Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,23

He polished his tortoiseshell rims. “Trust me.”

“Huh,” I said, gospel-nodding.

“What is happening—” whispered Jamal.

Mr. Tweed slapped a hand on the large poster on the wall. “Say it with me.”

“Music is magical,” we chanted.

“This room’s yours, day or night,” said Mr. Tweed. “Door code is six, six, six.”

“Number of the beast,” I said.

“Stay metal, Sunny boy,” said Mr. Tweed.

Salsa

I changed back into my civvies, rode home, and stared at my fingertips—fingertips that had gone red and sore from the pressure of the fine wires of the guitar. I smelled them.

They smelled metal.

“Hello?” I said.

No response. I remembered Mom and Dad were at the country club for yet another vapid convocation of douchenozzles crucial to unlocking millions in potential new business.

Gray appeared, holding two plates and a pizza box.

“Mom said we have to eat dinner together,” said Gray, and vanished outside.

It was dusk on the back patio, and the landscaped terraces of our yard looked out onto a rolling valley so full of villas and marching cypress you could almost believe you were in freaking Tuscany if not for the blue rectangles of outrageous home theaters flickering here and there.

I stared at a lovely fountain of two marble dolphins regurgitating upon six marble turtles, who didn’t mind. The mood lights awoke, realized what time it was, and immediately set themselves to Romance Mode. I wished it were Cirrus sitting across from me. Eating with Cirrus would be very Romance Mode.

Eating with Gray was very not Romance Mode.

We ate and filled the air with the wet despondent music of our chewing.

“This pizza sucks,” said Gray suddenly.

“You’re sitting in perfect weather in September in the sprawling backyard of a brazillion-dollar home eating celebrity-chef pizza summoned by an app,” I said. “But your pizza sucks.”

“Brazillion is the low end for Rancho Ruby,” said Gray.

“Housing crisis?” I yodeled. “What housing crisis?”

I had been hoping to get a laugh out of Gray—I used to love making him laugh—but he only hung his head. “Whatever, you don’t understand,” he said.

“Try me,” I said.

Gray just chewed. He thought of something and laughed a dark and disgusted laugh. Something else struck him, and his expression quickly became one of sorrow. He was having a whole inner dialogue right in front of me. Now he froze up. He looked like he wanted to cry.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” said Gray. “There’s nothing to talk about, so why would I, just think for one single second, Sunny, use your stupid brain.”

Unlike with Milo, for me It’s nothing was ice-cold water splashed upon the fire of my compassion.

“God, fine,” I said, and tore at my pizza.

Gray inhaled and exhaled loudly as he masticated, producing a super-gross sound of a man buried in food trying to eat his way out, and flung a pizza rind onto the lawn. A squirrel appeared immediately and dragged it into the bushes.

“Whoa,” said Gray.

“It’s like the little guy was waiting for it,” I said.

We both chuffed to ourselves. Then I remembered I was supposed to be annoyed with Gray. But when I looked over, he wasn’t annoyed with me. He looked heavy with sorrow all over again.

“I need salsa,” said Gray, and left.

I did not follow. I decided I would finish my pizza, put my plate away, and give him space.

But I barely got in three more bites before Gray came jogging back, his eyes thrilling at something in his hand.

“Dad went back to this crap?” said Gray, and brandished a jar.

“Yep,” I said. “La Victoria salsa. I guess he gave up on the fancy stuff.”

Gray had a strange habit of pouring salsa on pizza, and he now did so with an almost tearful glee.

Maybe a little salsa was all Gray needed?

“God,” he said. “I haven’t had La Victoria in forever.”

He took a bite, sending his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “It’s so good. Try some.”

After a moment of hesitation—when was the last time I had shared food with Gray?—I took a bite.

“That tastes like regurgitated minestrone on top of grilled cheese passed through a hot hair straightener,” I said. “It’s great.”

“La Victoria, dude,” said Gray, chewing and nodding excitedly. “Keep it on the top shelf so it doesn’t freeze, boys, remember? Next to the Vlasic spears and Grey Poupon in our crappy fridge? Back in Arroyo Plato?”

“The Frost Giant!” I cried, reeling from the memory of the refrigerator door that sometimes couldn’t shut against all the billowing overgrown ice. I could see little bits of our old kitchen in Arroyo Plato plopping