Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,13

usually like to keep pipes and vents and stuff all in one part of the school.”

“It’s like you can see the matrix,” I said.

“All schools are the same,” muttered Cirrus. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just appearing in the same place. Again and again. Just alternate realities in an infinite multiverse.”

Up until this point in my young life I had never heard anything more romantic.

I sat on the bench, only to realize I looked like an upskirt creeper. So I stood and leaned as rakishly as I could on a nearby trash can, only to realize it stank of barf gone leathery solid in the heat. I returned to my original place and held one hand over the other like some kind of drunk valet.

I cleared my throat. She shot me a look, as if I had just materialized.

“So do you miss your mother country?” I said, cool as can be.

“Huh?” said Cirrus.

“Jolly old England?” I said, faltering now.

“I’m not from-from there, actually,” said Cirrus.

“So, uh,” I said. “What’s your background?”

Cirrus looked at me. “Background.”

“Where were you born, blablabla, ha ha,” I said, laughing for absolutely no reason.

“Right, this question,” said Cirrus, drawing forth a ready answer. “Born in Sweden mostly by accident. Technically, I’m a citizen there. But also my dad was adopted by a family in Germany. So I have a second passport. Mom’s American. So.”

“Nice,” I said, as if I understood what any of that meant. Inside, I was spellbound.

“Most everywhere is basically the same,” she said.

“Totally,” I said, with a bogus Jedi-wave of the hand.

“Kids want friends, grown-ups want a house and a job,” said Cirrus.

“We’re all just people,” I said.

“If it’s different you’re looking for,” said Cirrus, “then hike Masoala, or try those live butod grubs in Sabah.” She widened her face with amazement. “I like bugs, but those are like No, thank you, you know?”

“I know,” I said, absurdly.

“Then again, I also couldn’t do live baby octopus in Korea, so maybe I just have a thing about food that’s still moving, you know?” said Cirrus.

“I know,” I said again, as if I did.

“I’m talking a lot, aren’t I,” said Cirrus.

“I’m easy to talk to,” I said, and was immediately delighted at this sudden display of genuine wit against all odds.

“I have to admit I still get a little nervous when I just get to someplace new,” said Cirrus. “So thanks.”

“Day nodda,” I said.

My smile held steady, but my mind was spinning faster and faster, having been dazzled by her kaleidoscopic cosmopolitan cool.

How many kinds of people had Cirrus met, I wondered, and in how many places? How many archetypes in the student pantheon?

Had she met other Sunnys before Rancho Ruby? Nerd Sunny, Super Macho Sunny, Cool Sunny, Fake Cool Sunny? One Sunny being just okay, but at least better than the other, and so on?

And how was this Sunny?

I began to feel increasingly unspecial.

The bell clanged. Just like it clanged at schools everywhere.

“So your next class is—” I said, but Cirrus wasn’t listening.

“Those two guys are staring at us,” said Cirrus.

I spotted Milo and Jamal, and made tight fists behind my back. “Let me introduce you to my friends,” I said.

“Hiiiiiii,” moaned Jamal, jamazed.

“Wowwww,” said Milo, milozmerized.

My two best friends wore what they normally wore, which was to say a combination of low-performance joggers and blank polos that were so normcore, they went through dadcore and into weekend dadcore beyond.

I should fix their wardrobe, I found myself thinking, then shook off the thought.

Their abject incoherence must have charmed Cirrus, because she covered her mouth with the back of her hand—such a refined gesture—and laughed.

“Hallooooooh to yooooou tooooo,” she said, her eyes as big as eggs. “You must be the Immortals.”

Jamal and Milo looked puzzled, as expected. I nodded with great earnestness from behind Cirrus. Just say yes.

Milo clued in first. “Yes,” he said.

“That’s us,” said Jamal, dutifully mimicking my bobbing head.

“Very cool,” said Cirrus.

Milo and Jamal exploded with gasps of nerd pleasure bordering on the profane. They were unaccustomed to this word cool, and now laved at it like dogs discovering fallen chocolate.

I pantomimed a dual-blade decapitation with my hands. Knock it off.

They stopped. They awaited further instruction.

I lowered downward-facing palms slowly, as if calming a cross-eyed horse. Be cool.

“Cirrus,” I said, “is a Soh, the daughter of old friends of my parents. They just moved to Los Angeles to mastermind the next great architectural icon.”

“It’s a mall,” said Cirrus.

Milo gestured with his hands. “When did you get in, your plane? Airport?”

Cirrus stifled another