Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,33

said Gray. He smiled. “I can see it in your whole everything.”

I wanted to smile, but when I saw Gray’s own smile sag—laden with sadness—I knew his wasn’t the kind of smile that was meant to be shared.

“Better go change,” said Gray, and turned to leave.

He’d been back for a few days now. In that time, I hadn’t heard him once play his acoustic guitar.

“Did you ever perform ‘Beauty Is Truth’?” I blurted.

Gray paused, then said nothing. He drifted away to his netherworld downstairs.

I picked up Dad’s phone, unlocked it using his code, which I had visually hacked (i.e., seen) long ago, and reopened the Inspire tab. I logged out. Then I logged back in, deliberately using a wrong password. I did this three times until the system dropped the big red banhammer on me.

PLEASE CONTACT CUSTOMER CARE

AT 1-888-555-5150 TO UNLOCK YOUR ACCOUNT

It would take scatterbrained Dad months to get to such an item on his to-do list. Until then, Gray would be protected from his outburst. I tried to put myself in his hideous, WASP-y boat shoes. How dejected would I have to be to key my own dad’s car?

I wanted to go downstairs and hug Gray. I wanted to have him drop everything and drive me to Los Angeles. Show me all the places he ate, partied, gigged, and slept.

I glanced at the clock. Late for school. I threw on a waterproof poncho, adjusted my backpack straps, and pedaled out into the strengthening drizzle.

Originals

Let’s get this practice nonsense over with so we can work on DIY Fantasy FX,” said Jamal, slinging on his bass guitar with a quick duck of his head. It had been more than a week since our first practice. We were five sessions in now, and he was finally able to wear the thing without dealing high blows to me, Milo, or the surrounding equipment.

Jamal rested both long arms on his bass neck. “Our channel has twenty new subscribers this week,” he said, flashing all his fingers two times. “We gotta post a new episode, strike while the dwarven pigiron is hot.”

“We will,” I said.

On a nearby rolling blackboard—Mr. Tweed was one vintage cat—lyrics had begun to appear for each of our practice sessions. There was I wanna be sedated and With your feet on the air and your head on the ground. Today’s was this, in Mr. Tweed’s square, precise handwriting:

We could be heroes just for one day.

We of course looked these songs up and learned how to play them. They were just the right level of difficulty.

Thanks for the guidance, Mr. Tweed.

I knelt to turn on my amp and stared at its knobs in disbelief. “Someone messed with my settings!” I whined. “I had my distortion right where I wanted it!”

“Not cool,” said Milo from behind his drums.

Jamal tossed a Sharpie at me. “Mark your knobs,” he said. “That’s what I did.”

I reset my knobs and marked the respective indices. On the control plate I added

* THE IMMORTALS

“What are we playing, music master?” said Milo.

I donned my guitar. My friends stared at me for a moment in the silence. For the last few practices, we’d overcome our general incompetence to where we were able to cover the simple songs suggested by Mr. Tweed, as well as classic rock standards from bands with names like the Ramones and Nirvana and Hole.

“Well—” I said.

“Green Day!” ejaculated Milo.

“Green Day sucks my lactating nipples,” said Jamal.

“No, but listen—” I said.

“Weezer?” said Milo, instantly sad.

“Weezer is Green Day Reduced Sodium,” said Jamal.

“You take that back,” said Milo.

“Listen—” I said again.

But Jamal was whining now. “Why does it have to be rock and roll? No one does rock and roll.”

“Which is exactly why it’s due for a comeback,” I said. “Name one significant new rock band from the last three years.”

Jamal thought. “Japandroids?”

Milo closed his eyelids with the grace of a level-twenty sage. “Japandroids formed in 2006. Fourteen years ago.”

“I am so old,” said Jamal.

“Yo La Tengo,” said Milo, off in his own little world.

“Rock is dead, long live rock,” I said absently. I imagined playing with the airlock open. I would time our first notes to coincide with Cirrus’s perambulations, to ensure we fell within earshot. I would not have to approach her. She would follow the music like a scent. Just walk right in and simply be spellbound by my irresistible coolness.

“Fall Out Boy,” said Jamal.

“Sleater-Kinney,” said Milo.

“Ooo,” we all sighed, because we were all secretly in love with Sleater-Kinney even though they were old enough