Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,14

giggle. “Sorry. I’m still jet-lagged, so I might find everything amusing right now. I’ve been in beautiful Rancho Ruby less than a week.”

“Jet lag’s like Whatever The Flip,” said Jamal with a shrug so unorthodox he had to take a sidestep to maintain balance. “W-T-F dubs tha eff.”

“Sorry to cut in, but I only have a few minutes to show her the rest of the school,” I said quickly. “Shall we?”

“Nice to meet you,” said Cirrus to Jamal and Milo.

“Nice to meet you,” they howled back.

As I led Cirrus away, Jamal glared at me: What the hell?

I bobbled my head back: I’ll explain later!

But I had no idea how I would do that without sounding like I’d lost my mind.

Solution

That evening, I changed out of Gray’s clothes, put on my regular civvies, and strapped on my helmet and skid pads. I launched out onto the serene night streets of Rancho Ruby on my Velociraptor® Elite elliptical bicycle, which was propelled using a fluid striding motion on large foot platforms. The comfort level was vastly superior to the track-style fixies ridden by fools—you never saw mature men riding those, that’s for sure, and for darn good health reasons.

Velociraptor® Elite. Stand Up for Fitness.

I wore my wired headphones (Bluetooth headphones caused brain cancer, source) and listened to someone named David Bowie, whom I had just discovered. He sang “Let’s Dance.” I agreed, and danced while cycling. My helmet-mounted lamp danced back and forth in time.

“Under the moonlight,” I sang. “The Cirrus moonlight.” I was a pretty proficient singer, brag if I must. I was in choir in junior high; I could precisely hit notes with the divine purity of a prepubescent altar boy.

When I reached Jamal’s, I cruised up the herringbone driveway, through the carriage house, across a moonlit atrium, and into the guest villa garage, which was already open and waiting for me.

“There you are, fast and furious,” said Jamal, adjusting a hanging bedsheet.

“We’ve been waiting for this all day,” said Milo, setting down his video camera.

The two stopped what they were doing and faced me.

“For what?” I said, although I knew what.

“For you to explain yourself,” said Jamal.

I smiled a brittle smile that almost betrayed my mounting nerves. I of course needed to tell them about my lie. But I also needed to tell them about my solution.

“I will,” I said. “I promise. But first, let’s do our important work.”

“You’re killing us,” said Jamal.

I held my hands in prayer. “Important work with my two best friends whom I love and can trust with even the most embarrassing admissions, no matter how desperate and pathetic.”

“Impressive,” said Milo, and locked his camera into a tripod.

We three fell into a familiar rhythm: Milo, the visionary director, adjusted settings and framed the shot to show only my arm and the rest of the minimal set designed by Jamal. We recorded a wide shot, a slo-mo shot, and a close-up of the Raiden’s Spark device and its parts.

I recorded the narration, because I had the best voice for that sort of thing. Jamal edited everything together at his giant workstation: the title cards, the footage, the narration, and a sweeping fantasy music track, performed by Jamal himself on the keyboard in the corner.

We played it back.

“Perfect,” said Milo, who had the best eye for reviewing video. “Upload it.”

Jamal uploaded it, and tagged it, and did all the irritating computer crap needed to make sure it was easily findable, because Jamal had the best brain for that sort of thing.

Finally we sat back, slammed open imported Japanese Ramune sodas, and basked in the satisfaction of another episode completed while a carcinogenic wireless speaker played what Milo called real music, not the ear toxins trending online. We sat with our feet up on the same big orange pouf, the three of us in radial formation like the arms of a scientifically ludicrous but nonetheless sweet 1.21 gigawatt flux capacitor.

“Lady Lashblade’s gonna give us a share,” said Jamal. “I can feel it.”

We toasted: “To Lady Lashblade.”

But I was remembering another toast in my mind: To metal.

Jamal, having just read my mind effortlessly, said, “So.”

“Earlier today,” said Milo, “a beautiful new student named Cirrus asked us if we were immortals.”

“She asked us if we were the Immortals,” said Jamal.

“Correct, the Immortals,” said Milo.

My stomach performed a brand-new break-dance move called the Idiot.

I just smiled fiercely like I was fighting massive gas.

“Ha ha, ugh,” I said. I wished I could fabricate something on the fly, something less cringey than the