Pool Boys (15 page)

Where:
Band members (singer Kendall,
15;
drummer Wynn, 15; bassist Stella, 16; and guitarist A/B, 17) all live in New York. But we expect they’ll soon be calling a tour bus home!

Why:
Because Kendall’s a real role model who’s not a toothpick! Because Stella’s got attitude to burn! Because Wynn is a poet who makes perfect sense! Because A/B knows how to be just friends with girls…or does he…?!

N
ow that I’m famous my cousin Carlene is on me like glaze on a roast ham. Last time I saw her, she acted all superior, her with her promise ring and her fiancé; now she’s my best friend. Does she think my sparkle rubs off? I act real gracious as she shepherds me around, flaunting me. Thank goodness I brought plenty of press kit photos. A little gesture on my part—for the people of Frog Level, a treasure forever.

It’s nice seeing everyone, having the whole town at my feet, but I’m distracted, disconnected. Lately, the whole idea of home is an itch I can’t reach. Is home here in South Carolina, where I was born? Or up in New Jersey, at my mom’s house? Or in my fabulous Teen Towers apartment, which I haven’t been to once since we came off tour. I ought to be completely at ease down South, yet instead I feel more “on” than ever. In the East Village, with so many people—students and artists, professionals, bums, just everybody—you can be anonymous. Even if you’re recognized, people show respect; they won’t fawn all over you unless it’s a die-hard fan about to wet his britches. Here, whether in the Piggly Wiggly or the Dairy Queen, people come over and talk to you like they have every right.

Well, I take that in stride, but I’m glad we’re leaving soon. Not that I have any hoop-de-hoo New Year’s plans. I know who I want to spend it with—I just can’t figure out how to wrangle it, until Jane Marie Fulton starts gushing over my earrings.

“They’re real unusual,” she says, reaching out to touch them. We’re all at the Dairy Queen, me and Carlene and her girlfriends. I pray Jesus will prevent Jane Marie from leaving greasy fingerprints on my most cherished Christmas present. “They sure don’t have anything like them over at the Claire’s.”

Claire’s! As if A/B would have bought my gift at some old chain store. “Thank you, Jane Marie.” Semiprecious stones glitter and swing as I toss my head. Jane Marie’s fingers retreat. “They were a gift from A/B.”

“Really?” Jane Marie and Carlene and Devon are more interested now—they start asking all about A/B. It’s like feeding fish in a pond; throw a couple of crumbs and they gobble them up. But I say, “Oh, I can’t talk about that,” so it gets through their cinderblock brains that it’s rude to intrude. Still, I look kindly at Jane Marie—thanks to her a great idea occurs to me. “Tell you what, I can call A/B and find out where he got them,” I say. “I’m sure it’s some exclusive boutique, but maybe they take phone orders.”

“Would you, Kendall?” Jane Marie lights up. “Wow, that would be so nice!”

I pat her hand. “I sure will,” I say. Well, then they all gawk at me like I’m going to call A/B right then and there! “Later…”

Only when will I get a moment’s peace to do so? My grandparents’ house is small, and me and my mom share what was her room growing up. What with the close quarters and all the company coming and going, it’s not till eleven at night when my mom takes her shower. I slip out my cell.

“Heyyyy, Kendall.”

Gosh, it’s good to hear his voice! “Hey, A/B! Did you have a good Christmas? I sure hope so!”

“Cool, you know, your basic Jewish Christmas: a movie and Chinese food.”

It always slips my mind that A/B is Jewish—another river to cross. “Well, mine was wonderful. One day, A/B, you’ll have to experience a country Christmas. But look here, the reason I’m calling…” I get that out of the way, then progress, doodling hearts on my notepad. “We’re coming back the day after tomorrow. I’ve pretty much had my fill of Frog Level, but, well, things have been so hectic since the tour and rushing on down here and all, I haven’t made a single plan for New Year’s. Isn’t that hilarious? Kendall Taylor with nothing to do on the biggest party night of the year.”

I let it sink in a second. The thing with A/B is, if I set him up with the right signals and let him know it’s okay for him to be forward, he does the right thing. Of course he does! That’s why I love him so!

N
ot only did I ask Edie out for New Year’s two whopping months in advance, I told her we’d do whatever she wants. Whipped much? To my chagrin, she vetoes the Ramones tribute in favor of a Long Island house party. But wait, there’s more. Apparently I deserve to be flogged for inviting one of my bandmates.

“A/B, how could you?!” Edie’s not pleased to learn Kendall’s our third wheel.

This baffles me. After all, Edie made no bones about the fact that she wants me at this party to cement her status in a new social stratum. Logically I assume the only thing more ingratiating than one rock star is two rock stars. “How could I what?”

Edie narrows green laser beams and performs heart surgery, sans anesthetic.

“It’s not like we’ll have to attend to her all night. People will be all over her, and Kendall loves that kind of attention. She’s coming by car service; we won’t have to chauffeur her around.” Edie’s mouth is a thin pink line. I switch gears, go for her soft spot. “Come on, the poor kid had nothing to do. How would you feel?”

Success!

“Why couldn’t I have fallen for a cruel, heartless bastard?” Edie asks the ceiling. “Why did I have to fall for a sweet mushy dumbass instead?”

I snatch her in my arms for a quick canoodle. “Too bad for you,” I whisper into her clavicle. “Sweet mushy dumbass—forever.”

The party, while hardly a history-making rock-and-roll event, is off to a pleasant start. Not nearly as jappy as I feared. Edie lives in a modest middle-class town, but the soiree’s a few notches up on the utsy scale. Every house is on the water, a boat in every backyard. But the dozen or so kids already assembled are low-key and friendly. There’s a slight haze of cheeba, and no keg. Hummus and baba ghanoush. Kings of Leon and Bob Marley. Basically, a well-to-do neo-hippie gathering. I fit in fine.

Our hostess, the olive-skinned, hook-nosed Santhea, is the new friend of Edie’s BFF Alexa. There’s been some shuffling of late—Edie met me, Alexa met Santhea—this is really the first chance for everyone to get acquainted. I don’t know a soul besides Edie, but hey, several months of celebrity and the rigors of touring have made me at ease anywhere, except maybe a Taliban hideout.

There’s no hint the party will go out of bounds. Santhea’s tolerant parents are on premises, amiably monitoring—they don’t actually hit off the bong, but there’s no need to be surreptitious about it. We’re not big drinkers—most of us sip mineral water or soda, although champagne, uncorked as of yet, is on ice. As New Year’s anticipation grows with the crowd, the vibe stays mellow, copacetic.

Then Kendall makes her entrance. And everything changes.

Not in a big way, though. It’s subtle. A shift as opposed to a swing. Six months ago Kendall would have been invisible to these people. Her “off-ness” would have gone unnoticed. Now her “off-ness” has become the “on-ness” of a rock diva. She walks in, her presence acknowledged with a buzzy effect.

Caftan flowing as she runs to the door, Santhea clasps Kendall’s hands, takes her coat, leads her around. No introduction required. Everyone knows who she is.

Kendall doesn’t beeline for Edie and me, standing near the fireplace, dipping pita triangles into Middle Eastern delights. She chats amiably with one cluster of admirers after another, her Southern accent sonic flower petals against the nasal “oh-my-gawds!” of Nassau County. Then she waves, weaves our way. Edie stiffens. For no reason. No reason at all. Except that’s how it is. Edie does not want Kendall here. And that’s that.

But Edie’s a cool person; she doesn’t want to be a bitch. Plus, she likes herself, so she hates feeling threatened. Who can she blame for her current state of affairs? That would be me. Right about then Kendall ambles over. “Hey, you guys! Happy Almost New Year!” The chummy three-way hug she goes for gets neatly cross-checked. “Oh, Edie,” she says. “Your friends are all real nice.”

“They’re not my friends,” Edie says flatly. “I don’t even know these people.”

“Oh? Really? I thought—well, they’re awful nice.” Then she turns to me. “Hey, A/B! What’s that you’re munching on?”

“Ah, well, that’s hummus—ground-up chickpeas. And baba ghanoush is—”

“Boboga…what?! Bless my soul!” Kendall swats my arm. “You’re joshing me—that’s not even a real word. Edie, he must keep you in stitches.”

“Sure,” she seethes. “Though sometimes I’d like to see him in stitches.”

Silence. Awkward silence. The mother of all awkward silences. At least for me. It’s possible Edie enjoys her fury on some perversely justified level. And Kendall, I doubt she picks up any nuance of weirdness.

“You know, A/B, I bet we’re in the worst trouble with Mr. Wandweilder for skipping that Ramones thing,” she blathers on. “Stella’s the only one from the band going, as far as I know, but everyone who’s anyone else is sure to be there.”

“You said she had nothing else to do.” Edie breathes the words at me.

Before I can begin to conjure an explanation, Kendall goes on: “Well, I reckon we can always go late if this party gets dull. I have the driver all night. Gosh, all the traffic was going the other way—smooth sailing coming out here. That driver could not believe I was leaving the city for Long Island.”

That rips it for Edie. She ekes out an “excuse me” and bolts. I ought to go racing after her, but what would I say?

“Is she…all right?” Concern creases Kendall’s face.

“She—she’s mad at me,” I manage, obliquely, lamely.

“Oh, gosh, A/B! It’s not because I’m here, is it?”

The last thing I want is to make two women miserable! “No, Kendall. It’s not you, it’s me.” Yep, those words actually come out of my mouth. “I’d better—”

“No, let me go. Girls know how to talk to each other.” She touches my arm comfortingly. “Don’t you worry, I’ll just make chitchat, let her see how nice and regular I am. She doesn’t know me the way you do.”

Makes sense. If Kendall intimidates Edie, only Kendall can make it right. Right? Sure! By the stroke of midnight it will be worked out, canned sitcom laughter in the background. So I let Kendall follow Edie while I wander in search of that bong. Several heady hits later, I am feeling no pain. Cloud-walking, my head and feet turned to sponge. Those three guys I’m smoking with—Sam, Dan, and…Wham, is it? Spam…? They’ve got some good shit and are ridiculously generous.

So when an extra oomph of excitement stirs the atmosphere, it takes me a while to figure out what’s up. Santhea’s a burbling blur, passing out noisemakers and hats; her parents pop champagne corks and fill plastic glasses. Dan, Sam, and Spam float toward dates like astronauts in zero gravity. Santhea slaps a paper cone on my head, snaps the elastic under my chin. This shouldn’t be funny but it is.

The countdown begins: “Ten!…Nine !…Eight !…”

A whiff of perfume behind me…

“Seven!…Six!…Five!…”

A tender touch at my elbow…

“Four!…Three!…Two!…”

I turn woozily around.

“ONE!!!”

“Happy New Year, A/B!” The voice honey, the eyes stars.

“Happy New Year, Kendall…”

The room starts to spin. “Auld Lang Syne” kicks in. Kendall and I ring in the new year like any boy and girl who find themselves facing each other at midnight. With a kiss.