Pop Kids (34 page)

“Mr. Nalon.” Knowing that the show would surely stop without its leading man, I patronize him. “I’ll have my lines down by Monday. I just need one more weekend to brush up.”

He accepts my oath and, to his dismay, I continue to artistically liberate the rest of my lines until, finally, we arrive at the moment of truth. Between the sheets of my nap shelter, with only two agitated rose-bespectacled eyes watching, my lips are about to make their second impression on Holly’s. I touch her hand. I move in. And we both giggle.

“Come on you two, this is a serious moment.” With regard for our uncomfortable position, Rick puts down his coffee, stands, and fluidly conducts with his chewed-up pencil. “This isn’t Michael and Becca remember? Be your characters.”

“Okay, sorry.” Centering herself, Holly takes a deep breath. “I’ve got it this time.”

Picturing Alvin filming from offstage right, I put on a drop-dead-sexy kissin’ face and move in again. This time, Holly relaxes. She opens her mouth and softly we melt into each other. I taste citrus-sweetness. Rick is wrong. I breathe cucumber. This is not acting. I gently caress her face. This is the furthering of a deep connection that was established between a flawless girl with great taste and a fabulous guy with flawless style last summer at The Grounds over Britpop and tea. Under the sheets Holly presses her palm down on my polka dots. My Producer pushes back.

“Slow it down kids.” Our director taps his coffee mug with his pencil as I reel at my first full taste of my untouched Filmgreat.

How could a vegan be so creamy and delicious? She’s exquisite. I want her to meet Gina.

I begin sliding my hand up her hoodie.

“Hey you two, that’s enough!” Frantically, Rick dings his java-stained time-out bell, until a familiar voice overpowers his ineffectual frustration. My driver is early.

“Wooooah! Can I get in on this scene?”

Holly unzips my fly and I look up just in time to catch Nalon pushing Lynch out of Hess.

“Student battery!” he cries. The stage door slams, shutting out his laughter.

“That’s it!” Rick throws his notes into the cheap seats. “You both be gone when I get back. And you Massi! …” He points, as if trying to summon lightning upon my head. ”Monday! Lines! Get it together or you’re out!”

The door slams again. And we’re alone.

“Please. …” I slide on my shades. “Draaamatic.”

“Well…” Holly sighs, adorably sticks a wad of gum behind the headboard, and turns to me. “That was nice.”

“Yeah. He’s really tiring lately.” I shake my head. “He needs to settle.”

“No.” She flicks the tip of my tie. ”That was nice.”

She’s not being sarcastic. She’s reviewing our spiritual frenching.

“OH! Yeah. Yes. Yes it was.” Overheating, I anxiously pull off my blazer. “I think we work quite well together.”

“I agree.” I pause my folding, and face her warm hazel eyes. In the following silence, I’m hoping that she’ll follow my lead, and take off her shirt. “Have you heard from Sarah lately?”

I put my coat back on. “Not since the party.”
I don’t feel like talking about Stella right now. Not here, alone in bed with you. It feels too temporal, too mundane.
I tug on my London Underground cufflinks. I used my eyebrow tweezers to poke holes for them in my shirt. “Why? Did she get the part?”

“I’m just wondering if she’s okay. I figured that you might know. … You guys are official now right? She changed her profile status.”

“Oh, yeah.” As if for Rick, I improvise my lines with natural eloquence. “Well … I don’t know. Not really?” I search for my lighter. “We’re Filmgreats…”

Click, click
. Holly tilts her head like Iman does when she hears that sound.
Click, click.

I don’t want her to think Stella stands between us. Nor do I want the world’s next reality celebrity to hear that I take our relationship lightly. I drop my Zippo and begin waving my hands like a Massi.

“And what kind of girlfriend disappears to the W for days and doesn’t return her boyfriend’s calls? Right? I think we’re more like BFFs … Best Filmgreat Friends.”

I nod with the satisfaction of having perfectly illustrated our relationship.

“Oh, Okay.”

“Yeah,” I smile. “So, do you want to do something on Friday night?”

Holly looks confused. “You mean, before the party?”

“Well … no.”
Moz, I forgot. It’s Fuck-it Weekend
. “I was thinking you and I could just hang out … maybe go to a movie?” Fearing their own intention, my words start sprinting away from me. “…Or ice blocking or something. I’ll cancel Friday so we can have all night to ourselves.”

“Really?” Holly’s eyes go
hentai
.

I’m as surprised as she is.

“Totally…” My rebellious tongue riots. “It would…” —
be my pleasure, be an honor, be rockin’—
“…make me happy
.”

“I’d love that.”

She smiles. And we kiss until my driver barges again.

As Lynch drives, I send my guests an apologetic message calling off tomorrow’s Premiere on account of work.

“Wait, so you’re canceling just to hang out with her?” He turns down the song about Ghost Rider. Lynch doesn’t understand the magnitude of the cataclysm he has just witnessed.

“Holly’s never let anyone touch her. No one. She’s like, totally pure. But I’ve now kissed her thrice.” I hold up three fingers. “She’s a model who loves Moz, Lynch. Her spit tastes like a creamsicle. I’ve gotta hang out with her alone.”

“I get it. Yeah, that makes total sense.” We skip the turn to my house. Cruising past The Grounds, he wryly translates, “You’d rather maybe get to touch Holly’s other boob than definitely bang twenty girls in one night. You gonna cancel Saturday too?”

“
Phhh
, Come on.”
My suit smells like cucumbers.
“I’m not insane.”

“Well, if you don’t, I hope Stella shows up.” Passing The D-hole, Lynch parks in front of our towns latest frozen yogurt boutique. “I liked fucking her a lot.”

“Yeah … me too…” I slide my iPhone from my breast pocket and check my messages. ”She still hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”

“Maybe she’s already too famous for us.”

Maybe she is.

The analogue synths drone through the speakers, rolling like the soundtrack of some twisted old-school video game as Lynch’s headlights pop the pink and green pastels from the YoGoGo logo.

“I think she’s still in San Francisco.”

“Wait! Whoa!” He kills the engine and perks up like a cat chauffeur who’s just seen a bird land on the other side of his windshield. “Is that her?”

“Where?!” I peer through the windows. I see the XIV decal on Volta’s cousin’s Impala, a well dressed vineyard couple ordering dessert from Mr. Chang, a cowboy on an outside bench eating yogurty blue berries with his fingers. “Dude, what—?“

“
Shh, Shh.
No. Listen!” Throwing out his hands he cocks his head, hushing like a psychic communing with the dead. “I can hear her. She
is
still in The Sco. Can you hear her?” His big blue bejeweled eyes question mine. I cup my ear and gravely he reveals, “She’s shouting ‘Blake. Fuck my ass’.”

“You’re right!” Mournfully, I shake my head. “I can’t believe it. She should be shouting my name.” I perfectly affect her sex voice. “Oh Yeah, Score, Score … Score needs a part in your show. There’s room for one more Baby!”

Laughing with raucous approval, Lynch swings open his door. While somewhere in SF, Stella is getting her ‘love’ tattoo covered in Blake joy we’ll be here eating YoGoGo.

“Seriously though, I do hope she’s back on Saturday.” I admit, “It wouldn’t be the same without her.”

“Totally,” he steps out then leans back into the Caddy. “What flavor do you want?”

“Whatever you have. Just put gummy bears on mine.”

He slams the door. I hit speed dial. Her phone doesn’t ring. I hear “
I’m a free bitch, baby.
” My eyes begin to sting.

Chapter 52

By Friday night, everyone but Stella has courteously responded with disappointment to the cancellation. But any thought of her having married Blake, gotten cast alongside DiCaprio in a Scorsese film, and skipped town to live in Hollywood without me, is far from my mind. All that I can think of is Holly and how good I’m going to look when she gets here.

With my teeth sponged in GO SMiLE and my body misted with a tester that Prius gave me, I throw back my shoulders, adjust my maybe-McQueen tie, then grab Eddie. I moosh her face to my neck.

“It’s called Angel. How do I smell? Heavenly?”

She meeps, wriggles, thuds to the hardwood, and my phone buzzes.
She’s here
!

Grabbing a nearby lint roller, I frantically remove all traces of my feline affair, flounce out the front door, and confidently plop into Holly’s mint Bug.

“Hey, Mike.” She tosses her lunchbox to the backseat. In her orange jeans and white hoodie, she looks orange-cream delish. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Oh no problem.” I unbutton my coat to assure that my designer tie is totally visible.

“You look great.” Looking over her shoulder, backing out of my driveway, she tells me, “I thought that maybe you were gonna wear the pink track suit.” I realize I’ve forgotten both my lighter and my shades.

Though the D-hole has historically offered little for those with refined diets such as ours, it does provide privacy. Holly slides her little butt into a booth at the back of the empty shop and I head for the counter.

“Hogan?” I yell toward the back, peering into the glowing treat cases.
Mmm, French Crullers.
I miss donuts. I haven’t eaten one since I realized there were eggs in them.
Woah, he has vegan brownies now.

“Be there in a hot one!” The scraggly haired owner pops his head into the kitchen window. “Ayyyy Mike!” Recognizing me, he throws open the swinging counter doors. The dusty back roads growl in the old biker’s voice as he embraces me. “It’s been a long time brother. Good to see ya man!” Firmly, he shakes me by the shoulders then hollers toward our booth. “Hey gorgeous. Good to see you again too!”

Dropping a baggie of loose-leaf tea back into her lunchbox, Holly waves and I smile at my warm welcome. Hogan’s making me look great.

“Great to see you too man. I’m glad that you’re back.”

“They can’t keep me down brother.”

There’s flour on his hands. The pot-leaf tattooed behind the skull on his forearm has faded. But the green lettering is still bold.

”That’s Holly.” Dusting my suit, I nod back at my date. “She’s a screenwriter. And an actress. And a model. And a vegan. Can we get a couple of those brownies?” I point to the top row of the case. “And some hot water? She brought her own tea. She only drinks organic herbals.

“Hell yeah you can!” Hogan laughs and marches back through the swinging doors.

I’ve only just folded my jacket when he returns to our booth with two brown mugs, two bags of English breakfast, and a pink cardboard box.

“Here you go kids!” Setting down the treats, Hogan lifts the lid. An assorted dozen is layered below two brownies—one is twice the other’s size. “Compliments of the house!” I read ‘FUCK YOU’ below the skull tattoo as he points to the un-frosted brown brick. “That one’s for you Honey. It’s fresh from the oven. Make sure you don’t get’m confused now, I know your boyfriend here hates walnuts!’ Laughing like a conspirator, Hogan slaps my back.

“I don’t hate walnuts…” Puzzled, I watch him chuckle back to the kitchen. Lynch is allergic to nuts. Maybe Hogan has us confused.

“That’s good.” Snatching both brownies, Holly shoves them in her lunchbox and pulls out a loaf of banana nut bread. “…’Cause I made this especially for tonight.”

In the fluorescence of my old hangout, delicately sipping the black tea that she chose over her private stash, Holly tears through three huge slices as we discuss music, cinema, scripts, and sharks. I’m amazed by her extensive knowledge of sea life.

“You’d make a really good host for a beach party reality show. Maybe you could start it online if
El Fin
doesn’t get picked up right away.” I finish off a cruller for old time’s sake. “I bet you could do it a Leo’s place. And Alvin could shoot it … and I could be—”