Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,35

complimenting each other on things we had not a single iota of basic knowledge about.

I was getting the feeling that no matter what road I took, I would always wind up back in the bramble and thicket of Land-o’-Nerd. We had to pull this off. We had to rock.

“Let’s try it again one more time super-duper quick but this time really focusing on locking in a solid four-count backbeat?” I said, with my hands literally clasped. “The backbeat is the—”

“The foundation of traditional rock and roll, I know,” said Milo.

Jamal groaned like a manatee in heat. “There goes that seat at Lady Lashblade’s table at Fantastic Faire,” he said.

“Hah?” I said.

“Lady Lashblade messaged us directly,” said Milo. “She wants to guest review our next prop. That means she likes us. That means she— Uh, Sunny?”

I had been staring deep into the cone of the amp speaker. I had just discovered that I didn’t know which I was more concerned with: figuring out how to dazzle Cirrus with my fake band or getting DIY Fantasy FX big enough to earn a spot at Fantastic Faire.

“Just one more time,” I said. “Please. I beg you.”

Jamal shouldered his bass guitar and studied my face. It must have been a pathetic sight, because he nodded. “Fine.”

I clapped my hands. “Milo. Go boom-tssh, boom-boom-tssh.”

After a couple of stutter-steps, Milo settled into a stable rock beat. His eyes pleaded: How long do I have to do this?

I pointed at Jamal, and he began: Boon boon boon boon, ba boon boon.

Then I joined in with my guitar, choking distorted chords short with my palm as best I could, just like Gray used to.

Jhk jhk jhk ja jhk ja jhk ja ja jhk

We limped along like a flat-tired truck full of defective appliances all trying to run. The tempo slowed and stutter-stepped as we queenked and blonked our blundering way through the chord changes drawn on the chalkboard.

I crept up to the mic and bleated out some words. Milo and Jamal looked up at the sound of my voice, then looked at each other, then kept going.

I guess that meant I sounded good?

I realized we were looking down at our own instruments, not one another, which was probably why we weren’t playing in sync. So I moved to get Jamal’s attention, then gave him a look—that Geronimo! face that I’d seen Gray give to his bandmates when it was time to switch musical gears. Jamal caught my look and passed it on to Milo.

We landed the next chord change, more or less on cue.

The look had worked.

Back in high school, Gray had called this phenomenon of nonverbal communication among players throwing eyes. I thrilled inside, because I now understood what he meant after all these years.

As we neared the end of the song, I threw eyes again. I raised my guitar to make doubly sure we landed the final note. When it was time, I swung its neck down.

I wouldn’t say we ended the song. It was more like the song ended.

But at least it ended all at once like music was supposed to.

“That was awesome,” cried Milo.

“We got this,” said Jamal, eyes wild with adrenaline.

To be clear, we sounded bad. But I knew if we just kept at it, we’d eventually master the song.

I just knew it.

Charms

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the insane in the membrane insane in the brain, wrote Cirrus.

Cirrus!

I flipped up my face shield, shoved myself away from my workbench, and held my phone with prayer hands.

Hi! I wrote.

I have watched every last gender reveal fail video on the internet, wrote Cirrus. I think I’ve lost my mind to cabin fever.

I clipped my phone onto its ergonomic stand, sat erect, and typed on my butterfly keyboard.

What a coincidence, I’m losing my mind too! I wrote. The rainbow backlit mechanical key switches went ta-KING-ta-KING with jackhammer speed. I was able to type a hundred words per minute—a hundred ten if I was particularly excited.

Let’s lose it together! I began writing.

Delete, option-delete, command-delete.

Dots pulsed. Jamal called those pulsing dots blowing bubbles, but I called them one of the worst user interface conventions ever designed. Worse than infinite scrolling, the Like button, or that slot-machine pull-to-refresh that always made me feel like a human guinea pig test subject pawing at the controls for either an electric shock, a dose of morphine, absolutely nothing, or a hard dry biscuit to devour while backed into a corner, scanning the edges of my iron room for hidden cameras.

Anyway