass. The greens are glowing beneath a blanket of full moonlight but I’m still having a hard time seeing. Sitting on an ice block atop hole one, I watch the shadowy form of the El Camino chase its headlights away from the clubhouse.

“Too bright for you out here Mike?” Holly’s voice startles me.

“Hey!” Standing, I remove my shades. “Why are you in the forest?”

“It’s so nice out that I figured I’d come explore before you got here.” She Bjorks out from an unlikely patch of fog in the woods and eyes my parka. “What’s with the snow outfit?”

“The blocks are usually a lot bigger. It really gets cold riding them.” I take off the coat to reveal my black thermal. “But we should be okay with this smaller ice here. … It’s much warmer.”

“Oh, well that’s good. Cuz all I’ve got is what I’ve got on.” She’s wearing black jeans, a black faux leather jacket, and a baggy black tee.

“What’s that shirt?” I fold my gloves into my jacket and stack them on my skateboard. “Did you make it when you were a kid?”

I think she’s wearing a bra tonight. That can’t be a good sign. Maybe it’s a sports bra.

“Oh, no.” She laughs, looking down at her chest. ‘Flipper’ is scratched above a dead shark that looks like it was drawn by a first grader. “This was my dad’s. I think it’s some old band shirt. I just liked it.”

“I know. I was just kidding. My dad used to listen to them too.” Slightly tilting her head, Holly smiles. “Hey, who are The Presets?” I ask about the ‘Mmm Michael Mix.’ “I really like their accents. Brighton?”

“They’re from Australia. They’re SO nice. One of my friends knows them. He took me to see them at The Glasshouse. I can’t remember most of the show, but it was fun. … So…” She points to the two beach-blanketed blocks. “Shall we get slippery and slidey?”

“Absolutely!” Wishing she were asking the same question while wearing nothing but underwear and hovering above me somewhere indoors, I bravely motion to the ice. “Lady’s choice.”

“I’ll take the sharks.” She begins to place her perfect, perky little Cheap Monday’s skull on the cube.

“Those are actually dolphins.”

“Oh.” With disdain, Holly jumps up, as if ice burnt. “I’ll take the sea horses then.”

Saying a prayer to Moz, I plant my butt on the aquatic mammals, grab onto the freezing edges, and scoot myself into motion. About twenty feet later, in the midst of a totally out of control slide and minor panic attack, I bail out. Picking myself up, I check for grass stains, broken nails, and broken bones. The sound of applause draws my attention uphill. Next to my board, Holly stands with her arms circled above her head— it’s a standing O.

I tromp back to her and immediately my Orange County snow princess proves herself to be a natural sledder. Despite the treachery and my stinging fingertips, I’m having a good time. In between our runs we sit on sea life, sharing banana bread and our excitement for the fall musical—a conversation that I hope to be an implicit expression of her desire to spend more time with me. We talk a about surf and skate modeling, her chance to pose for her favorite painter, Michael Hussar, Valley View High fries, Lady Gaga and Bat for Lashes. But we don’t bring up the last Premiere. Or the fact that tonight is the eve of the Seventies Sex and San P. Party. Instead, smothering a fortunate sea horse, Holly asks me where I want to escape to next year, after graduation.

“I think Hollywood will be able to truly appreciate me.” I chew on a bit of walnut. “So I might grace LA with my presence. Where do you wanna go?”

“I have to go back home. It’s the best place to get my show made.”

“What show?” I wiggle on the seeping ice.
Her eyes are malachite. Her tiny pupils are black pearls. It must be the moonlight.

Holly finishes her third slice of bread then, with her teeth, rips open the Red Vines.
So Adorable.

“I’ve been working on a script. It’s like
True Blood
meets
Gilmore Girls
but with supernatural sharks. It’s called
El Fin
.”

“Wow, that sounds awesome.”

I once tried to write lyrics for Band FAIL! but after staring at “Why won’t you say that you’ll stay? Why do you always run away?” for about 5 minutes, I gave up and watched porn. Wondering if there’s a role for me, I ask, “Can I read it sometime?” Holly plants herself on my lap.

Facing me, she clings to my flannel like a sexy blonde koala, chewing licorice instead of eucalyptus.

“Let’s go down together.” She buries her head in my shoulder.

Her hair smells like unrefined sugar and herbs. I’m tingling everywhere but my numb buns. “Okay, hold on!”

Precariously sliding we make it almost all the way to the tee before falling off. Still locked together, she lands on my chest and I hit the grass with a thud that knocks the wind out of me. I groan. Holly rolls off. Giggling.

“Are you gonna survive Mike?” She hovers over me.

I catch my breath. I’m breathing hers. She half-smiles. She’s so close
.
Her semi-precious eyes bewitch.
This is it. This is the time
. With Cruz and Lynch’s assurance echoing in my mind, I move in for the kiss.