The Book
Arcadia
by Mandana Towhidy
Genre: New Adult
Published: July 8th 2013
Book Description
Populated by rockers, Deadheads, misfits, skinheads, Goths, surfers, preppies, cheerleaders, and jocks, ARCADIA by Mandana Towhidy is a Fast Times at Ridgemont High for the Metal years. It's an honest story of Ronnie and her friends (Ezze, Tess, Ash, and Syd), teen girls in the heart of the Hollywood Metal scene during the late 80s/early 90s, ruling it in their own way, with or without the boys, and having the time of their lives: scrounging dimes for burritos, ducking the hallway narcs, getting stoned in the parking lot, and hitching rides to the next party to get wasted, all before noon on a school day. And in the world of Hollywood where more is all you need, Ronnie discovers happiness in Metal and friends and learning to see through the games and the "perfect-ness" of it all. Long Hair Rocks...Again!
The Fang was a beautiful creature who would break my heart forever, just like every high school mystery lover.
It was phone calls and silly little laughs and bong hits and Steel Pulse and Van Halen and on and off and on and off and on and on and on and off and on and off again. It was subtle Goliath gestures and confusing intermissions and keeping me at arms length—just close enough to sense a pulse and feel his breath at the nape of my neck, but with enough space reserved between us for a thousand “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, PLEASE BREAK THIS UP” excuses.
I had met The Fang totally by accident at one of the parties Ash, Ezze, Taylor, Devon, Sydney, and I had gone to following a Repulsors’ party. We had gone straight to the cottage mansion with a garden–wedding backyard. It was beautiful with white bricks and rose boxes, oak trees, and plenty of French iron benches so you could sit in the warm moonlight. The older boys were at the party and so were all the skaters, who were older, too. Somehow, in my drunken wobbles, I had declared that I liked Buck Henry to everyone. Buck Henry was a lot older, like 25, and danced in dips a lot like Jim Morrison. He looked like him, too, but with shorter hair. I remember some annoying surf jock with braces that lots of girls crushed on (though I never thought he was hot) kept giving me shit about Buck and my tights. “They’re navy, but you’re pretending they’re black,” he kept saying. I didn’t know if he was flirting or being a dick, but I didn’t care because my drunken sights were set on Buck. I had no idea something else was waiting for me on the other side of that party. I first “met” The Fang and hour or so later when I ran to that part of the yard that was still under landscape construction. The girls and some of the boys that I didn’t know yet stood right on top of dirt mounds that looked a lot like coffee grounds.
I tried to balance my wobbly self atop the cocoa humps facing the boys, but I kept sliding around in my black steel–toe stilettos, “fake black navy tights,” and little black Lycra dress. The Mickey’s 40–ouncer made it harder to balance because the bottle was so damn heavy, and it slipped out of my hand onto the ground in front of the boys. In an attempt to catch it, I, too, nearly landed at their feet.
“Whooooa!” and laughter is all I heard. I hadn’t even had a moment to really look at their faces, but I could already sense some gentle eyes locking onto me.
I said hi. I said I was drunk. I heard laughter. I said I was staying. The boys said something I don’t know. Everyone left and I found out how shallow Buck was. I also heard the dumb surf jock say, “Buck got a home run.”
“What’s a home run?” I asked honestly. He didn’t answer, and then Owen, another older party boy who always hit on but also looked out for me, and was also friends with Buck Henry, looked at me and then at the annoying surf jock.
Excerpt
The Fang was a beautiful creature who would break my heart forever, just like every high school mystery lover.
It was phone calls and silly little laughs and bong hits and Steel Pulse and Van Halen and on and off and on and off and on and on and on and off and on and off again. It was subtle Goliath gestures and confusing intermissions and keeping me at arms length—just close enough to sense a pulse and feel his breath at the nape of my neck, but with enough space reserved between us for a thousand “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, PLEASE BREAK THIS UP” excuses.
I had met The Fang totally by accident at one of the parties Ash, Ezze, Taylor, Devon, Sydney, and I had gone to following a Repulsors’ party. We had gone straight to the cottage mansion with a garden–wedding backyard. It was beautiful with white bricks and rose boxes, oak trees, and plenty of French iron benches so you could sit in the warm moonlight. The older boys were at the party and so were all the skaters, who were older, too. Somehow, in my drunken wobbles, I had declared that I liked Buck Henry to everyone. Buck Henry was a lot older, like 25, and danced in dips a lot like Jim Morrison. He looked like him, too, but with shorter hair. I remember some annoying surf jock with braces that lots of girls crushed on (though I never thought he was hot) kept giving me shit about Buck and my tights. “They’re navy, but you’re pretending they’re black,” he kept saying. I didn’t know if he was flirting or being a dick, but I didn’t care because my drunken sights were set on Buck. I had no idea something else was waiting for me on the other side of that party. I first “met” The Fang and hour or so later when I ran to that part of the yard that was still under landscape construction. The girls and some of the boys that I didn’t know yet stood right on top of dirt mounds that looked a lot like coffee grounds.
I tried to balance my wobbly self atop the cocoa humps facing the boys, but I kept sliding around in my black steel–toe stilettos, “fake black navy tights,” and little black Lycra dress. The Mickey’s 40–ouncer made it harder to balance because the bottle was so damn heavy, and it slipped out of my hand onto the ground in front of the boys. In an attempt to catch it, I, too, nearly landed at their feet.
“Whooooa!” and laughter is all I heard. I hadn’t even had a moment to really look at their faces, but I could already sense some gentle eyes locking onto me.
I said hi. I said I was drunk. I heard laughter. I said I was staying. The boys said something I don’t know. Everyone left and I found out how shallow Buck was. I also heard the dumb surf jock say, “Buck got a home run.”
“What’s a home run?” I asked honestly. He didn’t answer, and then Owen, another older party boy who always hit on but also looked out for me, and was also friends with Buck Henry, looked at me and then at the annoying surf jock.
"I don't think so," he said with a little sigh and a drink of his bottle of Coors Lite. I didn't know what the hell they were talking about, but all my confidence ran into my fake black tights. I stood in that kitchen and no girlfriends or ride, and now Owen was saying I wasn't even a home run. Sometimes life just sucks, I thought.
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Mandana Towhidy
Mandana Towhidy
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