Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,26

in. He wore a suit. He was staring at his phone.

“Dinner’s downstairs if you’re hungry,” said Dad.

“I’ll just get something at the football game,” I said.

Dad looked up with alarm. “Since when do you go to football games?”

“Cirrus has never seen one,” I said.

“Cirrus?” said Dad.

Dad lowered his phone and gazed at me with crystal eyes.

“Dad,” I said.

Dad gazed at me with crystal—

“Dad!” I said.

“Right,” said Dad, “anyway, so, cool, hey, I wanted to ask your help.”

“Press volume up, volume down, then hold the side button,” I said.

“Not my phone,” said Dad.

“Up up down down left right left right B A Start,” I said.

“The Inspire NV has forty-eight cameras both inside and outside the vehicle, all constantly recording, with audio,” said Dad.

“How is that okay?” I said.

Dad shook a finger. “And! Did! You! Know! All the videos are on the Inspire customer portal.”

I squinted. “Did you want to show me thrilling footage from your commute?”

Dad gripped his phone. “Someone keyed my car. What kind of GD MF-ing A-hole SOB would pull this kind of BS on me?”

“On the car, not you,” I said.

“God, the optics!” said Dad.

“Optics?” I said.

Dad pinched his nose. “Now everyone’s gonna think, What did that guy do to deserve getting keyed like that? That guy must be some kind of douchebag!”

“It depresses me how people blindly believe their car is an expression of their value as a human being,” I said.

“You’re not helping,” said Dad. “Anyway: I can’t seem to log in to the Inspire portal.”

“Did you use your finger?” I said. “Did you use your face?”

“I don’t do that stuff,” said Dad.

Jhk jhk, went my phone. I had changed the ringtone from Elf shot the food! to a snarling snippet of Dave Grohl’s electric guitar from a Foo Fighters intro.

Ready when you are, wrote Cirrus. Ride your bike.

You got a bike?!? I wrote back.

Jhk jhk. Cirrus sent a photo of a gorgeous small-wheeled folding bike sitting in an empty bedroom. Was it her bedroom? Did all the rooms look like that in that condo of hers?

“I’ll take a look at it later,” I said to Dad. “Gotta go.”

Dad glanced at his gold-diamond-unobtanium wristwatch. “Crap, me too.”

I tiptoed out to Gray’s room. As soon as I reached into his closet, I heard footsteps. I snatched up the first thing I could—a wondrous black hoodie studded with inverted silver crosses—and put it on.

The hoodie fit me heavy and loose like a soothsayer’s cloak. An ancient tube of eyeliner was still in its pocket.

I crept back out into the hallway, where I would then dash downstairs before anyone could spot me—

“What the hell are you doing?” said Gray.

My head snapped up. “I don’t, all my jackets, it’s gonna be cold, I never go out at night?”

Gray made a sneering grin. “The year 2015 called and they want their clothes back—”

I examined Gray. “What the hell are you doing?”

Going from head to toe, Gray wore a dad-shirt, dad-tie, dad-slacks, and finally dad–boat shoes, all various shades of brown. He looked forty years old, and also dead.

Dad appeared, rubbing sandalwood lotion into his hands. “You look great, Gray!”

Gray’s face tightened with humiliation.

Dad peered at me. “Is that a new hoodie?”

“Yesno,” said me and Gray.

“Well, it’ll be nice and warm for the football game,” said Dad.

“Football game?” pondered Gray.

“He’s going with a gurl,” said Dad in an off-Broadway amateur-night stage whisper.

Then Dad thumped Gray’s back and headed downstairs. “Let’s go shake some hands, dude! Trey Fortune awaits!”

Gray held a palm down at me. “Just—shut up,” he muttered.

I shut up. I could’ve launched any one of my dozen at-the-ready volleys against the cannibalistic blood-fever that was corporate America, but I did not. Because now Gray marched down the stairs after Dad, slow as a death march. He stopped at the door leading to the garage. He seemed to want to say something, but nixed the idea.

In the end, he opened the door and fell through with a long, slow step.

* * *

—

I sailed into the night. I wished I could wear my headlamp, which was obviously the smartest, most versatile choice in portable lighting. I settled instead for the primitive default reflectors, popular among most cyclists but good for nothing except feebly catching beams of homicidal oncoming cars in the moment before fatal impact.

When I reached Cirrus’s condo, she was already out on the curb wearing a helmet.

“Your bike is amazing,” I blurted, and immediately wished I had started with a more socially acceptable Hi or its popular variant, Hey.

She clicked