Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,21

just enough to let me know they were fully committed to my charade. Thank god for Milo and Jamal.

“We keep things basic when we’re off-duty,” said Milo, “because we’re not the front man.”

Cirrus looked at me with fresh eyes. She mimed screaming into a mic. Then she punched my shoulder.

The bell rang.

“Front man,” she said, and left.

“Bye,” I said slowly, as if I had just learned basic greetings.

I smiled as Cirrus vanished into the commotion surrounding us.

“Higher cognitive process express, now boarding,” called a woman. The vice principal. “Let’s motivate.”

“Motivating,” I called back. We launched into a walking speed of 0.25 meters per second.

“You look like the real thing,” said Milo.

“I do?” I said, picking at my shirt.

“She punched you,” said Milo.

“I wish someone would punch me,” said Jamal.

“I’m never washing this . . . what’s this arm muscle called?” I said.

“You might not have that muscle yet,” said Milo.

“Listen,” said Jamal, suddenly serious. “Have your fun and whatever, but I’m warning you right now: Don’t go crazy.”

“It’s just a black shirt and black pants,” I said.

“What I’m saying,” said Jamal, “is that if she gets too used to this version of you, she’ll run away when our plan completes and you go back to being the real you.”

“Thanks?” I said.

“We play, we pretend to argue, we break up,” said Milo.

“And then everything goes back to normal,” said Jamal.

“Okay,” I said.

But it wasn’t okay. I liked how the clothes made me feel. I even liked the attention, which was a surprise.

“First Immortals practice after school,” I said, in my best front-man pose. “Let’s rock the thing out with extreme urgency.”

Gee

So this is the music room,” said Jamal.

“We never come here,” said Milo.

It was true. We never hung out in the music room at school. The only people who came here were students focused on marching band, orchestra, or jazz. The music room was a state-of-the-art chamber, with cable lassos and a mixer board and speakers and doors that latched close like airlocks. It was serious. It had an aroma of seriousness.

No one was here now, because classes had ended for the day.

Aside from the hum of the lights above in the music room, the whole school was tranquil but for the distant bark and whinny of the color guard practicing their knock-off martial routines somewhere. It felt cool being here late, having the place to ourselves.

You think it’s cool to be at school after hours. You are a super mega-nerd.

Part of the music room had timpani, upright basses, a piano: everything you’d need for a classical performance.

The other part had a drum kit, an amp, guitars, a mic: everything you’d need for rock and roll.

Mr. Tweed, the music teacher, said we could stay as long as we needed to, because Mr. Tweed knew that music had the power to remind humankind to be human and kind.

There was a large poster with cartoon instruments of every kind looking at us with googly eyes. In unison, they all declared MUSIC IS MAGICAL!

I rapped the brass crash cymbals with my knuckles. They were part of something that looked like drums but was stacked vertically, like a sparkly garbage can with a fancy lid.

“Cocktail drums,” I said, like a reverent tour guide. “Prince played these.”

“No,” said Jamal. “He would never.”

My reluctant co-conspirators stared at me, waiting for guidance.

“How about we just familiarize ourselves with the tools of the trade?” I said.

“Did you really just say tools of the trade, Dad?” said Milo.

Jamal hoisted a bass guitar and inspected it as if it were a musket. “Tell me how this thing works.”

I found an electric guitar and slung it over my shoulder. “Wear it like this.”

Jamal threw it over his torso and stumbled for balance under its weight. He plucked a few strings. “There’s no sound.”

I plugged him into an amp, turned it on, and provided fresh earplugs to protect the delicate hair cells deep within the cochlea, which, once damaged, would never grow back. I did the same for my amp and ears.

Milo was crouched at the drums, muttering to himself. “This foot pedal must activate the bass drum. This must activate the dual cymbal assembly. Okay.”

Milo settled onto the drum throne like a rookie pilot. He brandished two sticks. “Okay.”

Jamal and I looked at each other. “Okay.”

“What now?” said Jamal.

“Wanna play a G?” I said.

“Show me.”

I pointed at my guitar. “These bottom four strings go in ascending order from E, to A, then D, then G. Your strings do, too.”

“This is way different