Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,22

from Guitar Poser VR,” said Jamal.

“Hold your hand like this,” I said. “Grip it like this.”

Jamal quickly processed these instructions. With his index finger he held down the third fret of the lowest string, which was fat as a metal cable. “Three half steps up from E means G would be here,” he said. He plucked.

Geeeeeeeee, hummed the amp.

Jamal palmed the string silent. “I guess it is kind of percussive.”

“Count us in,” I said to Milo.

Milo beamed, as if he had always harbored a secret dream of counting a band in with his sticks. He bashed them together. “One, two, three, four!”

GEEEEEEEEE

Milo crashed everything he could before him: snare, toms, cymbals.

Me and Jamal strummed away at our one mighty chord. We even vamped a little. Like rock stars.

GEE GEE GEE GEEEEEEEEEEE

I leaned into a mic and sang rock-and-roll nonsense: “Baby baby baby baby!”

My pulse was going. I could feel Jamal and Milo’s energy too. From just one G chord. Imagine adding another!

“How about E?” I shouted.

We paused to gingerly walk our fingers down, squeaking and squonking along the way as we counted one fret, then two, only to discover that E was an open note that required no digital pressure whatsoever. The amps patiently waited with an electric hum. Milo counted us in again, which was not strictly necessary.

EEE EEE EEE EEEEEEEEEEEE

The three of us continued to do this with other simple chords. Together, we made an imprecise, ultra-dorky form of music, but music nonetheless. We did not shred. Far from it.

Still. I could see us getting better. I could see our timing improving.

BOOM! BA-BOOM! TSHH!

Milo stood at the odd drum kit and shouted, “We! Are! The—”

He twirled his sticks a half revolution before dropping them because his drumstick-twirling skills were extremely poor.

“—Immortals,” muttered Milo, bending down to retrieve the sticks.

When Milo got back into position, I could see a happy flush in his cheeks. In Jamal’s, too. They had played but the simplest, dumbest music—but I could tell they already thought it was fun.

“And I thought rock and roll was dead,” said Mr. Tweed. He had entered the room with an armload of spiral-bound music books, and we hadn’t even noticed. He threw a devil horn salute, cool as can be. “Since when did you three get into music?”

“It was sudden,” I said.

“I assume this is for the talent show?” said Mr. Tweed.

“Huh?” I could feel the eyes of Jamal and Milo on me like red sniper sights. I glanced at them, shook my head. “There’s a talent show?” I said, with genuine ignorance. I had no idea there was a talent show.

“You’re gonna have to bring it. The school rented out Miss Mayhem on Sunset, gonna be big.”

Miss Mayhem. In my mind I saw the royal-yellow flyer on Gray’s wall:

THE MORTALS

AT THE WORLD-FAMOUS MISS MAYHEM

ON SUNSET STRIP IN HOLLYWOOD, CA

The same place Gray and the Mortals played years ago.

“Do you, uh,” I said, “do you actually think we’d be good enough to play Miss Mayhem?”

“With your classic rock falsetto?” said Mr. Tweed. “Sure.”

Falsetto, from the Italian falso meaning “false,” is when a singer fakes a higher voice above their natural range. There was nothing falso about my voice—it was just naturally high. I’d never felt proud of it until just now.

“Ahem,” said Jamal.

He was glaring at me: Absolutely not.

I glanced over at Milo, whose face said: What Jamal said.

“We’re actually metal, not classic rock,” I said.

“Buncha hellspawns, very nice,” said Mr. Tweed. “So, Jamal and Milo: As bass and drums, you are the backbone. Keep your eyes locked. Communicate. Your job is to give your front man Sunny here a rock-solid stage to headbang on. That alone will elevate you above the dance gangs, Ariana-bes, and honey-baked Hamiltons.”

“That’s really great advice, thank you,” I said.

Jamal looked pained. “Wait a sec—”

“I’ve seen a lot of talent shows, you know what I’m saying?” said Mr. Tweed with a side-pshaw. “I would love it if you guys rocked it the-hell-out for the sake of my weary soul.”

And he held out a paradise-pink flyer.

RUBY HIGH TALENT SHOW—AT THE

LEGENDARY MISS MAYHEM ON SUNSET STRIP

IN HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA—

NO PRESSURE LOL

“We will rock you,” I said, secretly addressing Cirrus.

“We will not even think about it,” corrected Jamal.

Mr. Tweed clocked the whole situation before him with his brown eyes and chuckled to himself. “Did you know that all serious rock stars started out as total self-taught nerds?”

I looked down at myself and at my friends and wondered: Are we that obvious?

“The cool comes later,” said Mr. Tweed.