Pop Kids (32 page)

I rise. She speaks. And our spirits interweave, exploring each other for the eons within each fleeting second that passes before I reply,

“I’m leaving.”

Fleeing to the wings, I pull on my track pants, grab all my shoes and, scurry barefoot off the stage.
I know why she has been so hesitant with me.
I run down The Path of prayers.
It’s because I mean so much to her. I can feel it.
I knock over a candle on the way out of the ballroom. The wax spills into the stairwell.
I could turn back. I could gently push, succumb to my desires, and convince her to further our activities. But I don’t want to cheapen our moment.
I take off my shades after tripping up the final step to the lounge.
I have to keep running because it was beautiful, because it was perfect. … Even if she did whisper something that sounded like, “I want you to fuck me like that pig on the wall.”
The leafy mouth of The Palace creaks. I breathe in the fresh middle-of-nowhere night. In a few hours, Gina’s making gluten-free huckleberry pancakes—with tempeh bacon.
I’ve got to get home.

I’m on the top of the WAMU steps lacing up my new shoes when I first see them.

All four of are drinking Sparks and have fat joints stuffed behind their ears. I stand to make a disappearance and the blonde-haired, blue-eyed mohawked one notices me.

“Sup bro?” Holding his belt to prevent his sagging shants from falling completely off, he limps toward me. “You heard of some party happening around here?”

“I wish.” Laughing, I remain planted above them. “No man. You guys aren’t from here are you?”

Their dumb hazy pink eyes all blink at me.

“Nah.” Grumbling in unison, they crane their tattooed necks, searching for a mailbox decorated in streamers and balloons.

“Yeah, there aren’t parties in this town.” I grip the laces of both pairs of Chucks. A light breeze swings them at my side. “It sucks. Nothing ever happens here.”

“Fuckin’ toldya dog.” The cranky kid in the black flat-brimmed Rockstar energy drink hat spits onto the sidewalk. “Let’s get the fuck outta this bullshit town.”

Suspiciously, they eye my Union Jack socks. I stand, frozen, hoping they didn’t see me leave the hotel. The mohawk spits. The wind blows. A Solo cup scrapes across the lot. The kid with the awful, colorful throat tattoo lights a joint, takes a drag, passes it to the guy with a matching soul patch and, holding their belts, they all limp away tossing crushed Sparks cans into my lot.

Chapter 48

“Mike! Pancakes!”

Springing out of bed to Frank’s call I check my phone, tie on my devil-monkey robe, and speed down the hall to join the Massi breakfast table. Waiting for me at my place across from Gina is a tall glass of citrusy San P., a side of bacon, and a steaming stack of my favorite mini Mickey Mouse cakes. Sitting down, slicing through the silence, I stuff my mouth with three of the all-natural maple syrup soaked rodent ears before Frank gravely says, “Mike, your mother and I want to talk to you about something.” They haven’t touched their food. I stop chewing.
This is it. I’m caught.
Twisting beneath their suspicious, critical stares my brain scrambles to figure out exactly which details of my secret life they’ve discovered until Frank sighs, “Are you doing drugs?”

I chirp a laugh that shoots gooey crumbs into my palm. Rain or shine, every weekend, when Gina’s at work, Frank gets naked, lights a joint, and paints surrealist still life in his garden. If she knew about the weed, he’d be sleeping at Uncle Cosmo’s. Vigorously shaking my head, I swallow. “No. I’m not on drugs, Dad.”

“It’s just that…” He agonizes, “you’ve seemed … run down lately—”

Wiping my hand on a napkin, I fix him with a guilt-rendering gaze.

“And you carry around that lighter.” Gina flails her hands in a tizzy. “And your clothes smell like smoke!”

“You guys.” I place a comforting, slightly syrupy hand upon hers. “Despite the lack of stimulation in this joke of a town that you moved me to, I don’t do drugs. I promise. Some of Alvin’s friends get stoned while we game. But I do not. Swear to Moz.”

“Oh, okay. Well, that makes sense.” Frank appeals to his wife while squirming in the sticky stinky resin of his own hypocrisy. “But don’t be smoking any of that crap yourself. It will get you hooked and rot your brain.”

“Yeah, and pot impairs your fashion sense.” I eye his hat. “Obviously you don’t need to worry about me. I’m the best dressed kid at school.”

Gina and I share a hand held smile of relief. Frank claps his hands. “Great then!” Rubbing his palms together he wipes them clean of the drug interrogation. “There is something else that I’d like to talk to you about. Pinky! You still haven’t told him what you’d like for your birthday!” He gives me a conspiratorial look. “How about an easel and some canvases? I could give you a few lessons out back?”

In my unwashed Top Man button-up, I’m napping on my bed, dreaming of skinny ties, when my phone buzzes.

“Where are you?” Lynch asks. “I’m in the driveway.”

Running my hand through my hair, I shade my eyes and jog out to the Deville. A monotone voice sings about Russian roulette, as I swing open the door and drop onto the bench seat. Before I can even reach for the volume, Lynch mutes the song.

“Man.” I sigh, as he speeds down our hill. “Last night was legendary, but things have just been going downhill ever since.” I open my compact. “This morning I sit down at breakfast and Frank says, “Your mother and I want to talk to you about something.’”

“Oh shit—” Lynch sounds more concerned than I’d expected.

“Yeah, right?” I bare my teeth.
Eh, good enough for my co-workers.
I replace the unopened tube of whitener. “So I of course think that he’s about to ask me if I’ve been throwing wild drugged-out sex parties in abandoned hotels, but instead he just asks “are you on drugs?” Can you believe that shit? Frank. But man—”

“Mike. I’ve kinda got some bad news.” Stopping for a thrash kid who’s shucking his flipped bill through the crosswalk, Lynch turns to me.

He just used my old name
. Unnerved, I snap shut my mirror.

“Don’t freak out.” Driving on, he keeps his eyes on the road. “But one of my brother’s videos went up on Stella’s blog this morning.”

I freak out.

“Fuck you. Are you serious? How the fuck did that happen? Is it still up?” He stutters half answers as I continue to explicitly agonize. “Fucking Alvin and his fucking camera. Fucking Stella. Why would she do that? We’re fucked man. We’re so fucked…”

Spent, I throw my head back over the seat. Envisioning a future of eternal shopping at Walmart, I stare through mirrored lenses at the peeling sticker blighting the perfectly restored ceiling of his ride. It says ‘The Damned.’

“It’s down, Mike.”

Stop calling me Mike.

“And I don’t think a lot of people saw it.” Lynch swings right, parking next to a red Mini Cooper in the theatre’s lot. “Stella said someone hacked her private video section. But after I saw it, it totally disappeared. I can’t find it anywhere. Alvin swears he never sent anything to her—”

“Was it one of my scenes?” Rubbing my right temple, I picture myself with sweaty red cheeks, crusty pink pants around my ankles and a purple Producer choking in my clenched fist. “Was it the one where I
joyed
in my own face?”

“The clip only goes like seventeen seconds before it cuts off. And the shot is so tight that you can’t really tell that you’re the one that’s doing it to her.”

“Who?”

“Stella. Well really…” Laughing, he corrects himself. “She was doing it to you. She was on top and totally going for it for the camera. She actually winks and blows it a kiss.”

“If that gets out we’re all so fucked man.” The weight of fear and Sunday crushes my voice “You know that right?”

Paralyzed, I stare.

The Damned

“We’re okay.” I can hear him opening his Mentos. I think he just offered me one. “No one’s talking about it. And
I
couldn’t even figure out how to pull it down before it was gone. Sucks really … ”

Silently, we both sink into the re-upholstery. The motor churns. Lynch stares at me. I peel the sticker from the roof, and try to make sense of everything: potential party crashers, the pancake incident, McQueen denial, and now, video blog terror. Balling the torn vinyl, I shove it in my shirt pocket.
It’s fine.
The Dark Grey Premiere was an unparalleled success. It was huge.
Everything’s fine.

“Oh.” I scrape goop from under my nail. “I’ve gotta tell you something too. About Al—”

“Yeah?”

I face him. “Or did he already tell you?”

“Is he on drugs?”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s not that big of a deal.” I grab my Sherman from the backseat. “It’s just that, he gave me an OJ.”

“Oh yeah. I saw. Star, right?”

“Yeah.” I push open the heavy passenger door with my foot. “ I’d better get in there. I’m a little late —.”

“Mike, don’t freak about the video.” He leans over the armrest. “It’s whatever.”

“It’s fine. I’m over it. Everything’s fine.” I smooth my wrinkled shirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He drives away texting and I head toward the ticket booth.
Honk honk
. “Hey Mike.” Stopping, I turn back toward the lot. Rolling toward the street, steering with his knees, Lynch has both of his arms pushed out his window. He’s giving me two thumbs up.

Sulking behind the hot pretzels, Bickle is wearing his immutable black and yellow stripes with an exaggerated frown. He looks like a sad-face emoticon.
Moz, I pray that this has nothing to do with Stella’s stupid fucking blog
. From the door, I head straight for the concessions. Mia probably told him something.

“Mike, man…” Intercepting me, shaking his ratty pony, Philip is wildly waving his hands in a ‘no-no-no’ sort of way. “Don’t even bother coming in. I’m sorry man but you’re fired.”

“Are you serious?” I take off my shades.

Bickle looks like he’s going to cry.

“Man, this is the sixth time that you’ve been late. And you pulled that crap of not showing up on Friday?” My oppressor throws up his hands in fascist hippie disbelief, “What happened to you Mike? I’m sorry, but you’ve left me no choice.”

“Whatever.” Turning to leave, I pull out my phone, and dial, muttering. “A year from now you’ll be bragging about knowing me. I don’t have time for this place anyway.”

Lynch’s phone begins to ring and Bickle bounces up.

“I’m sorry buddy.” Blocking my exit he sympathetically hands me a small grey, animal printed paper bag. “I tried to talk him out of it.” His eyes are glistening like his lips.

“It’s okay man, really. … I’ve just gotta try and catch Lynch.”

Ending an unanswered call, I dig through tissue paper.

“What’s this?” In a daze, I pull out a skinny, black skull tie.
How the—?

“I got you something else too but wanted to give this to you early so you could wear it at … well, you know, your birthday party.” He enfolds me in his massive arms. “And I figured that you might need some cheering up today too.”