Pop Kids by Davey Havok Read Free Book Online

healthier treating.
    I pause to watch a thick string of saliva oozing after the candy wad, trailing off a slimed leaf. It’s unnaturally pink. It reminds of Sarah. Smacking, I swallow the last bits of sweet saliva left in my mouth. I sigh . I wish I had another one. Ignoring the irrational impulse to salvage the dirty candy, I clack down my board and push off toward the 8-plex, clicking my lighter most of the way.
    At work, before I set up the reels I call Sarah. I dial her again at the end of the night in the empty lot behind the theatre. After the first ring, I hear the same message that’s been mocking me all day— I’m a free bitch, baby.
    This is too much. I want to smash my phone against the trashcan on the edge of the sidewalk.
    I have to clean.

Chapter 8
    As the days creep through the summer heat, the dream of the first Premiere consumes my every thought, while a phone full of unreturned messages competes for my attention.
    Yesterday I didn’t text Sarah at all. I imagined seeing Becca at the last showing of the blockbuster rom-com at work. When I came home I found a similar looking blonde on PornoTube. I was hoping to run into the gorgeous vegan at her morning shift today but it’s already mid-afternoon. Becca has surely left The Grounds. And I have no texts.
    The sun shines through our towering windows while I sit with Gina. She reviews humdrum headlines of the local paper: medical marijuana campaigns, bike to work day, another church has burned down.
    “It’s too bad that the drug dealers weren’t in the fire,” I lament, chewing. Without looking up Gina shakes her head.
    “It is a terrible shame isn’t it? That little church was so nice.”
    I ask if we have any lime.
    After finishing my Pellegrino with a twist, rinsing my glass, and cleaning my old Sponge Bob plate, I shower to the sound of “Deep Hit of Morning Sun.” I brush my teeth for two Sonicare cycles, pull up my jeans, and then pad shirtless to Joey’s room to pick out a piece from his overflowing dresser of treasure. I unfold and refold the words ‘FRANKIE SAYS RELAX.’ I slip on a black tee that says ‘Love and Rockets.’ I turn in the mirror. I google the name on my phone. I miss my Unknown Pleasures shirt. I’m not sure that losing the vintage piece to post coital casualties was really worth the rewards. I can’t find a replacement on eBay and haven’t seen the hot thief who stole mine since she left me on the floor of Booth Six . I think I may have been used for my wardrobe. But it’s hard to say.

    “Oh, no. Not yet,” I admit, squirting sunscreen into my palms. “I think her phone is off. She always forgets to charge it or pay the bill. She’s always losing it too. Or breaking it. But it’s fine, once the party—”
    “That totally sucks,” Zach shakes his head. “Sarah’s so hot man. It would be a major bum-out if you didn’t get to do it to her again.”
    As he blunt stalls on the far coping, I remain seated on my lawn chair beneath the umbrella on the garage side of the deck.
    “Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” I yell over the clacking of wood and metal on PVC. “Speaking of activities, you never told me how it went with Jamie.”
    Zach purposefully aborts his air and lands planted in front of me, holding his board.
    “Mike that stupid song totally worked. I totally did it with her.”
    “Fabulous! I told you it was a good idea!” There’s conflict in my friend’s blue eyes. “What? …” Rubbing white lotion into my cheeks, I ask, “What’s wrong? Did you set a speed record? Did it suck?”
    The iPod dock shuffles back to the 1960s.
    “No, no I was a hero. And it was killer.” Zach stutters, looking beyond the roof of his house. Beneath the voices of the Beach Boys we can hear the sound of designer footsteps coming up the driveway. “Her ass is like another planet.”
    He’s not telling me something. I don’t like it. On the day of Zach’s date, I read a tweet from Hector—something