Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [22]
Len wasn’t even halfway through the first verse when he yelled, "Pineville!" and attempted a stage dive. Talk about premature ejaculation. Everyone was still sitting in their seats. There wasn’t anyone to catch him. He landed right on his feet and just kind of stood there, stunned that he was on the ground instead of surfing the crowd.
So then he went the audience-participation route.
"Pineville!" he yelled into the microphone.
Then he held it out for the audience to respond in kind. Silence.
"Pineville!" he yelled even louder.
This time he was met with howling laughter. The song ended not long thereafter with Len Levy throwing down the mike with a deafening squeal of feedback and storming out of the auditorium.
Rock and roll.
Next up was Dori Sipowitz, a die-hard Britney Spears fan if there ever was one. Much like the genuine Lolita diva, Dori’s act was heavy on the choreography and light on the singing, relying on prerecorded vocals and lip-synching. Dori’s mother was sitting right in front of us and screamed, "Sexy, baby! Sexy, sexy, sexy!" as her daughter writhed and gyrated in a pink, sequined catsuit with a belly-baring cutout.
I don’t even need to tell you how completely sick and inappropriate that is.
She was followed by a trio of Hoochie hip-hop dancers who should’ve known better than to wear white spandex. (They put the "boom" in boom-shaka-laka-shaka-laka-shaka-laka.) A posse of Wiggaz rapped about da thug life outfitted in the bangingest, bling-blingingest ghetto superstar gear available at the Ocean County Mall. There was also a juggler and a Grateful Dead cover band named Long Strange Trip.
There were a few more acts but I’ve blocked them out. No emotion is more squirmy than feeling embarrassed for someone else.
The final act was Percy Floyd, a Double-A Elvis impersonator. After thirty seconds of anticipation-building Vegas-style vamping and spotlight swirling, The Black Elvis took the stage like a tornado. Like all Elvis impersonators worth their Quaaludes and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, he chose to give homage to the jelly-bellied, sideburned, rhinestone-jumpsuited Elvis, the one who sadly lost the vote for the commemorative stamp.
The audience went nuts.
I was laughing and clapping and cheering along with the rest of the audience as The Black Elvis crooned his way through "Suspicious Minds." It was only when he whipped off his huge tinted sunglasses to wipe his brow with a red scarf that I discovered the shocking identity of The Black Elvis. I nearly fainted in the aisle—which would’ve been a nice dramatic touch.
"Holy shit!" I screamed. "I know that kid!"
"Who is he?" yelled Hy.
"He’s Pepe Le Pew!"
"Who?"
"Pepe. Pierre. This kid in my French class who has a crush on me."
Pepe must have stuffed his jumpsuit with about a dozen pillows. But fake fat aside, he was pure King. He did mock karate chops. He even had two burly "bodyguards" come out and throw a cape over him. The final touch? An announcement over the loudspeaker that Elvis had left the building.
I was so proud of him when he won.
I don’t know how I didn’t recognize him instantly. While a few hundred Wiggaz front like boyz and girlz in da hood, there are only twenty-five real black students at PHS. And there’s only one black kid in my French class who has a crush on me, for Christ’s sake. Maybe the reason I didn’t immediately recognize Pepe is because he’s such a gifted chameleon. I’ve been observing him lately. He’s one of the few kids at PHS who defies categorization. He wins the talent show and wrestling matches. He speaks English, French, and Ebonics. He hangs with Double-As and Wiggaz, 404s and Dregs, Jocks