Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,18

still fidgeting in the doorway.

“Leave me alone,” he said, and flung the door shut.

* * *

—

When I peeked into Gray’s old room the next morning, it was still exactly as I had left it. Untouched. A lost temple. Gray must have stayed in the basement billiard room all night.

Just to make sure, I made the long journey downstairs, where Mom and Dad were already babbling away on a call, then farther downstairs to the level below. I went to the billiard room door and listened.

Snoring.

I opened the door silently. Gray was still on the recliner, controller in hand. The game console was still on. At least the television had had enough sense to put itself to sleep. The room smelled stuffy and hot. Still, even in his sleep-dead state, Gray looked cool. He had changed into an impossibly on-trend tracksuit covered in grenades and Snoopys; he wore a velvet designer bucket hat (available for $200) slumped over his eyes.

I closed the door. I had wanted to make sure it was safe to search Gray’s wardrobe without interruption, but I hadn’t expected to feel depressed as a result. Gray was still not really here, even though he was physically here now.

At breakfast, Dad looked up from his phonetablaptop shuffle and wondered:

“Should I go check on Gray?”

“Let him come up on his own,” said Mom.

I said bye to a monotone chorus of Nns from my parents and rode the ten-speed to school. Once at the bike racks I dismounted and changed outfits: a digital black camo shirt with slashed jeans.

Part of me wished Gray could see how cool I felt, without seeing the part where I was borrowing his clothes.

Back in high school, Gray had already been a rock star. Less than a year after we moved to Rancho Ruby, he managed—despite being the single solitary lonely-only in his entire class—to charm his way into becoming universally popular across all the subgroups in the pantheon: jocks and preppies and thespians and student body politicians and so on.

It was around that time that Gray stopped talking to me in public. It goes without saying that Gray and I no longer went on dungeon adventures together, either. In private, we gradually stopped stealing spoons.

It took months for me to understand Gray’s increasing distance: As a high schooler, he could not afford to be seen talking to a middle schooler, much less a nerd like me. His surplus of cool would only be depleted by my uncool, and he needed every bit he could get.

I guessed I could understand that. What else could I do?

I would watch my big brother’s performances from the back of the auditorium, as mesmerized as the rest of the crowd. Gray: leaning his blackly ripped and distressed and studded self against the mic stand as if it were a staff, chopping away at his guitar to engulf the audience with its sparks.

I had seen with my very eyes twelve white girls on the front line fall instantly in love with Gray. This was well before K-pop burrowed its way into the heart of American mainstream media and laid eggs there; the world had never seen a star who looked like Gray. Gray never paid the girls much attention. He would stare above the crowd with Gatsbian intensity, perhaps at the bright green EXIT sign way in the back. His obliviousness only made the girls want him more.

Now, wearing the very same clothes that Gray had worn back in his high school rocker days, I felt regal. I felt sparky.

Jamal and Milo goggled at me.

“I think this rock persona actually suits you,” said Milo.

Jamal looked down at his sweatshirt and sweatpants and walking sneakers.

“Have I been Florida Man this whole time?” he said.

“Gray’s closet has lots of clothes you could try,” I said. “He’s back, by the way.”

Milo and Jamal froze.

“Is everything okay?” said Milo.

“He’s in between bands,” I said. “Other than that, it’s hard to tell anything when the guy won’t talk to you.”

“So, still kind of a dick,” said Jamal.

I shrugged: Yep.

“Does Gray’s return present problems for our plan?” said Milo.

“You mean Sunny’s plan,” said Jamal.

“Hey,” said Milo. “Friends in need.”

“I know, I know,” said Jamal.

I thought of Gray ignoring me. “It shouldn’t present any problems,” I said. “On that note, how about we give the whole music thing a try ourselves in the practice room after school?”

Jamal and Milo looked at each other: O-kay.

Elf shot the food! cried my phone. I made a mental sticky to temporarily