Pop Kids

Published by
Black Candy Publishing
www.blackcandypublishing.com

4096 Piedmont Ave #722
Oakland, CA 94611

© 2012 Davey Havok
All rights reserved under international copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, printout, digital file or any other information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the rights holders.

Design
Anthony Smyrski, Smyrski Creative
Printing
The Prolific Group

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2012954417
ISBN: 978-0-9859572-0-9 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-9859572-1-6 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-0-9859572-2-3 (electronic)

Distributed worldwide by
Black Candy Publishing

This book is dedicated to Michael and Jonna. Thank you for your endless support and strength. Without you I’d be talking to myself even more.

Prologue

“It’s all Screenames now.” I have a very difficult time remembering what we used to call each other before this all began, before I became a Filmgreat, but here in this silent, warming glow, I have time and cause to reflect.

I somehow manage to fondly recall that Stella was Sarah. I just turned down a birthday surprise from her that most guys in my class would trade their entire wardrobes for. During junior year, as she was being dropped off after lunch by college-aged guys in luxury cars, I would watch her with hopeless longing. Now I have given her so much more than they ever could. And she deserves it.
She deserves me
. She’s hot, ambitious, knows a good thing when she sees it, and will stop at nothing to get it.

As I think of Holly, knowing who she was, and what was supposed to happen when I opened The Pink Door, I can’t remember her old name. It’s fine. I shouldn’t bother. Thinking about her right now just heightens the screaming in my head.

“
I Kissed a girl and…
”

“Fuck you Katy,” I whisper then cough. The smoke is soothing. But there’s more of it than I’m used to.

Stepping back into the alley past the dumpsters, I pinch a weightless piece of ash from the crackling night, and safely admire my work, clicking. My fingers are slick. My hands smell like butane.
I should really get out of here.
I inspect the inscription on my Zippo—one of my many gifts from Bickle, my generous guardian whose bumblebee sweater is now speckled with awful little hard-to-get out bloodstains. It’s a shame about that sweater—Shane’s sweater.
Weird.
His name is Shane
.
I used to call him that.
Even now, hundreds of scenes later, I can remember naming my protective friend. He so badly wanted a Screename. Leo, Star, and Donny on the other hand, they’ve all kept their old names.
That’s weird too.
They’ve all remained the same this whole time. I didn’t.

I changed. I flourished and became the leading man in all of this, the shockingly well-dressed teenaged emcee of our grand private affairs in this tired town, the glorious director of it all. I became Scorsese.“…Score. It’s Score for short.”

Pausing before I flee, I kneel back down. When I re-introduce myself to the timid grey Manx, whose curiosity has finally drawn him close enough to be scratched behind the ear, he cringes, reminding me that I too disliked the name. Feeling that “Score” sounded too much like the name of someone who should be selling speed in Nevada, I briefly fought against it, but our Screenames stick when they’re right for us. Score was the right one for me. I’ve come to respond to nothing else.

“My name is Score,” I confidently proclaim. “And today is my birthday.”Though my birthday technically ended a few hours ago, I accept that this cleaning is the true celebration. I am sad that after what happened tonight, the Filmgreats will never again congregate in the same way, but the fire comforts me. As the mess that has been slowly building up around us beautifully burns high into this dark October morning, the warm sound of the flames melts the rich, icy, screaming croon of Old Blue Eyes.

“It’s fine.”

Looking at me like there’s something terribly wrong, the Manx meows, then darts back into the alley.

“Everything’s fine.”

Chapter 1

The air conditioning in Zach’s bedroom is broken. It smells like PE in here. And I’m sweating—which I hate. It’s August, and our NorCal valley has been enjoying a modern, shredded-ozone-summer that is commanding both my perspiration and the controversy that’s growing in the kitchen. This whole town revolves around grapes, and Zach’s parents own most of them. As he and I lay on the thinly carpeted floor between two electric fans, his folks are discussing how this heat wave is going to affect the upcoming harvest. Sue wants Willy to come with her on her next Parisian shopping trip. Willy is insisting that he needs to stay nearby to deal with the late summer crop. It’s all very riveting.

Staring at the poster of Joey Ramone tacked above Zach’s head, I can hear his Mom’s voice ooze between the distorted fuzz of “Personality Crisis.” Even with Sue’s argument flowing in the background, the grit in the singer’s voice sounds perfect coming through the high-end speakers. The Prozens are one of a few rich families in this town, and Zach and his little brother all the better for it: they can basically have whatever they want (though they rarely ask for much beyond phones, computers, video games, surfboards, skateboards, and the occasional car). I’m stuck with middle-class parents, but I at least get to enjoy the benefits of the farmer’s wealth by proxy.

Still lying on my back, I text. Sue, compromising, suggests that her husband skip his next camping trip to come to San Francisco with her for the weekend. Willy concedes before bringing up the town’s most recent church fire—it’s the second of the summer and most people seem to be in quite the tiff over it. With more curiosity than concern, he explains, “They don’t know if it was arson or just some freak incident with candles and dried flowers.”

“I read that it was flowers,” she says, and then returns to matters of shopping. Her voice reminds me of my counselor’s whale song CD’s

“God damn it.” Using his remote, Zach replays the trashy anthem, as his mom begins speaking French. ”If only it were the seventies. We missed all the good shows.”

“I know man, or the nineties.”

“Or the eighties.”

“Yeah. And what if we were in England? Think of what we could have seen then,” I say. “But you know what city they say is like London, right? San Francisco!” Reading the text that just came in from Sarah, I sit up to beg for relief from the boredom, “Wanna roll out the ol’ CC in neutral and drive us to a party tonight?”

“I can’t.” He stands to unplug his laptop. “Dad re-hid the keys.”

Propped against the flyer-covered wall, stretched beside his unmade bed, he taps on his keyboard, sweating. Despite the heat, Zach has been wearing long sleeves to avoid furthering his Cadillac’s confinement. During the last week of junior year he got caught sneaking out with Jamie, Drew, and Michelle to see what The Twins’ parents deemed to be a “satanic rock band,” based on their demonic name, “Vampire Weekend.” Zach didn’t care about the show, but Jamie wanted to go. He took the opportunity both to put in some work with her and get a tattoo. Using his flawless fake ID, he had a big bearded guy at Blackheart SF drill ‘LAMF’ into his skin. The following afternoon, his father suffered a displeased call from The Twins’ dad and took Zach’s car away. Zach and I agree that his punishment comes more from Willy having been forced to listen to the zealous ranting of Mr. Todd than from Zach having cut school to drive the unregistered Caddy. Still, he now wears his GI Jacket at all times to conceal the fresh wound. Willy thinks tattoos are “seedy,” and Zach doesn’t want to risk having to walk to school this year.

“This is awful. When are you supposed to get it back again?” I tap my touch-screen, frustrated over having lost my favorite driver. I’ve yet to get my license, as I prefer to be chauffeured.

“Not until school starts … man, I’ve looked for those fucking keys everywhere. He must have taken them to work.”

I suggest a hot wire.

Considering the possibility, Zach stops clicking the keyboard. “What’s going on, again?”

“Dub Step party at Minna Gallery. Those DJs that the girls know can get us in.”

He rolls his eyes.

I should have told him it was a proto-punk night.

Normally, Zach would take any opportunity to get out of town. We all would. Even with the city being hours away and a gallon of gas being the price of a McQueen tie, we’ll do whatever it takes to escape, because nothing ever happens in our tiny little town. Ever. Temporary absences, provided by shows and parties in the city, give us the will to not hang ourselves on grape vines. It’s never enough though.

Strategically, I use his longstanding crush as bait. “But I think Jamie has the jeep, so if you don’t want to go I can probably squeeze in the back…”

I stare at him. Even the prospect of hanging with Jamie hasn’t persuaded Zach to break into his own car. He isn’t going to drive us and, what’s worse, he doesn’t want me to leave him. My iPhone buzzes with another text from Sarah. Zach steps over me and grabs a drink from the mini fridge.