Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,41

Jamal with a hand. “Be happy. Sunny’s in love.”

“I’ll mention that to Lady Lashblade,” said Jamal, drooping now.

Milo held his hand firm. Jamal relented. “I’m happy for you.”

“Also,” I said with a deep breath, “I’m not going to pretend anymore.”

Jamal held his forehead with surprise. “You’re coming clean?”

“Listen,” I said.

“That’s the right thing to do,” said Milo. “Even if it risks forever driving Cirrus away and branding you in school legend and lore as the resident psychotic long after you’ve graduated and gone.”

“When I say I’m not going to pretend anymore,” I said, noting that my hands were held out in my trademark hear-me-out pose, “I mean we do the talent show.”

“Nooo—” said Jamal.

“We can absolutely rock the house, with just a little practice,” I said.

“—ooooo—” said Jamal.

“I think all of us could stand to break out of our shells and quit being such basket cases,” I said.

Jamal stopped in mid-O and peered at me. “Speak for yourself. I like my shell.”

“Me too,” said Milo. “I always thought basket case had a nice connotation, like a little bunny all cozied up in a wicker hamper.”

“Then do it for me,” I said, squeezing the air like it was a value-size bottle of mayonnaise. “Please.”

Jamal folded his arms. “This persuasion feels familiar.”

“Think of it as role-playing, but in real life,” I said. “I get to play the paladin, but in a way that is socially acceptable, nay, celebrated!”

Milo held his chin and winged Jamal with his elbow. “It’s an interesting way of looking at it.”

“You’re encouraging him,” cried Jamal.

“Milo the drummer: the warrior of the party,” I said. “Unrelenting strength and power.”

“Hurr, yeah,” said Milo with a grin.

“Dude,” cried an incredulous Jamal.

“Jamal, hear me out,” I said. “I see the bassist as a member of the rogue thief class. Stealthy. Dexterous. A little bit dangerous.”

Jamal brushed his fingers on his collarbone and batted his eyelids. “You really think I’m dangerous?”

“Really,” I said.

Jamal shooed his own hand away with disgust. “Ugh! Stop trying to convince me!”

Milo commented very quietly to himself, “He’s got me convinced.”

I waggled jazz hands. “Talent show! It’ll be so so fun!”

Milo nodded. Jamal folded his arms.

“But just the talent show,” said Jamal, as more of a question. “And then we go back to normal.”

I maintained my Idea Guy pose. “Yes! Maybe! See how you feel!”

Jamal relented with an eyeroll.

“You guys are amazing,” I said.

Jamal squeezed out a tongue-fart and held out Esmeralda’s Veil. “Can we get back to this now, please?”

“Absolutely, of course, wonderful,” I said.

But I never got to have a look at the thing, because from downstairs came the sound of a doorbell. I froze.

“Shh,” I said.

Voices. Murmuring. Then:

“Sunny!” yelled Mom.

“Whaaaat,” I lilted, eyeing Jamal and Milo with growing fear.

“Come say hi to Cirrus’s parents,” yelled Mom.

Strobes descended from the ceiling and bathed the room in battle station red.

“Gray’s room, go go go,” I said.

Jamal and Milo ran into each other, fell over a white storage container, and played hot potato with the doorknob before spilling out into the hallway.

“Why are we doing this?” said Jamal.

“Think, man,” said Milo.

Jamal thought for a tenth of a second. “Oh.”

“Close off that smell,” I hissed, and Jamal fumbled to seal shut the door to my room.

“Sunny?” said Mom from downstairs.

The three of us sock-stumbled our way into Gray’s room, where Jamal flapped his arms.

“Now what?” said Jamal.

I glanced at Jamal’s shirt, and then Milo’s.

THIS IS HOW I ROLL

NERD

I rummaged as fast as I could and held out two of Gray’s old tee shirts. “Put these on,” I whispered.

“I like my shirt,” said Jamal. “It’s the weekend.”

“Sometimes we do things for love,” hissed Milo.

I ripped off my zombie shirt—no one downstairs needed to see my nipples—and opted for one of Gray’s old skull pattern tees: something I could both wear to school or onstage.

I turned to exit. I gripped the doorjamb. “When I get back, just act like we’ve been here all morning.”

Jamal stripped off his shirt, revealing his shockingly skinny torso. “You owe us.”

“I know,” I said.

I spun into the hallway. I paused. I closed my eyes:

Get into character.

Normally, I would take a moment to consider all the ramifications of this thought. Get into character, meaning stash away your real persona to make room for the fake one.

But I didn’t have a moment to think, because now I could see Cirrus smiling up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

Kerrang

Hey, Sunny Dae,” said Cirrus.

“Hey,” I said, descending step by careful step, remembering to hold both handrails at all times