Pop Kids (19 page)

Katy Perry has a lot of singles. By the time I awaken to the sound of her latest, I know them all. Feeling haunted and heroic, I open the Kitty Mac and send out terribly boring invitations to the Flash Premiere. Stella’s in the shower. Last night she was strongly endorsing the showing of a Jenna Jameson film. But I feel that tonight will be more of a
True Romance
sort of evening.

The confirmations come in. Reading the replies, I begin wondering if I’ll be able to get everything ready in time. I’m not stressed out about it. Laying here in The Pink Room, on pink pillows, in the pink bed, with the pink computer on my lap, as Stella soaps my dried joy from her nakedness, I feel quite at ease. I put on my shades, roll off the bed, and walk to the bathroom.

“Stella!” I yell, through the open pink door. “Everyone’s already responded. They’re all gonna come. The surfers too.”

“Oooooh, that’s great Baby!”

“Yeah Babe.” I force out the dulcet diminutive. “I’m gonna go help Lynch set up.” Lingering in the steam, I wait for her to push aside the Hello Kitty curtains and insist that I not leave before marching over to give her a lick goodbye.

“Okay Baby!” She yells, as I begin gingerly padding over the shaggy pink bath mat. “I’ll see you tonight!”

Chapter 28

As I ascend our hill, the sun descends. When I reach our driveway, it’s dark.

Rushing into my room, I undress, slightly alter the playlist from the second Premiere then take my first shower of the day. It’s only when I pull my dress shirt from a hanger that I remember my Joy Division tee. It’s still on Stella’s floor
. It’s fine.
I suit up, style my hair, and grab my iPhone from its charger. “
You’re coming tonight as Dick Ritchie
?” I smile at the text. By implying I’d show up as the pathetic, dorky, aspiring actor-character in
True Romance
, Holly is flaunting her knowledge of the cult classic, and, quite possibly, flirting.
I hope
. I’m really looking forward to seeing her tonight. I consider telling her this before I breast pocket the phone, triple check the mirror, grab my board, and bolt for the door.

“Well you look like a million bucks!” Franks stops me just before I step outside. “Big game tonight?”

“Thanks Dad, yeah.” I straighten my tie. “Zach got a metal track pack and Hector and David are coming over. We’re probably gonna be playing all night so I’m just gonna stay at his place again. See ya tomorrow.“ He tips his hat as I dart into the driveway.

For the first time, we have a full cast in my basement. But only two of the Greats have come in character. To match Alabama Worley, Holly and Stella are wearing teal bras: Miss Wood’s shows through her sheer white shark-pinned-tee; Stella’s peeks from her short red dress with purpose. I do miss Holly’s bare supple side-boob, though I love the lace. And her hot pink leopard print tights are a lovely surprise. Mia has surprised us as well. Her once blonde hair is now a black bob with short bangs and she wearing an AC/DC hoodie. But she’s not in costume. At least she doesn’t think so.

Standing in my speech position, I watch the two Worley’s slide next to each other in Heaven as Star invitingly rattles her bottle.

“These will be right here.” She fills a large, hollowed Hello Kitty head that now lives atop our mini fridge. “The round ones with my name on them are MDMA.“ A magical rainbow scatters into the white plastic. “And don’t be shy, there’s plenty more where these came from!”

Having not been entirely upset with the influence that the Flintstones had on my last party, I don’t vocally object to the everlasting drug dispenser but do ask all hippies to “please keep weed smoking confined to the other side of the curtain” before giving an a eloquent unrehearsed speech.

“Good evening Greats. I wasn’t prepared for this.” I appeal to my room of already unruly guests. “But by the look of your outfits, I guess that you guys weren’t either—“ A flurry of popcorn and bottle caps rain down upon me. “So … um, thanks for coming to the first Flash Premiere!” Batting away a Solo cup, I rattle off, “We bring you
True Romance
. Do it Lynch!” I flee as the unruly mob cheers at the opening credits.

With the movie and most of my guests rolling, I’m soberly lying in Heaven and hoping to casually reposition myself. Stella’s to my left and Holly’s pressed next to her. I’d very much like to be between the two of them, if not simply farther from Stella. Since the movie started, she hasn’t stopped talking about how hot Patricia Arquette is, how hot Christian Slater is, and how hot I look. Unable to argue with any of these irrefutable, loudly stated facts I continuously agree, “Yeah he’s … she’s … I’m … totally hot,” as Mia’s mating call adds to the bright white noise. Her squeaks are even more cutting than Stella’s high pitched fawning, but everyone is so deeply involved in quoting, kissing, drinking, and pillow fighting that Lynch’s scene is no more than a blurry, x-rated backdrop.

As the rumpus escalates, Stella moves upstage to direct her chatter toward a captivated Cruz and Volta. Free from her physical proximity, and any misperceived obligation to pay attention to her, I scoot next to Holly.

“Finally,” I sigh. “I’ve wanted to ask you something but didn’t want to shout over Stella.”

“Oh Yeah?” Holly shows me her crooked smile. “What would you like to know?”

“How could you possibly think that I’d host my own party dressed as character that wears boxers throughout the majority of the movie?”

“You’re right. That was wrong.” In an act of contrition, she offers me a Red Vine. “Forgive me?”

I accept the licorice branch. Cooled by her minty stare, I’m about to profess that I’d forgive her any transgression when Stella commands the room’s attention.

“He’s fucked everyone!”

She must be yelling about Prius.

Accidentally, I speak my mind. “Moz, just tweet it. It would be so much quieter.”

Holly covers her delicate mouth to suppress an adorable laugh. “Do you even get any sleep when you stay over at her place?”

I’m not sure what she’s asking me. I think this may be about sex.

“Yeah, well, sometimes she’ll stop talking to text…” I pocket my licorice. “Or to watch videos—”

“Oh, right.” Holly bites her lip. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

Discretely chewing moths, I’m struggling to decide exactly what it is that she has heard, who it is that told her, and how her eyes could possibly be so transformative when, from painfully close by, Stella squeals,

“Oh my God, my favorite scene is coming up!” Suddenly, she’s looming over us in a stance very reminiscent of the private under-boob presentation that she gave last night in The Pink Room. “Hey kids!” She announces, “Hollywood and I are gonna do this one.”

I swallow musty insect dust. Though it’s restrained, I swear to Moz that I can see eagerness in Holly’s viridian eyes as she gazes up at the brash brunette. Twisting her white locks, she’s flushed, yet calm. I, however, am in a bit of a frenzy—as everyone here knows, the phone booth scene is THE sex scene. It’s really one of the best PG moments to ever have graced cinema.

Sounding disappointed by her own words, Holly politely declines. “Oh, I don’t really know this scene very well.”

This causes me utter sorrow. But Stella, intent on creating what would surely be visual perfection, contends, “Oh, I think you do.”

I look giddily back and forth between Alabamas.

This is wild. I really want this to happen. But it’s so advanced. Stella’s not asking for a Ringwald lipstick trick. She wants the two of them to get deeply physical onstage for everyone’s enjoyment, and Holly knows this. We all do. Alvin’s already got his camera out. And Leo has turned his back on Surfers’ Paradise. Because this scene isn’t about dance. Or dialogue. It’s about doing it. It’s about girls gone wild.

Feeling I should do something to either start or stop my fantasy from coming to life in front of me, I’m relieved when The Boys take the initiative.

“Come on Hollywood, you got it sexy!” Volta shouts.

Cruz joins in to encourage the ingénue. “Come on girl, you’re a star!”

Blushing, Holly graciously maintains that she’s not right for the part.

“Okay Babe.” Rising from her knees, Stella grabs my hand and pulls me up into the projection. “Let’s show’m how it’s done.”

Though I may have fumbled my speech, this impromptu performance doesn’t seem like a terrible idea. We’re proven to work well together. In affected protest, while folding my coat and fixing my hair, I reason, “It’s not really that much of a scene. The dialogue is rather weak—”

Stella effortlessly drags me toward the life-sized pink Cadillac on the wall.

“What…” She raises her one offended eyebrow. “Just because it’s not the Twist it’s not good enough for you?” Brushing her lips up my neck, she secretly hums. “You know I twist better than her.”

And I’m ready to steal the show.

With cinematic history flickering through my aviators, I channel the rebellious spirit of a nineties Christian Slater and reach up Stella’s dress. Digging my fingers deep into her naked thigh I spin her around, press my mouth to her, and press her to the wall. Perfectly, I mimic the action in the blanketing film. Her complete lack of inhibition decimates what’s left of my own, while the cheers of the Filmgreats encourage our ravenous pursuits. I reach deeper into our performance, tasting watermelon, wine, sweat, and sweet adoration, until I become vaguely aware of Lynch’s distant, deviant, goofy laughter. The dialogue of the film disappears and like a pop bomb dropped from the catwalk “I Kissed a Girl” booms onto the stage.

Internally, I smile at the surprise attack, though neither my messy haired partner, nor the Ameripop Princess is powerful enough to deter me from my mission in the phantom roadside phone booth. Maintaining audience approval, keeping both my ratings and my Producer up, I stare into Stella’s wintry blues, Alabama Worley’s mountainous cleavage, and finally, Holly’s beguiling greens, before feverishly sucking down Stella’s neck. I lick above teal-laced wire, across her overflowing cotton candy scented top-boob then, just as I have the bottom of her dress heading for her head, she whips me around and sends us crashing into Heaven.

Lynch has ended the pop terrorism. Over the silent film, Deadmau5 pounds as Stella and I play beneath the throws. An XX song begins. I come up from the fur to pocket square my brow and investigate. Aside from the music and the occasional squeak, everything has gone quiet. Craning my bed-head into the projection of a gun, I replace my fallen shades.

On the upstage right candy couch, Lynch has his hand between the thighs of his bottled brunette. Her acid-washed jeans are around her ankles, her AC is unzipped from her DC, and his mouth is clamped to a totally bare boob. Across from them, on their own love seat, Cruz and Volta are lazily kissing. Next to me, MK is drunkenly tracing Leo’s geometric chest tattoo with her tongue and, on his side, he’s pressed against Ash, who is passed out on Star, who to my delight is tenderly making out with Alvin. Stella and I are so good at what we do that we’ve inspired others to achieve.

Straddling my groundbreaking leading lady, I admire the surrounding activities as she rises, pushes away my unbuttoned shirt, and sucks my bare ribs.

“This Flash Premiere was a great idea, Babe.” I further loosen my tie and nod to the surrounding savagery. “Check out the activities! Everyone’s going for it.” Ignoring me, she slides her hand down the front of my jeans and licks my neck. “We’re totally doing this again tomorrow.”

To get a better view, I ease Stella’s head further down. Alone on a downstage couch, reclining amidst scattered Red Vines and corn kernels, Holly is a vision on green plastic. In snacky disarray, she looks serene. Her eyes are heavy but aware. They match the couch.
I wonder if her expression would be the same if she were beneath me, instead of Stella
. With such stimulating debauchery surrounding her, I at first think it odd that Holly is so captivated by the silent version of
True Romance
. But she’s not. She isn’t watching the movie at all. She’s watching my performance, enjoying it as if I had already achieved my fated fame and come to grace this small-town party with my celebrity. I’d better make this look good.