Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,27

on a light smartly built right in to her helmet. “It’s a Blitzschnell Tango CAAD12 folding bike with hydraulic disc brakes and a shock-absorbing seat post,” she said.

I wanted to tell her all about my Velociraptor® Elite. Instead, my brain became paralyzed with indecision. Could I afford to gush about such nerdery? Would it break my persona, cause suspicion?

“You think my bike is dorky,” said Cirrus.

“No,” I said. I wanted to say more, but found I couldn’t. “It’s not.”

“They’re all over Copenhagen,” said Cirrus.

“I bet,” I said.

“I baked us some ham and cheese hand pies,” said Cirrus. “Do you like fontina?”

“What’s a fontina?” I said.

“You’ll see,” said Cirrus. “Let’s ride.”

And now we sailed together. She wore high boots and a heavy skirt that flew like a cape. A bag of hand pies lightly bounced in a wicker cargo basket. She pedaled and shifted with an easy grace that was athletic and fashionable at the same time, something no American could ever pull off. Cirrus was cool. Cirrus could make anything seem cool, I reckoned.

“Head toward that glow way over there,” I said.

Cirrus squinted. “And . . . music?”

We both leaned into a turn, then another, passing through encroaching rivers of cool night mist before reaching a cathedral of light.

The football field.

I had been here many times during the day, to laze about in the golden afternoon sun during track practice. But I had never seen this place at night. And why would I have? I always imagined football to be a sad contest full of huddle meetings and play reviews and administrata.

But football was only half about the gameplay itself. I had never seen the other half of it: the balloons, the crowds, the dozens of headlights swiveling around the vast parking lot. I had never felt the thundering beat of the drum corps announcing impending war in the distance.

It was electric.

Cirrus came to a stop with her toe en pointe. “Incredible,” she gasped.

“Yep, this is football,” I drawled, as nonchalantly as I could, to best mimic that bless-this-mess attitude that fans assumed when introducing their passion to someone new.

“This happens every Thursday?” said Cirrus.

“Well, they moved it because it’s supposed to rain tomorrow,” I said with authority, quoting what I had read earlier on the school portal. “Normally it’s every Friday, every week, just like church.”

I gave her a game show host’s wink. Too much?

“In Australia they play rugby rain or shine,” said Cirrus.

“Southern Californians melt like wicked witches in the rain,” I said.

“Let’s go closer,” said Cirrus.

We lashed our bikes to a tree and melted into the crowd. Four pickup trucks sat back-to-back, flanking a barbecue smoking in the center tended by fans in Ruby High Ravagers regalia.

“How early do the supporters arrive?” she said.

You are the expert here, I told myself. Be the expert.

“They’re called fans, and [I believe] this is called tailgating,” I said. “People get here six hours very early [or so I have heard] and bring nitrated meats food and drink [and that atrocious ‘Wagon Wheel’ song on a boombox].”

Maybe it was the infectious energy in the place, because Cirrus raised a fist and shouted, “Go, Ravagers!” to the tailgaters. They instantly dropped what they were doing to shout back at us with painted faces.

“That guy has a big foam hand,” said Cirrus.

We approached a snack stand marked RAVAGER NATION NACHOS PIZZA HOT DOGS SODA.

“So here’s where we can get classic football food things,” I said, “like nachos, pizza, hot dogs, and soda.”

Cirrus wrinkled her nose. “But I made hand pies.”

I leaned in and said, “The food here is crap, to be honest.” Totally not honest, of course, since I’d never eaten any of it before. But right away I could tell. Just look at it.

Cirrus reached in her bag and offered me a still-warm pie, and it tasted like what I imagined merry old London in Sweeney Todd’s time must have tasted like.

“This is amazing,” I said.

“After four hours in the kitchen, it better be,” said Cirrus.

Shouts here and there made us look up.

“Good luck, Gunner.”

“Go get ’em, Gun.”

Gunner came trotting out in full football gear, having peed (or whatever) in a nearby porta-potty. I could tell it was him despite the helmet because the name GUNNER was written on his blood-red jersey.

Don’t jerseys typically bear last names, not first? was my thought right as Gunner’s eyes locked with mine and sharpened with contempt.

“Who let this nerd in?” he said through his grille, and came straight toward me.

I froze.

Gunner was about to do