Table Read - Small Block - Act One

Episode Date: November 11, 2025

It's Homecoming week in Pondhill, 1994. Fourteen-year-old P is barely holding it together, shaving a single whisker in the bathroom mirror, writing a note he almost can't take back, and dialing his best friend Kev before a Zippo flame turns fear into momentum.At school, P's movie-trivia fluency sabotages Kev in a "battle of the sexes" quiz, earning heat from Kev and former best friend Bex. After class, the band - P, Kev, and Dizzy - argues Pantera vs. Korn, then mainlines '90s VHS nostalgia with Ace Ventura and The Crow.Then the impossible slides by in stainless steel: a DeLorean. Its driver, "Miss World," knows her metal, quotes regrets, and won't take three teens on a joyride yet. She'll be back tomorrow at 11 A.M.Under Friday-night lights, P pulls down a highlight-reel TD in a scrappy eighth-grade pickup game while Dizzy's hustling block saves the play. Back in the stands, P's parents pitch football and fitting in. P keeps tugging his shirt straight and his purple beanie low, but the question won't leave him alone: who is he allowed to be, especially if the words for it don't exist here?SMALL BLOCK is a feature screenplay by Ashley Lauren, performed live and mixed like a feature film for your ears. From the award-winning team at TABLE READ / Manifest Media Productions.Content Advisory: This episode contains suicidal ideation, transphobic and homophobic language, and minor fatphobic language, used intentionally to serve the story and its period portrayal.New episodes drop Tuesdays. Subscribe now.Cast (Full Feature):P - Levi Dafferner Kev - Kosi Eguchi Bex - Piper Kingston Dizzy - Deryck Hak Miss World - Lydia Tinsley Dad - Adam Pilver Mrs. D - Gemma Kyle Mom - Leah Zhang Britt - Eric Miller Tiff / Martha - Avery Norris Mr. Welch / Kev's Dad - Eddie Aguirre Dan / Zach - Aidan Dick Jack - Kellen Rose James - Michael Amir Nash Rob - Jack Murphy Janet / Video Store Clerk - Sabrina Ariss Narrator - Paula TisoWritten by Ashley Lauren Produced by Jack Levy, Mark Knell, and Shaan Sharma for TABLE READ / Manifest MediaSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

One, two, three. Table reads, Small Blocks. Small Block, written by Ashley Lauren. Thank you for listening to Small Block. Please note that there is adult language throughout that is not suitable for young listeners. Furthermore, there are a few items that might be triggering for some readers.

These include suicidal ideation, discussion, transphobic language, homophobic language, minor instances of fatphobic language, All phobic language is used intentionally for thematic reasons. It is not used without thought or due to either naivete or bigotry. Thank you again for listening to Smallblock.

Now, on to the show. Interior P's bathroom evening, Holes Violet starts. A mostly bare chin with a solitary black whisker. P, 14, muscular but fluffy with padding, face to the counter-length mirror, squints at his chin. He wears a purple beanie, gray hole t-shirt, jeans, flannel around waist. Razor swipes the chin bear. Maticulously swipes again. Again.

He picks up a small spiral notepad and a pen. He shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. He writes intensely, pauses, takes a deep breath, continues. He generally lowers the pen to the counter. Hand trembles. He reads the notes silent. face resigned. Nearby, old Swiss Army knife, cordless phone, polo cologne. P-flexes his arms, drops them dejectedly. His gray shirt creases along the underside of his peck. He pulls

it taut, but the crease reappears when he lets go. He tears the shirt off quickly, frantically dons a black t-shirt for the band obituary from the floor. His body was barely exposed. Pulls the tea taut. Let's go. The black hides his body better. P sprays polo on his inner wrist, rubs his wrists together, then dabs his neck and cheeks, wipes the excess on his tea. He studies the crisp new shirt.

His face softens. His hand moves toward the knife, but instead grabs the phone. He exhales. Pauses the CD boom box. Violet stops. Dials. Ring.

Never mind. He hangs up. Reaches for the knife. Ring, the phone glows orange, P checks caller ID, Davidson. It's Kev, 14 half Japanese, P's bestie. Off screen for the scene, P answers. You know in coma where Axel's like, when you said that no one's listening, why'd your best friend drop a dime?

Again with that shit. I called you, I'm definitely listening. I know. I know. Axel lies in that song anyways. It's so easy to be social, it's so easy to be cool. to be cool? My fucking ass. Please. P shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. You thought much about the dance? Why? You think Bex has a date? You gotta chill about Bex man. You're my best friend now. You, not her. And you're cool as shit. Yeah? Well, no one at school thinks so, especially not Bex. If Carla was here, I'd take her to the dance and then everyone's

see. Why are you asking anyway? P hesitates. Dude, do you like someone? Kev's dad screams in the background. Hang up! I need to get on AOL. It's P! He can tie up someone else's line. Kev's tone changes. He sighs, then talks quietly. I wish I could live with my mom.

Ten more seconds, and it'll be no CDs for a month. Thank God for school. Don't let him pollute your soul, man. Lyrics. Write that shit. Nine! Click! The line goes dead. P pulls a beaten-up chrome zip-o for. a drawer. He tears the note from the notebook. The top spirals a trench of torn edges. Only half the pages

remain. P returns everything to the drawer except the zippo. He lights the page on fire, drops it in the sink. Pea leaves the bathroom as the flames ash up the page, eating backwards into the words, starting with... All you love, I, sorry I'm... Interior P's bedroom continuous. Metal band and movie posters line the Walls, Candlemas, Mansion and Uniform, 1931, Pantera, Batman, etc. Over the bed, framed full-size back-to-the-future poster with various signatures in silver ink. Corner, electric guitar, practice amp, dumbbells. The note VO continues as P walks to the bed. It in lie, I'll bed my maid, I. Stay, should I, why reason any sea can't I. Sorry I'm, love I everyone to notes Suicide Mai.

On the desk, model DeLorean, yellow sports discmen, CDs. There's a photocopy flyer that reads, Pond Hill Homecoming 94 middle school dance. Pee picks it up and sits on the bed. He looks to the desk, a framed recent photo of P with a half Japanese boy the same age in front.

Behind it, P pulls out a second framed photo, P, younger, and a girl at a water park. In the photo, Pei's eyes are red as if he's been crying, but he smiles joyously. The girl's mouth is open in a huge laugh, her arm protectively around P. Pei gazes at the picture and smiles. He looks to the dance poster in his other hand, face growing complicated when... Beep, beep! The smoke detector wails.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Pea runs to the bathroom, replacing the photo haphazardly. The pictures topple face down, the second on top of the first. Interior Pea's kitchen, short time later. Pei enters, his dad, 45, removes a large crepe from the stove and lays it alongside another on the center island. Nearby, seared beef tenderloin, mushroom ducels, patte de foie gras, puff pastry, prosciutto de parma. Tutsi on the 32-inch CRT TV.

Dad scrunches his nose. You fall into a vat of cologne? Pea flushes. He sniffs the air. Dad lays prosciutto in a tight, even pattern across the crepes. Your mom reminded me of today's significance. Pick a place, anywhere you want, except sushi. Great. That's not dinner?

Dad laughs, as he layers duck cells onto the ham. I think not. One of the OR nurses, Christine, is getting married. She loved the cake I did for our surgical tech. Been studying for the test? Yeah. Dad stops spreading paté on the duck cells, looks up. up. Swear. Remember we went to see this? Best Picture 1983 nominee, Jessica Lang won Best Supporting.

Dad glances at the screen. Dressing up as a woman used to mean you were a Nancy, but he gets the girl, so good on him, I guess. Some like it hot, too. Jack lemon and makeup, ghastly. Dad moves the tenderloin on top of the patte, then delicately encases the beef in the layered crepe. He pulls over a baking sheet with a layer of raw puff pastry. Seems like a lot of work for steak. Dad looks at pee like he's a fucking idiot. A Wellington is a body, an ecosystem. Tenderloin is tender, but there's no fat, no flavor.

You have to put flavor around it for it to come alive. First, what do we have under our skin and muscles? Organs. Thus? He looks at pee expectantly. Pea stares back blankly. Dad sighs. Thus, paté de foie gras, rich, creamy, earthy, then duccells, mushrooms, more earthiness, then the parma ham, salty, fatty, then the crepe.

You need to contain the juices, the essence of the beef. Trap it so the outside, the puff, isn't tainted. The result? Dad points proudly to the lower oven. The light is on, a golden Wellington with exquisite lattice baking. is a showstopper. Look at that glorious little football. And the tenderloin, the heart, is perfectly isolated and protected.

Pass me another. P. gets a Dr. Pepper and a raw tenderloin wrapped tightly in plastic wrap from the fridge. Holy crap, there's like 15 more tenderloins in here. It's a wedding, not happy hour. You had the St. John's interview, right? Went well? Definitely. You better be taking this seriously.

St. John's is... Now, that's a school. Brenda Nash told me there's a dance this Saturday. Mom, 48, healthy but thin, enters with a wrapped present. Happy birthday in Japanese tonight? Not this year. Mom looks at dad, pleased, but curious. You don't get full at sushi.

A dance, huh? Not sure if we're going. Dad looks up excitedly. We? Me, Kevin Dizzy. Dad and mom exchange looks. Football will be good for you. P nods at the screen.

There's other ways to get girls. None of them seem to be working. Change this shit. P flips through channels methodically. New shirt? Gift from Kev. Dad, do you like my shirt? This.

This, the best. Jack Lemon and this? Now that's a performance. You seen it? P stops the TV on The Apartment. Best picture in 1961. You took me to Casalinda. Mom hands Pee her gift.

P tears the carefully. wrapped paper. He unfurls the present. A black, entombed band t-shirt. Entombed sweet. P starts pulling it over his shirt. Mom shoots a good nature, you kidding me look? Pee glances at dad focused on cooking. He rips off his old shirt and pulls the new one on hastily, purple beanie in place. Dad glances up. I thought you were going to get diet, Dr. Pepper. Pee rapidly tugs down his shirt to hide his body as dad unwraps the tenderloin, places the beef in the pan. It sizzles. He removes the other Wellington from the oven. Perfect. Gorgeous. Is that a tester?

Dad smiles mischievously, slices it proudly, pushes the slice to sea. The beef is medium. A healthy, uniform pink. His face contorts and rage. Piece of shit oven! Calibrations drifted again. I should have gone with Viking. I fucking knew. This shit looks nice, but inside it's rubbish. He opens the trash and shoves the whole Wellington in. You don't want to taste it? Beef's overcooked, ruined. Never be as good as it could have been.

Let's go to dinner. I can't leave. I'm behind. On TV, the apartment's Dr. Dreyfus pleads with Jack Lemons Baxter to grow up and be a mensch. Words to live by. Okay, call pizza. I feel like pizza.

Any toppings you want. Interior Pont Hill, Welch's classroom next day. Hand-painted homecoming 94 signs adorn the walls. The rooms divided into a quiz show. show arena. Two arcs of desks flank Mr. Welch's 34 desk. Replete with lectern. True 90s style. Battle of the sexes. Boys left, girls right. Bex, 14, punky, overweight and confident as fuck, holds the baton. She's older now, but is clearly the girl from P's desk photo. A large homecoming dance poster is offset behind her. Joan of Arc. Correct, Bex. Tie game. Girls cheer,

boys grumble. Okay, okay. One point. Point bonus for getting the final question correct. Charged with heresy for spiritual vision she claimed fueled her quest, what secular activity earned Joan of Arc charges of blasphemy. Dressing like a soldier? More specific. Pee, tiny smile, purple beanie just so, eyes becks intently. Dressing like a male soldier.

The girls take the lead. The girls who the boys turn to P as does Bex. Pee, Pee, Pee, P waves them down. He smiles at Kev. From the desk photo. As captain, I elect Kev to answer. P passes Keb the baton. Boys grumble.

But a few show support. Kev smiles. His time to shine. The category is movies. Girls groan. Boys cheer. Kev slumps. P. slaps him on the back.

I got you. P. meets eyes with backs. She smiles at him. P. shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. What Barbara Streisand movie Mr. Welch's words drift away As a flash of silver catches P's eye out of the window A DeLorean drives down the street

P's eyes widen Keb's hand nudges them back to the classroom They whisper Holy shit, I think it's Lentzel Sorry Holy shit I think it's Yentel P turns back to the window

The beautifully utilitarian steel Of the DeLorean contrasts with the greenery around it. Dude. Streisand? Probably a star is born. Five seconds. I swear it's Yentel.

Four? You're terrible at movie stuff. I'd be shocked if it was Yentel. What was the exact question? Kev looks at P. stunned. Three? What was the exact question again? Sorry, Kev.

Got to answer now. One? Kev glances frantically at P. P. gives him a thumbs up. A star is born. Silence. As everyone waits. P. looks out the window.

The DeLorean's gone. He turns back to class. The film that garnered Barbara Streisand, the first ever directing Golden Globe for a female director in 1983, is... Pei's head tilts back in despair. Yensel. That's right, P. Yentel.

Girls win. No homework next week for you. Yeah. The girls erupt in joy. Kev gazes at Bex. She winks playfully at him. Kev drops his head. He glares at Pee, as does Dizzy. Thirteen, half Vietnamese, half-Durice.

Yorkie, half-cooled bowl cut. The other boy's sigh in frustration or mutter disapproval. Way to go, Kev. Pei looks guiltily at the visibly angry Kev. Mr. Welch, one more question. Sorry, P. Game's over. They got one? Bex raises her eyebrow at Pee.

Mr. Welch ignores him. Enjoy the three-day weekend. Hope to see you all at the game, and of course, at the dance. Hey, let's crush St. John's this year. We're due. Come on, Mr. Welch, be a mensch. You know, I also heard rumors of a surprise at halftime. Just saying, Mr. Welch, winks.

Is it because Bex is a girl? The class goes silent. Bex glares at P. His face makes plain he knows that it was the wrong thing to say. The bell rings. No one moves. Your team captain, P. You could have taken the question, but you gave it to Kev.

It's a question you should have and would have gotten. Just like I gave Bex a question she should have gotten. And she did. That was me being a mensch. Now it's your turn. Bex, girls, don't let P spoil your victory. Who? The class howls and laughter.

Interior, Pond Hill hallway, couple minutes later. P walks toward Kev, who shoves books into his locker. Homecoming dance posters on the walls, along with homecoming decorations and team signs. A classmate, Zach, walks by, as does James. Kev, leave movies to Pee, bro. Yeah, follow P's lead next time. Pee arrives at Kev's locker.

Dude, I'm so sorry Thank God Carla doesn't go here I die if she'd seen that Martha and Janet passes well To P Go crawl back in your hole You chauvinist pig Mind your own holes, Sveminati

Scowling, Dizzy joins Kevin P as Martha and Janet leave You sound like a St. John's creep Good luck finding a date to the dance Pea. Is the girls hate me or not you? Be at the game tomorrow, big dog Brit 14, handsome quarterback energy at his locker with Tiffany

14 thickly athletic, solid, and a couple others. Britt throws P of football. It's wide, but P gracefully leaps and catches it decisively in one hand. Fuck, St. John's. Pee spirals the ball back to Britt, who smiles. My man. Kev shows a book into his locker with a clang.

Pei's eyes signal to Britt. He nods towards Kev. It'll cut your way next time, Ken. Britt nods at P then turns back. Kev mutters to P. Sure. Ken will kill it next time. Girls laugh. P. looks. Bex with friends.

He pulls his purple beanie down, hides behind the locker door as she passes. Yeah, but I got to work tomorrow. Safe. P pulls his head out. Bex, Jubilant, walks by a parade of homecoming dance signs on the wall. The fuck, fag? You know every useless fact about every stupid movie exactly like whatever it was? There was a Delorean outside. Dizzy's face instantly shifts. Kev is speechless.

How fast was it going? Was it cool? Yes, super cool. You made me loose to Bex, of all people over DeLorean? Of all people, huh? Pei's eyes close. He turns. Beck stands. A homecoming dance sign to her right. Worried deep down that me and P are still best friends behind your back? Pei reddens. He glances at the dance sign. Small crowd gathers.

No need to keep us separated, Kev. Yards free. Come out and play. Bex. Is it? Because I'm a girl, Pee? Ooh. Crowd ooze. Pea and Bex meet eyes. He breaks first.

Bex walks away, victorious. Yeah, you're lucky or a girl? Bex flips her middle finger without turning. I am lucky I'm a girl, ditsy. P watches Bex pass another homecoming dance sign. Every step taking farther and farther away from it. He shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. Heifer.

Kev glances at Dizzy. Slams his lockers shut. The sound blends into a loud, distorted power cord from P's guitar in Dizzy's garage, after school. P, guitar, cab bass, and Dizzy drums, practice for their metal band, Shadow King. Cool blend of thrash and groove. One, two, three, four!

Envacy of faces, master at the back. Void of emptiness surrounds me, catacomor flash. He harmonizes for the chorus. He didn't deep from sunlight in a game I cannot win. Drown in ocean for all I'm worth, I've nothing left within. See the surface from below, but still I hold my form. He screams, who I am unbroken. Dizzy's snare crack, crack, cracks as the band kicks back in.

The new part's more technical, heavier, and less accessible. Hey! I'm not feeling it. The band stops. Check this. Kev plays a deeply simple bass groove. P's not impressed, but tries to find a way in. He plays a complex thrashy riff.

Hey. Nah. Too much. Kev restarts. He plays a less complex death metal riff. Three, four! No! No. Mirror me.

Three, four. Peace eyes, but mirrors kept's groove close enough. Yeah, that's what people want. You hear that band Corn yet? They rock. What about Pantera, carcass, machine head, dream theater even? You can't play Dream Theater. Divine Intervention came out last month.

Know how many times I've heard it on the radio? I haven't. And that's Slayer. They buried fucking Slayer. Know how many times I've heard blind by corn yesterday? Fuck radio. Shadow King needs to make epic shit that changes people's lives. Dizzy, you don't want to sell out.

What I'd like to sell. I'm with Kev. P looks guiltily at Kev who smirks. P concedes. He plays the simple riff. Kev joins on bass. Dizzy plays a very simple beat. Pee's eyes focus.

on his cable jack. The metal sleeve distorts P's reflection. The tubular jack resembles the Bontet, Dizzy's mom, Mrs. D. Mrs. D. makes in Dizzy's kitchen short time later. Mrs. D puts the Bontet in a Tupperware with a few others. The wrapped tied green banana leaves are uniform. She spreads a banana leaf on the counter, adds rice, large containers of food nearby, homemade mac and cheese, Spanish rice, grilled chicken drumsticks, salad.

P. and Kev walked to the CD player. Costumes? Like makeup and stuff? We need an image. Cool if we play some tunes, Mrs. D. Okay, but no, girl! Mrs. D. imitates death metal growls. P. Laugh. Kev hands a McCorn CD while I fucking the Bontet.

Research. Are those the things we had for Lunar New Year, Mrs. D? Mrs. D nods. Mm-hmm. Bantech? Image isn't music, man. I don't want to be good. Kiss? Which track? Seven. Kiss's problem is

they took the makeup off. If they hadn't, no one would have known what they really looked like. Problem solved. Kiss's problem is that they suck. Bagpipes play. Dizzy enters. Mrs. D.D. adds Mung Beans. What's this gay shit? Billet! My bad.

Fellas. What's this gay crap? Thank you. Peehands Dizzy, the CD case. Kep stares as Mrs. Dase lays Pee's eyes almost leave his head looking at the D-Ks. Whoa, there's a track called Fagget. Play that next.

Every band does t-shirts and jeans now. No one has a look. I like this. Backpipes? Better than P's music. Mayhem and some of the black metal bands wear corpse pay. See?

Not makeup, corpse paint. It conjures something. Image is a huge part of music. It says stuff. I want the music to say stuff. Dizzy eyes a Tupperware of spring rolls. Only green vegetables are visible through the translucent wrapper.

No shrimp? In the middle, protects better. Easier for Uncle Chris to bite. Better when they're on top of the other stuff. Taste them first. Mrs. D wraps and ties the Bontet. A band shouldn't look like chess club. And a band's music shouldn't sound like checkers.

Mrs. D assembles a new Bontet. Dizzy reaches toward the mound of them in the Tupperware. Mrs. D slaps his hand away. Hey, these are for Uncle Chris. All the other food is for you. you. Why does he need Bontet in October? He doesn't have much time.

Maybe when I'm dying, I'll fucking get one then. Mrs. D. Stops. Silence. Dizzy's demeanor shifts. P. and Kev know the drill. P. quietly grabs three sodas from the fridge. Kev discreetly retrieves his CD. They exit to Dizzy's room moments

later. P shuts the door lightly. Multiple Delorean and metal band posters on the walls by the bunk bed. Japanese Sega genesis, big 90s computer tower, 32-inch CRT TV, closed strewn, super-soakers waiting for summer. P gives Kev a Coke classic, opens a Dr. Pepper. The sprite remains for dizzy. Kev grabs it instead. She's going to wot his ass. Kev takes the Pont Hill yearbook off the desk. Nah, moms are supposed to love you. Imagine if his dad was here.

Kev flips idly through the yearbook. He stops abruptly, eyes burning at the page. I bet she thinks I'm so stupid Mrs. Dee? Kev holds up the yearbook, jabs it toward Pee, a large, candid photo of Beck's smiling, a butterfly resting on her open palm. Bex, man? Bex!

I don't want your old best friend to think your new best friend is a dumb-ass loser. Do you really care what she thinks? Do you? Pei hesitates. He looks down. Kev smiles ruefully at the silent confirmation, tosses the yearbook on the bed. I bet.

she's jealous. Kev smiles. He pops open the sprite, sips quietly. He stares at the yearbook as if he can still see her. Interior, Dizzy's room, evening, later. Dizzy enters with a Dr. Pepper, Coke, and Sprite. Put your dicks away, fags. Yep! Obscure your penises, fags. He nods at his mom's tacit approval, shuts the door. Kev grabs the sprite from Dizzy's hand and opens it. I hate Coke. We get it for you. Keb takes a long swig. Dizzy snatches the remote, jabs it.

The movie unpauses. Ace Ventura on the TV. Pacing his bathroom, Ace realizes that the female detective Einhorn is actually the Miami Dolphins kicker he's been trying to locate. In revelatory joy, he exclaims that Einhorn's a man, which he repeats immediately in

revulsion as the horror of their kiss dawns on him. I love this part. Disgusted, Ace plunges his face, vomits excessively, and acts out other phobic hyginks while the crying game plays. P., Kevin Dizzy laughs so hard, they cry.

Interior Dizzy's room later, a knock on the door, Mrs. D enters. On TV, Einhorn, visibly shell-shocked, stands motionless as Ace rips off her skirt. Looks normal. Then Ace solves the mystery. He spins Einders. horn around her tucked penis outlined in panties, he exclaims,

that's why Roger Pitt actor's dead. He found Captain Winky. The crying game plays. The entire police force dry heaves. The boys laugh hysterically. Did she go to the bathroom in her underwear? The boys laugh even harder. No, Mrs. Dee. She used to be a man. Still is a man.

So that's her penis. What's it doing in a butt? Kev, purple-faced falls over laughing. Dizzy turns red. Mrs. D waves her hand at Dizzy. He pauses the movie staring longingly at the sprite as Kev drinks. Going to uncles back tomorrow? The boys try to hide their excitement.

When do your boys want to go to the dance Saturday? Philips's been talking about it for weeks. P and Kev eye Dizzy, who flushes. Don't y'all kind of want to go? Yeah, us standing around while they play post. Poser crap, like the sign and all that she wants. Sounds great. Well, hang.

Laugh at the posers. It could be fun, dude. Or we can hang here. More fun. Okay, you all decide. Mrs. D closes the door. Pokes her head back inside. Woman, man, penises are always in the front.

P bites his lip. Kev slaps a hand over his mouth. His face turns more purple. His body heaves as he stifles a laugh. The boys stare at each other. The front door finally closes, they erupt in laughter. He pounds the bed. The impact blends into the sound of Kev's feet running toward the bathroom in Dizzy's house night, short time later.

Kev B-lines towards the bathroom. Right as Kev gets to the door, Dizzy sprints past, locks it. Kev bangs on the door. Dude, I only have one pair of underwear! You brought one pair of underwear for a three-night sleepover? Yellow waterfalls! Yellow waterfalls! Yellow waterfalls. Yellow waterfalls rushing streams of pee.

Ooh, urine, you're in, you're in, y'r in. Use his parents' bathroom. Kev looks at the closed door of the far bathroom. He bangs on the door in front of him again. Ooh, amazing how much piss I have left. It might never end. I'll say it was my idea. You've got a death wish, dude.

Kev runs into Dizzy's parents' bathroom. Interior Dizzy's kitchen moments later. The fridge door opens, pee grabs a Dr. Pepper. He leans against the fridge, stares at the back wall, It's only a door and glass panes, effectively a big window. The patio is unlit, but the small pool faintly glows. The kitchen light transforms the glass into a semi-transparent mirror, both inside and outside visible. He stares at his lacklustre reflection.

He mutters to himself. As if Beck's would go to the dance with you anyway. He raises his sleeve, flexes, no definition, other arm. You look like Arnold's gay pool boy. P pulls his sleeve down, shirt-taught, Dizzy Enter. smiling. Where's Kev? The other bathroom? Dizzy's lips curl. Both you fuckers know to stay out.

My bathroom's for guests, public. The other is private, off limits. Ooh, are there dark secrets in there? He was gonna piss his pants. He beat ants. Full on vogue. Dizzy laughs, looks out the large back window. Give me any Coke, but Coke.

Imagine how freaky it would be if some dude appeared outside right now. Ptoss is a sprite. He examines his reflection in the glass. Yeah, like 44, tough. A man's man used to play football. A faint image appears outside the glass, intensifying. Long hair, but it's thinning. Not sure if he'll ever go fully bald,

but you can see the skin through the hair. Pathetic. Clean-shaven, but his face is that gray beard shit? It's ugly. God, he's ugly. As if in slow motion, the man shakes his arm, extending and curling his fingers. It's rough staccato compared to pee.

The image briefly overlays P's reflection as it slowly shifts back to the inside part of the glass, then disappears. Pea adjusts his purple beanie, then eyes as Dr. Pepper. Your mom ever by diet? Dizzy crunches his empty can against the counter. He opens an outstretched hand to Pee. I meant like some deranged homo pervert who break in and butt-fuck you and Kev. Pea hands Dizzy a fresh sprite.

Well, I'd make sure you got butt-fucked first and last. Pee and Dizzy's scream. Dizzy's unopened Sprite falls exploding against the floor. Kev saunteres in, loose and relaxed, a fountain of Sprite spraying next to him. Kev licks a little off his hand. So who's getting buffed? Exterior driveway short time later. The basketball bounces against the concrete.

The boys play tips on the adjustable full-size hoop. P dribbles. Only Pee wears a shirt. Kev and Dizzy's tease lie in a pile. Pee's flannel is tied around his waist. Purple Beanie, a bit sweaty. I'd still fuck her. Gross, dude.

Einhorn doesn't have some bitch tied up in a well. She's hot. Her cock wouldn't bother you? I said I'd fuck her, not marry her. Can you imagine dating a purve like that? I want a freak in bed, not a freak when we're at the store. I'd rather kill myself. Who cares if no one knows?

If you're going to be gay, you should be a fucking man about it. I'd kill myself, and then I'd have the most epic funeral mix CD. From whom with bell tools? Plead out. Marsh Funnabra? Sick track, but not as sick as my handle. P drives left, sidesteps Kev, then twists past Dizzy. The ball kisses the backward, bounces off the rim, it misses.

Kev leaps forward. Airborne, he tips the falling ball up toward the basket. Bounce, bounce, bounce. It drops in. Back to 11, bro. No one rock at a funeral? Cemetery gates. Yes, Pantera's my shit.

Pantera's I'm broken shatters the night. The boys turn their collective head in unison. A DeLorean, sleek and silver, turns onto the street. The windows are down. The engine rumbles. A woman, 42, drives. The muscular guitar's defiant, bluesy, metal groove provides the perfect foundation as the singer screams the song's chorus.

I'm broken, inherit my life. God damn! Wait! P sprints towards the car. He's at the end of the driveway. The car isn't going to stop. Dude, you're going to get killed! He launches forward in front of the car, Purple Beanie, flying.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. It's not stopping. It's not stop. Scree! The brake squeal. The car stops. Just enough to be safe, but definitely enough to be dangerous. Good thing we settled the funeral makes tape.

The purple beanie's on the street. Peatugs his shirt taut, his ponytail briefly visible. Pea and the woman at a standstill. She's sitting back, bathed largely in shadow. Slivers of light illuminate her half smile. I'm Pee. That's Dizzy and Kee. I've, uh, we've never been this close to a DeLorean.

Dizzy ambles slowly, entranced. Can I touch it, Delorian lady? Miss World. Go ahead. Miss World leans forward. Dark hair, a similar color to peas. Flannel, mid-drift tank, yellow scarf around her neck. Dizzy runs his hands over the car as if it's magic.

Flux capacitor hiding in there? Miss World chuckles. Sure is. But who knows if it works? Take us for a ride and find out. Nice try. But it's a bit weird for an adult to take three teens she just met out for a ride.

Plus, it's a school night. Three day weekend! You do synchronize swim, too? We're in a band. Got a tape? It might be a little heavy for a girl. The DeLorean rumbles to life. Miss World puts it in gear.

P steps forward touching his knees to the bumper. Sorry, I say stupid things sometimes. We're not asking him about Barra Streisand movies. Miss World laughs. We don't have a tape. Our stuff's a thrash-groove death metal hybrid, but both Sweden and Florida death metal, if that means anything.

And some corn. So Megadeth, Slayer, maybe Arise-era Sepul-Torra? I'm assuming pre-black Metallica, mixed with Pantera and Machine Head. And for Death Metal, what? Early entombed and obituary? The maybe morbid angel.

Oh, and some corn. Pea, Kevin Dizzy, stare at her, mouths agape. Girls aren't always what you'd think. The Delorean reverses. Pea's chances are fading. He takes a deep breath. He sings. Kev cringes at the totally embarrassing earnestness.

Memory of summer has long passed. Crawling through the mud and silt, the rain never washes me clean. Encrusted in clay, the seed can still flower, but the sun has forgotten my name. The DeLorean stops. A dog howls. What's that?

Lyrics I've been writing? Miss World assesses pee. He puts the purple beanie on his head. Not bad. Might have earned a ride. We'll see. Your parents around? No.

Kev smacks Dizzy's arm. That was stupid. Will they be here Saturday night? We'll be at the dance. No, we won't. Miss World looks at pee. P surveys his friends. We might be.

Kev glares at P. Dizzy looks at Kev. My girlfriend, Carla, is not in town. You could go, Zagru? Thank you. Going without a date sucks. Anyone you two like? Dizzy shakes his head.

He turns, walks around the car in awe. Kev goes to the basketball hoop. Miss World eyes Pee. DeLorean turns into a pumpkin soon. Pei glances guiltily at Kev. He shakes his arm, extending and curses. curling his fingers. Miss World smiles playfully,

looks P square in the eye. My biggest regret is the amount of regrets I have. Careful, Dizzy. Couldn't see you. P nods, taking in her words as Dizzy steps back from the car. Miss World smiles coyly at P.

You coming back? P and Dizzy watch her shrinking taillights fade into the night. End act one.