Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,24

into view like drips of watercolor. “Remember how Mom and Dad used to hoard Diet Pepsi when it was on sale? Remember Coors Light?”

“I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!” said Gray. “Tapatío.”

“Hot Pockets,” I said, shooting out my fingers with each word. “Shrimp Cup Noodles—Lunchables—Easy Cheese—Pepperidge Farm pot pies—”

“Hormel corned beef in those weird trapezoid tins,” said Gray. He narrowed his eyes, hit by a dark vision: “Vienna sausages.”

“Nasty!” I said.

“You cried when we left our old house,” said Gray.

“You cried too,” I said. “So shut up.”

We both sat there with eyes dancing. I saw myself in my enchanted tinfoil helm again, following Gray the Gallant down the hall with a yardstick for a sword and a torn sam taeguk fan as my shield.

I wondered if Gray remembered our adventures, too, but did not ask, because I was terrified he would say Not really or, worse, We were such nerds. I had the feeling he and I remembered our childhoods very differently.

But I knew we both remembered every inch of our old Arroyo Plato house, and all the cheap junky food in it.

Our laughter sighed away—as all laughter eventually does—and Gray poured more salsa on another slice. He took a bite. He chewed.

“Ten bands in three years,” declared Gray.

I stopped. I listened.

“You know some places only pay you in booze?” said Gray. “Hollywood is a trip.”

I continued to say nothing. Gray was in a delicate state, and I wanted him to keep talking. I wanted to know about his music. I wanted to know about his life.

“Fakes, flakes, and straight-up snakes, man,” said Gray, shaking his head. His face sharpened. “LA’s not as big as people think. There’s only so many clubs and so many hours in the night. It’s such a scene. That was the name of my last band. Endscene.”

It made me uneasy seeing Gray like this. Gray was once the unofficial king of Ruby High.

“This next band’s gonna kill it,” I said, speaking from the experience of constantly improving DIY Fantasy FX videos, one by one. Creative work was not the triumphant sartorial yawp people imagined; it was a steady, relentless drip that led to things like Lady Lashblade, and ideally beyond.

“My next band,” chuffed Gray.

“It will,” I said. “If not this band, then the one after that.”

Gray winced at this. “Sun—”

“You got this.” I discovered I had leaned way forward. I was eager for anything from Gray. A smile, a nod, even an irritating ruffle of my hair.

But Gray just flung his pizza rind away, this time deep into the sagebrush.

“Dad said he’s gonna put in a good word for me at the club,” said Gray to the horizon.

My eyes quizzed. Good word?

Gray looked down and away, his mouth snarled with loathing.

“I’m done eating,” said Gray, and flung his chair down. He left and vanished back downstairs.

I looked at the stricken chair.

I folded the pizza box closed. I reset the chair. The sun melted away. I wished I hadn’t said anything. I wished I had talked about anything else: squirrels, or old video games. I was blaming myself for upsetting Gray. Why was I blaming myself?

Because I just couldn’t understand why Gray wasn’t like he used to be.

* * *

—

Midnight. I crept into Gray’s old room. I sat in the blueness of the darkness there and breathed. From the basement I could hear Gray playing his video game at full, hearing-impairing volume.

On one of Gray’s guitars were tiny words in Gray’s precise handwriting, arranged as an infinitely repeating wheel.

BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS

I took the guitar off its stand, plugged it in to the amp, and put on headphones. I tuned down to a dropped D. I played a simple metal riff I remembered from the Mortals.

The guitar body shone in the dark. Its strings flashed in parallels sixfold.

I played okay.

I played and played, struggling to remember how to climb up and down the pentatonic scale, the foundation for rock guitar solos everywhere for all time. I came up with a few riffs of my own—some dumb, some clearly derivative, and some actually sorta cool.

I noticed a milk crate full of cables and effects pedals and whatnot, and set the guitar down to dig around.

I found a framed picture that had lost its glass: a photo of me and Gray marred by orange streaks of dried battery acid.

I found an ancient piece of technology: a cracked iPod bound by its own charging cable gone sticky with grime. On the back, a