Pop Kids (24 page)

Tonight in Hess Theatre, at our first rehearsal meeting, Rick explains how he plans on enacting the play’s ultra-violent war scene without causing the school board to come down on us. He then claims, “I’d like to try to push the limits with the orgy scene.” Cheers arise from our cast, and I shoot a saucy glance toward the Filmgreat in the aisle seat. Next to me, keeping her cool and surely not wanting to risk compromising our secrecy, Holly continues focusing on our director’s lecture and ignores me entirely. I respect her caution. Smiling, Rick turns his back to grab a stack of photocopies.

Holly stands and begins undressing. She stacks her folded, yellow jeans on her seat. I admire the set. The kids who worked on it really outdid themselves, especially with the giant bed that the platinum blonde lifeguard/actress/sex-toy-expert has just slipped into with Stella. Both wearing golden underwear, the two are playing catch with buzzing vibes of various precious metals. Katie Perry is tossing the toys from stage left. Wearing black satin underwear, gloves, and Chanel pearls, the Ameripop pitcher calls a time-out and beckons me. I rise.

“All leads are welcome to run lines in here during lunch and free periods.” Rick hands me a photocopied calendar. He’s passing out the rehearsal schedules. ”We’ll start choreography with the players on Monday.”

Holly and I flip through the time constraints of the upcoming weeks.
Fabulous.
Saturdays are free.

“I’m going to send out the new invites tonight.” I whisper to the green-eyed Great. “Any requests?”

Rick is talking about costumes and haircuts.

“Oooh, that reminds me,” she coos, then shouts across the seats, “Hey Mr. Nalon, when are we gonna rehearse the kissing scene?” Startled, I look down into my calendar as the cast titters.

“Not until the end of the month.” Rick shoots a stern glance at my giggling, talent-less understudy before comforting Holly. “You’ll be fine, Becca, don’t be nervous.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she announces, then turns to me and whispers, “…You should show
Jaws
.”

Leaning against a light post in front of our lockers, I’m discussing old Morrissey solo records with Holly while failing to re-introduce the topic of our musical-mandated lip-lock. I bring up
You Are the Quarry
, she mentions a b-side that I’ve never heard, and Lynch appears at the top of the campus stairs. He’s come to pick me up. As he walks toward us, all the lights buzz to life, electrified by the passing of his kinetic hair. Kindly, my driver attempts to extend my time with the snowy blonde by offering her a ride. Holly turns it down. Stella is coming to pick her up. It’s Friday night and they’re going to meet the DJs at some live-in art space, somewhere between here and SF. How unbearable—dirty bathrooms, self-rolled cigarette smoke, a houseful of pigtailed men covered in paint. I cringe at the thought.

“Do you guys wanna come?” Holly flicks at my skinny black tie. “I could ride there with you.”

“Yeah, totally! I love art.” I hopefully turn to Lynch.

“Sure. You just gonna bail work man?”

“Oh, that’s right, No. I forgot.” Nervously, I check my phone. “We’d better go or I’ll be late. Um, okay Miss Wood.” Unsure whether or not I’m indeed demanding her attendance to a second private orgy, I hesitantly insist, “You better be there tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for an open bar with Aoki.”

I love her crooked smile.

“Look. It doesn’t matter.” Lynch is shouting. His 2012 system is blaring in his ‘59 Caddy as we speed toward the 8-plex. “Everyone thought it was killer. The Twins were definitely
not
freaked out. Mia thinks that they secretly want their parents to know about the party … but that’s insane … whatever. The only reason people haven’t been talking is because no one wants to get caught.”

I turn from the sun visor mirror to face him. The purple and yellow bruises around his eye jewelry are almost gone.

“They’d better not tell Mr. and Mrs. Christ.”

“Settle.”

My co-host wants to show another porno tomorrow. I’m maintaining that we provide the comforting pretense of a straight film.

“How about
Jaws
?”

“What?”

“Okay. What about
Showgirls
?”

As I campaign, Lynch begins singing along with the glitzy vocals coming through the speakers:
‘I don’t care what the others say, when I’ve found a new game to play…”

“It’s not
actually
porn. The girls can tell themselves that they’re going to a normal Premiere if they need to feel less weird about the whole thing—”

Claim to fame! Clamor for glamour!

“Lynch—“
Oh padeo
. “Hey—”
Oh pa padeo!

I turn down the music. He shakes his head laughing.

“You’re seriously way paranoid.” Breaking into a poor falsetto impression of Holly’s butterscotch voice he mimics, “‘I wouldn’t miss it for a Steve Aoki party.’ Does that sound rattled? Doesn’t sound rattled to me. But, okay. If you’re rattled, we’ll do
Showgirls
.”

He pulls up to the curb in front of the glowing marquee and cranks his stereo.

“Fabulous. I know at least Holly will appreciate its B-movie mystique.” Grabbing my Sherman, stepping out of the car, I lean in through the passenger window. “How cool is she? Did I ever tell you that we went ice blocking?”

Lynch eyes me like I just asked him to buy me a Big Mac.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. She’s really cool.”

“That’s fucking weird man.” His face diamond disappears into a solemn squint.

“Yeah. It was cool. She’s cool. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” I shut the door.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk into work, thinking of gold.

Sequoia Creep is wearing a bowler with a brass clock in its brim. He’s tearing tickets. Tonight, Shane has a new sweater and a new position. Reaching into my private stash of San P., I ask the wrestler why he’s working concessions.

“It makes me happy being around so much candy.” He hands a two hundred pound woman a 4.75-ounce box of box of Junior Mints. “And I like helping people in need.”

“Oh, right, okay. Well, thanks again for saving me from Bobby last week, man.” I pull a second chilled Limonata from the ice and hand it to him.

He reacts like I’ve just handed him backstage passes to see Tiga.

“For sure Buddy!” Bopping, the killer philanthropist cradles the little bottle to his two-toned barrel chest. “But you know, if you’d just hit the weight pile once in a while you’d be less of a
scorecrow
and no one would fuck with you.”

“What did you just call me?” I’m hoping that my ears are deceiving me but to my horror, he whispers, “Can I come to the party Mike?”

Shane’s eyes look like Eddie’s do when something that only she can see runs through our house.

“What party?”
Turning, I spit a swarm of moths into the popcorn machine and shut them in. They bounce against the glass
.

“The movie party. C’mon—”

I drag him down below the lower level of Sour Patch Kids.

“How and what do you know?”

“In Tailoring I heard Sarah talking with Jamie about ‘Score’s Party,’ —something about Caligula I think.” He rapidly confesses, as I curse the girls. “I asked them what they were talking about but they wouldn’t tell me so when I saw Hector in Physics I told him that Score said for me to ask him when the next party is. He was surprised and said ‘
Miguelito
told you to ask me?’ But then he wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

I’m impressed by both his cunning and his Cruz imitation.
Thank Moz that he doesn’t know everything
.

“So can I come Mike?” he pleads. “Is it at Zach’s?”

“Um, sure.” Reeling from his use of our old names, I brace myself against the glowing glass and stammer, “I’ll send you the invite once I have it made, but Shane … ” I cup his Brad Pitt jaw-line. “You have to promise to not talk about the party to anyone.”

“Like
Fight Club
! I promise man.” He’s ecstatic. Even his stubble feels happy.

I can’t believe he has stubble. So Colin Farrell.

“I don’t really talk to anybody but Jamie and you anyway …
Score.”

He smiles his gentle, yet rugged all-American smile, and we arise from our concession case conspiracy. After pounding my sweet-citrusy Pellegrino, I drop it into the recycling, shove my hands in my Ksubis, and step out from the lair of the creeps.

“That’s a nice sweater, man.” I admit in passing as I click my way down the stained carpet.

“Thanks Buddy!” Looking like a bouncing bee in his yellow and black striped top, he raises his bottle of San P. and booms. “It’s Paul Smith!”

In my black Paul Frank devil-monkey robe, I’m stretched across my red comforter. My Mac is open on my lap and my iPod is shuffling in my ears. Fresh from an after-work shower, shampoo, and conditioning, I google up a black-and-white still of Gina Gershon. She has her hand on Elizabeth Berkley’s chest. Both lingeried ladies are lying on a strip club stage. Behind them, sitting in a bar chair, is a leering lascivious man. After a moment or two of consideration, I substitute my face for his, paste on my standard rules and regulations paragraph, call it ‘The NC-17 Premiere!’ and send out the invite.

Chapter 37

I probably could have spent more time on the
Showgirls
piece this morning, but its imperfections deterred no one from coming. Tonight, we have our second full cast. Yet, as my guests socialize, partaking in popcorn and Pellegrino or pills and Patrón, I’m standing rigid in my speech position, becoming more and more unsettled. The school week has crawled by and, still, no one has mentioned our first big sex scene—only Stella, barely. A tension is building behind the curtain. It feels like we’ve all spent hours in line and are finally about to step onto X2 at Magic Mountain. Our rollercoaster is just clicks away from its zenith.

“Welcome Filmgreats to the NC-17 Premiere!” I’m now unsure about my adamant decision to un-invite Jenna Jameson. If the porn splice really was the essential catalyst needed to propel us into public debauchery, I’m fucked. Well, not fucked. “… A brand new playlist made especially with tonight’s after party in mind…” I look out at my audience, full of high school girls dressed as hairdressers, fearing that last week’s love-in was a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic moment, like the passing of a concupiscent comet, or sexy solar eclipse. “We bring you
Showgirls
!”