Pop Kids (26 page)

When Holly walks into the booth with her Gloomy Bear lunchbox,

I stop reading my dry text. Being far more interested in my own glowing future than the played out past, I’m happy to have her surprise visit excuse me from my attempted History studies.

Greeting her, I cloister my books on the build-up table and as I return to our seats, she hands me a cellophane wrapped rectangle of banana bread. Slipping off her shoes, she crosses her legs and unwraps her own slice. Only after pulling off a tiny piece, chewing it, and swallowing does she finally speak.

“We haven’t really had a chance to hang out since our fun got ruined by the groundskeeper.”

Beneath her white hood her eyes are glowing lavender, just as they were last night. Everything about her is elegant: her hair, her poise, her toe ring. They’re usually so tacky.

“How are you Mike?”

“How am I?” I cringe.
She thinks I look terrible. Great. I wish I hadn’t taken off my shades to read
. “I’m … I’m good.” Clicking my lighter with one hand, I run the other through my hair and squirm. “I just didn’t have much time to get ready for work today. The party and all … you know?”
Click, click.

“Oh yeah, I know. I stayed pretty late too.” She laughs mysteriously, “I thought that you might have noticed me.”

I turn toward my History book, thinking it may have just sat up to offer some wisdom. As usual, it offers me nothing.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. Click, click
.

Discussing scenes with other Greats isn’t a big deal, but when Holly brings them up, I get weird. I don’t know why.

“Oh, that WAS you wasn’t it?”
I turn back, as Morrissey and Katy walk up the stairs behind her. I ignore his demand that I sing Ask.
“Did you … have a good time?”

“I thought that was kinda obvious.” Swallowing a bite of bread, she reaches for my San P.

Then horrifying me with its libertine behavior, my mouth opens up and this absurdity falls out “Oh good. I’m glad. I thought that maybe you weren’t into it.”

She shakes off her carbonated swig. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, I was just worried that it might bother you…” I stammer—stumbling over my thoughts, my words—speaking like English is my seventeenth language. “Watching other people … I mean … Stella can get so loud—“

“Mike.” She raises her black, arched brows. “Did I look like I was uncomfortable?”

I turn back toward my mute textbook.
Katy, topless, sitting on the table, is reading it to Moz.

“Well…” I light upon the quandary of Holly’s chic abstinence. “It’s just that you’ve never joined a scene. You can you know? You have my personal invitation.”

I GO SMiLE as brightly as I can.

“You’re so sweet.” She dryly flatters, half smiling. “If I ever feel like it, I’ll take you up on that. But really, Mike…” Her hand absently slides over the cylindrical lump in her pocket. “It’s been pretty cool just watching.” After popping a crummy crumble, she elucidates, “It’s not something that you see everyday, you know?” As if it is, in fact, something she has seen everyday since she was ten.

And maybe she has. Maybe her dad used to take her to similar surfer soirees on the OC beaches. Or maybe The Premieres are tame compared to her nights out with her friends in Hollywood. Or maybe she’s totally untouched and has implemented her ‘hands off’ rule because she wants to save herself for a private scene with me. I don’t know, but I do know that somehow all she’s just said, or the way that she said it, or the way that she’s sitting there eating banana bread bit by tiny little bit, has turned me on in such a way that you’d think she’d just strutted in, thrown off her clothes, pointed at a porn clip and said, “Let’s do that. And film it.”

Feeling my Producer outrageously stirring, I can’t say anything. I erection-stare at her, speechless.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.

“Oh God!” Worried by having unwittingly pressed my well hidden, hard-to-reach mute button, she places her hand on mine. “I didn’t hurt your feelings did I?”

“No! No, not at all!” I recoil, shocked that she’s confused horny with hurt.

“It’s not personal. It’s not about you.”

“Oh, I know. I didn’t think it was. My feelings aren’t hurt!”

Trying to shoo her upsetting ‘it’s not about you’ comment from my mind, I spring from the seat to search for her lunchbox. “I just like to make sure that all my guests are happy. Can I have some more banana bread? There’s not honey in it right?”

As I reach toward the bloody-bear guardian of her treats, Holly grabs my hand and stands between us.

“Good, because I like you … and I’m exhausted and plan on spending tonight cuddled up with you watching this movie.” She nods to the window, turns back to me, and smiles. “We just finished the last of the bread. Can I have some popcorn?”

I flee to the lobby to regain composure. I rub concession ice around my eyes, polish my teeth in my compact, grab a tub of corn from Shane, and then race my heart back up the stairs.

In the seats, I relax and we reposition. Holly snuggles up to me, munches about twenty kernels, laughs once at the big-haired Brit on the screen, and then falls asleep.

When I saw her walk through the door tonight, I was very much looking forward to, almost expecting, some real activities. But I’m okay. The corn in the air smells like it was popped in cucumber oil. I can feel her angel breath on my neck. This is nice
.

Chapter 39

Monday morning, Lynch and I are talking business over The Dead Boys. As usual, the music in the Caddy is too loud and I’m straining to compete with the abrasive voice coming through the speakers. But at least the sonic attack is helping me wake up.

Swallowing an almost tasty swig of coffee from his mug, with a revolutionary plan in mind, I politely ask my partner for his film suggestions. By way of a long, satisfied ‘I told you so’ he begins pointing out that our guests no longer care what movie we show, what songs we play, or about anything that doesn’t eventually end in a joyous mess. Having already admitted this to myself, I suggest that this Saturday we show another porno.

“We can call it the ‘Let’s Not Pretend Premiere’,” I yell over the feedback. Lynch immediately begins suggesting whom we should invite to our upcoming exercise in honesty.

“Her. Her. Her…” He points out the window, hand picking potential Extras as we drive by girls, walking up the hill on their way to first period. “No. Wait. She’s a bitch. DEFINITELY her. Oh, ALL the Sweater Girls.” An auburn-haired grave-cutter in a black lace tutu and white combat boots leans against a vacant cop car and lights a cigarette. “Man, have you seen that new freshman yet? Look. Look. Look!”

Though I’m not yet comfortable inviting complete strangers to The Premieres, I like the prospect of adding variety to the cast and enjoy our window-shopping as it delights us all the way to the top of the campus stairs.

Vocally fantasizing about the girls tennis team, we walk past a threatening circle of school colors. An irregularly large freshman in a varsity jacket throws a French fry.

“Faggots.” He and his friends laugh.

Slowing our stroll, I begin to verbally pontificate on how the buffo’s deep-fried diet has affected his cognition and ability to dress properly. Lynch just flips him off. A flurry of fries rain down upon us and we press ahead. As we make our way through the starchy storm, I notice Mia hanging out by the cafeteria with Shane.
I wish we could have finished our scene.
I nod toward her.

“That was cool with you right?” I check my jeans for salt and grease.

“You mean, you two the other night?” Lynch snatches a fry from the air, and bites into it. “C’mon. It was totally disco. We were all going for it…” Chewing, he vulnerably sighs. “Though, I might get my feelings hurt if I don’t get a scene with Stella next time.” He grins. “That’s cool with you right?”

“Totally cool.” I laugh, then confess, “You know who I totally want to do a real scene with? Holly.”

“
Phh
. No shit. But who doesn’t?” A final fry bounces from his GI Jacket as we saunter out of the waning junk food hail and into the locker stalls. “That French guy was strugglin’ to get her to go for it the other night but she denies. She just denies, denies.”

“Yeah, I know.” I spin Morrissey’s birth date. My lock clicks open. I stack my books. “I don’t think it’s gonna happen for him.”

“I don’t know, it could. He is le big deal DJ.” Lynch leans on the locker next to mine. “You know how much chicks are into that.”

“No, it’s not gonna happen!”

My good friend meets my unexpected burst of defiance with a sobering, curious look.

“I mean, she’s just … not like Stella or anything.” Regaining composure, I search for the scotch tape in my Sherman. “I asked why she doesn’t do scenes and she said that she’s just not into it.”

“Huh.” Pondering, he eyes me with suspicion then scoffs. “What a weirdo. Whatever. She’ll go for it with someone soon.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Probably.” I tape a tear of Katy Perry up near the mirror that’s hanging above the signed glossy of DiCaprio on my locker door. “At least I hope so.”

By the time the bell for fifth period rings, my virtually sleep-free weekend has chased me down and unjustly punished me. I’m exhausted, and though I have sixth period Lunch, I’m using the camouflage of the fifth period feeders to stealthily slip into Hess Theatre. The modern stage is empty. No one ever skips lunch to run lines.

Sliding my bag under the exceptionally tall frame, I climb onto the prop bed and slide under the covers. While breathing in the comforting aroma of flammable fresh paint and lumber, I sleep for what seems to be about ten minutes before Holly scolds, “Shouldn’t you be in class young man?”

I awake to her opulent gaze. In here, her eyes have wildly waxed to an almost golden hue.

“Ohhhh, it’s only the second week of school.” Still sleep confused, I prop myself up on my elbow. “I’m not missing anything. And the bed wanted to practice.” Opening the comforter I pat on the mattress with hazy bravery. “Come on, help it learn its part.”

“Okay.” Hopping in, she opens her bag and pulls out a script. “Let’s run some lines.”

Leaning against the headboard and squinting at the dialogue, I feel like an old married couple. Struggling to suppress thoughts of activities, I ask Holly to repeat her character’s line a third time when a deep voice explodes from the front of the house.

“Son! What are you doing in here with that girl?”

We’re scared into silence until Cruz emerges from the darkness. He strolls down the center aisle.

“Did I get you guys?” he asks in his regular lilt. “I think that’s a pretty good voice, don’t you?”

“Yeah. You got us man. Good job.” In our musical, the versatile construction worker is playing the part of my dad, King Charlemagne. “What are you doing in here?”

“I just came to practice my booming royal voice,” he explains, in his booming royal voice (which is totally unnerving). Once he’s hovering over us, he thankfully returns to talking like himself. “I like to practice it where I can really project.” Cruz inspects our coupling beneath the sheets. “What are you guys doing in here? Having a little private Premiere?”

I turn to Holly, hoping that she’ll confess her plan to soon turn on her golden toy and get naked.

“Wait, Hector, are you at lunch?” she asks. “Is it sixth period already?”

“I got out a little early. … But yeah, it’s about to start.”

“I gotta go.” Jumping out of bed, she bags her script and jogs across the stage. “I told Sarah that I’d meet her before class. I’ll see you guys later.” Before leaving through the side exit, she stops to yell through a ray of warming natural light. “We’ll have to practice our kissing scene later Mike!”

The heavy door latches shut behind her.

“I’d like to be around for that.” Playfully, Cruz turns to meet my wide, excited eyes.

I shut my gaping mouth. He sours his expression.

“I’m mad at you.”

“Really?”

Though I can’t imagine how or when I could have wronged him, I immediately feel guilty. You can wash your hands of the church but its stains take years to get off.

“Why, because I never found your ball gag?” I’m wildly guessing. “Oh, wait, not because I said that thing about Volta’s ass the other night—”

“
Phhh
, NO! His ass is
pan dulce
.” Lightheartedly, he laughs. “You promised me you’d show
Rambo
! Remember? You’d better keep your promise
Miguelito
!”

“Oh, man, I forgot, I’m sorry. I’ll play it soon.”

“You’d better!” Appeased, Cruz relents and sits down on the edge of the bed. But his momentary disappointment in me has brought up a concern I’ve been having lately.

“Hey Hector, I have been meaning to ask you … about The Premieres. You and David don’t feel weird about doing scenes in Heaven, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just noticed that you guys have been keeping to yourself and I’d hate to think it’s because you feel uncomfortable, or unwelcome—.”

“
Phhh.”
Smiling, he rubs my leg through the comforter. “
Miguelito
, you’re so sweet.” He sounds much more dulcet than Holly did when she said the same thing to me last night. ”We like it on the couch. We can’t get that kinda comfortable-lovin’ shit at our houses. Any second my dad or his grandfather could walk in and they’d fuckin’ shoot us if they caught us holding hands let alone sucking each others’ cocks. For real.”