Pop Kids (41 page)

My co-host and I stroll through the no man’s land at the center of the quad to recruit the three key necks, who we’ve been admiring since we first heard the rumors—during class, beneath the veil, and through the scissor-holed pouches of oversized hoodies, these winery sisters give exceptional JOs.

“It’s a very classy and
completely
exclusive. It’s a good time.” I lurk over their spot on the rich-kid corner of the steps. “There’s going to be a legitimate Hollywood casting agent there too…”

Each of them has a Coke Zero in her hand and a small blue heart drawn on her index finger.

The skinniest one sighs. “Will there be coke?”

I assure the innovative young ladies of the availability of a variety of refreshments. They agree to attend and on the way back to my locker, I text Prius to make sure that he’ll be bringing his usual amenities: hot new Extras, and more GO SMiLE.

All day I’ve been coming up with special ways to make the last Premiere unforgettable. I’ve been taking notes: Cherie Cherie cupcakes; party-poppers; a retrospective slide-show montage of Alvin’s photos. Leaning against the Caddy, waiting for my driver, I add
piñata
to the list before responding to Prius. He’s linked me to the profile of a twenty-year-old yoga teacher from Marin.
Yes, she can come.
Typing, I’m wondering if I’ll hear back from Blake when I see Lynch and Mia at the top of the stairs. They step aside. Al board-slides the infamous Valley View handrail. His hair blusters like an eighties metal video. He clacks down onto the sidewalk, ollies a flowerbed, and nose-manuals through the lot.

“Hey Grampa, can I borrow some of your banana cream pie?” Popping up his deck, he pulls out his camera. “I miss Star really fucking bad. Fuck Florida.”

“Al, I’ve got a favor to ask you. Do you think that you could shoot this weekend without letting the pics leak?” Sucking in my cheeks, I strike a smashing pose. “I think it’s gonna be legendary.”

“Fuck yeah!” He gets low to snap another shot. “I’ve been filming most of them anyway.”

“Oh … okay, great.” I turn to profile. “Also, could I borrow your Flip?”

“Sure.” He pulls the mini-cam from his jeans and tosses it to me. “You gonna film yourself jerking off and send it to Dracula?”

“I’m going to Stella’s later, She’s got some big thing planned.”

Al shoves his digital still into my face.

Taking off my shades, I review the photos—I’m a hidden TMZ treasure, waiting to be discovered in a high school parking lot.

Chapter 66

Through the dining room window, the night’s potential sparkles up from the valley, as I share my birthday dinner with the Massis. Devouring Gina’s beautiful homemade gnocchi and soy balls, Frank and I expand then unbuckle our belts to welcome the main event. “Ooooh!”

Pinky pounces upon the table, aflame and delicious. Sacrificing himself once again in my name, this year my kitty confection has come offering up his cakey goodness along with
Guitar Hero: Warriors of Rock
. I dislike video games. I really do. But it’s fine. I know that the best gifts are still to come so, when my cake tells me that he knows how much I enjoy this particular gaming franchise, I feign delight. “Thanks Pinky! Lynch will be stoked! We’re seriously gonna be up all night.”

After the ceremonial feast, sucking my frosted fingertips, tasting traces of artificial banana flavoring, I grab my game, wrap up a frosted ear, shove my plunder into my Sherman, and conquer the dishes. Once the plates are shelved and the elders are in bed, I dim the dining room. I relight the candle stubs and sit back down at the table.

Katy Perry, Russell Brand, Kate Moss, Leonardo DiCaprio, Morrissey, Steve Aoki, Deadmau5, Perez Hilton, Paris Hilton, Jenna Jameson, Sasha Grey, and I share a single slice of cake. I pass it around. Silently, we dab the corners of our mouths with chiffon napkins. The Caddy rolls into the driveway. They each ask “Is it I?” and I leave them chewing on a black licorice whiskers.

Lynch tears into the pink-smeared cellophane. Stuffing his mouth, crumbing pink cake onto his jeans, he careens downhill as I type. I send out my text thirteen minutes before our headlights shine across the four-way stop by the post office. This is her cross street. Planning to have my driver change course, I’ve asked Holly if I should come over—if with her mom there she’d help me run lines. My phone remains still. We drive on. And park in front of Stella’s.

“Hey man!” Shouting over an inquisitive lyric about having ‘fallen in love with someone’ I attempt to resign myself to another evening without like-minded virgins. “Do you have any condoms?”

“Yeah, totally, they’re in the trunk with my bibles and Jonas Brother’s CDs,” Laughing, Lynch turns down the music. ”Wait…” Facing me, he looks terribly crestfallen. “Are you serious?”

“
Phhh
no…” I sneer.

He leers. So I admit, “It’s just that the MK thing still has me a little rattled … and if I’m going to be Holly’s first tomorrow I don’t wanna—”

“Come
on
Mike! Settle. Please settle. It’s your birthday. Stella has some major shit planned for you.” He points toward the shadowy porch. “So go in there and have a fucking good fucking time!”

Chapter 67

It’s 11:03 pm and it’s dark. Holly hasn’t written back. Standing in the porch light with my phone dangling from the tips of my fingers, I begin a staring contest with Stella’s front door.
She’s waiting.

Last night, Joey insisted that I have a good time. “Fall in love with your birthday weekend and then see how you feel on Monday before locking anyone or anything down. Okay? You’re eighteen, Baby Brother! Kiss kiss…” His dramatic advice seemed great. But now I’m filled with doubt.

I can’t go through with this. I feel like Holly is already my GF. We’re connected.
Click, click.
I’m connected to an amazing girl.
Click, click.
She’s vegan. She loves the Smiths. She doesn’t do drugs.
Click, click
. She looks like a runway model and carries herself like a lady who carries a vibrator around twenty-four/seven.
Click, click
. She’s even writing a hit TV series that offers a wide array of male leads. I should cancel the final parties. Both of them. Maybe.
Click, click. Click, click. Click, click. Click, click.

Releasing my Zippo, I pull up Holly’s underwear pics and stare. I scroll through my phone book. I reach the
H
s. I’m going to call her.

A swift palm smacks my face. My phone hits the porch. And, with my hands pinned behind my back, I watch the door.

“
Daddy, don’t you fucking stop
.”
Two pixie-haired voices sternly whisper over my shoulders.
“
You can’t stop. It’s too good.”

“And what about Blake? He’ll love it as much as we do.”

“You, me, and Miss Faux Platinum Purity would be lost without it.” Something cold, metallic, and buzzy, brushes my cheek. “You know it’s true Score
.”

I re-open my photo album. I scroll through some Extras’ birthday nudes. I scroll to Stella’s fruit pop pics. If I almost exclusively limit my performance to scenes with Holly, we’d enjoy intimacy amidst the brilliance of The Premieres. I would maintain the status of the world’s youngest renowned promoter and The Filmgreats would live on. I like this plan.
A lot.
I scroll to the photo that Hogan took of Holly and I at the D-hole.

I don’t know what to do.

“FAGGOT!” A whiskey bottle whizzes past my face and shatters against the door’s frame. Next to my Chucks, the shards of orange glass melt into the wooden planks.

I scroll through my phone book. I hit dial. “Hey, I’m outside.”

Chapter 68

The front door was open. She said to let myself in.

Hesitantly, I pace between the rows of rose scented candles, holding my breath, swallowing my moths to protect them from the low laying flames. When I reach her bedroom, I stop and inhale The Palace.

The Pink Door is closed. But as I stand here, frozen in a scatter of pink rose petals, listening to the familiar sounds—the giggling, the groaning, the Amerigirlpop—I know what’s inside. Stella’s going to make my closing speech much harder. But it must be made—even if it means having to forsake an offstage, aboveground private threesome.

I can do this.
I’m going to go in there and tell her that we’ll forever be the greatest of Filmgreats, but that I have deep, meaningful feelings for Holly, which must be observed, explored, and reciprocated.

Pressing the red button on the Flip, extending the camera in front of me like a VIP laminate, I twist the pink ceramic knob and step onto the set of a pink-and-white adult film. In front of me, on The Pink Bed, surrounded by soy candles, balloons, streamers, and McQueen skulls cut from pink construction paper, two Greats writhe, lost in their intimate scene.

Crouching atop her comforter like Eddie at a saucer of milk, Stella licks fastidiously as she slowly works three fingers in and out of Holly. Above them a six-foot glittery banner reads ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCORE.’

As my eyes begin to accept this invasion, my ears deny everything. Mindlessly, I aim my lens through the surreal silence.

Stella, wearing my Unknown Pleasures tee, slinks upward. She folds over Holly. The blondes kiss. Stella removes her slick fingers to feed them to her co-star and, suckling away her own orange cream glaze, Holly lazily replaces her soft touch with solid gold.

Standing rigid, like an overlooked Extra, I play the mannequin in the doorway. Completely ignored, encased within my soundproof phantom display, the silence suffocates me until I gasp over the noise of the golden vibe. The low hum rises to the buzz of a biblical plague. And Holly senses a ghost. Tilting her head with curiosity, she stops the bullet and waves at me. She smiles then squeezes her eyes shut at the return of her leading lady’s tongue.

As if her lips were pressed against my ear, I hear Holly groan. Then everything starts to scream.

“Happy birthday Babe!” Lifting her glistening mouth, Stella turns to me with a smile. My insides contract, my lips part and my beautiful black moths swarm the room. I remain still. “Come join us!” Her voice is amplified—inhuman.

The volume of it all makes me wince. She’s even louder than Sinatra is right now. If god weren’t a lie, this would be her voice.

“Come on Babe.” She demands, “Come—”

Holly forces Stella’s mouth back between her thighs.

In this deafening coupling, the blue-eyed blondes begin to look identical. When one of them flops her hand against a spilt bottle of pills, I turn my camera to the cluttered pink end table. There, in front of a pink bong, amidst rose petals, baggies, Holly’s lunchbox, Tarantino hairclips, bubblegum wrappers, and coffee cups, The Pink Laptop sits open. It’s playing a sex tape.

On the moth-infested monitor, I watch a tight shot of brunette Stella. She’s riding someone here in The Pink Room.
Riding. Riding. Riding.
She blows a kiss to the camera. She dismounts and exits the frame. The shot pulls back. Wearing only a teal lace bra, Holly enters the strobing scene. She crawls onto The Pink Bed. She takes Prius’s huge single into her mouth. She comments favorably on Stella’s flavor, then switches positions. With her back arched, Holly grabs the headboard. She offers her ass to the DJ. When Donny erection kneels behind her to rocket his hit to my number one, the clip ends. Then it repeats. And I catch ‘the fifth hand’ reaching into the looping full-screen, un-edited, full-length version of
my
video.

“Come ON Babe! I found out that I got the show!” Stella stops licking and turns back to me. “I’m gonna get you a part to go along with this hot fucking bitch.” She rises to her knees. She’s wearing panties, but her shirt—my shirt—is gone.

Oozing upward, Holly sucks a nipple then falls back into the pink cloud.

“For your birthday. It’s a double celebration!” She puts on her model face, as Holly reaches for the kitty in Stella’s crotch. “Put that shit down and come play, Babe. Come on.”