Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,43

said Cirrus.

“Nothing,” said Milo.

“Working on a song,” said Jamal at the same time.

“Ooo, a song,” said Cirrus, and dashed up the staircase.

I followed, silently wowing at Jamal: Too much!

Milo looked at me: Song? What song?

So did Jamal: Why did I have to say working on a song, nooooo.

And just like that, we were all in Gray’s room: Jamal sitting on an amp, Milo on a wooden box, Cirrus on the metal desk chair, and me atop the bed, the highest point in the room, like I was on some kind of soft memory foam stage that also promoted proper spine alignment during sleep.

Cirrus rubbed her hands together like starting a fire. “Can I hear?” she said, because that was the normal thing anyone would’ve done.

What me and Milo and Jamal were doing was not normal at all, nor were we even close to being ready to do it. But we knew we had to perform. It would’ve been super strange to sit there, a band, surrounded by instruments, and refuse to play for a girl I had just yesterday declared my like for, all sealed with a kiss.

“Do you—” I said to Milo.

“So should—” said Milo to Jamal.

“What, ah—” said Jamal to me, completing our triangle of bumbling morons.

“So I already know Sunny plays guitar and sings,” said Cirrus, narrowing her eyes to examine us boys. “But let me guess. Milo, you probably play . . . drums.”

“How did you know?” cried Milo. “It’s my disproportionate physique, isn’t it.”

“And you, Jamal,” said Cirrus, “that means you play . . . bass.”

Jamal did this weird smile where he showed all his teeth, including molars. “I mean that’s pretty obvious anyone could’ve figured that out once you have the drums and guitar and vocals nailed down and there’s only three of us so therefore the only choice left would be—”

“Intro!” I blurted. “Let’s play intro? Hn?”

I had noticed Gray’s iPod on his desk and remembered the song we were supposed to be mastering, “Beauty Is Truth.”

“Yeeeeeaa aa aaaa aaah hhhhhh h h hhh h hh hh,” said Milo, pushing his glasses up on his nose bridge.

“Cool coolcoolcoocoocoocucucucu,” said Jamal.

“This is so exciting,” said Cirrus, and wiggled to settle in. She was, I realized with idiot satori, our first audience ever.

I once read that a writer’s greatest fear is for someone to actually read their work. An artist’s greatest fear is for someone to actually view their painting. A musician’s fear is for someone to actually listen to them perform. I fully understood all of this now.

I clenched my hands to stop them from vibrating. Jamal handed me a guitar, which I slung slowly around myself, stunned with panic. Jamal did the same. He held back bile like a man about to parachute into enemy fire. He flicked on my amp, then his.

My head shot up at the sound of a drum. It was Milo, batting his fingertips against his box stool. The box made a surprising number of sounds: bass kick, snare, and side toms.

I looked at him: What the . . . ?

“It’s a cajon,” said Milo. “My dad got one on a trip to Peru.”

“Duh, right, my cajon,” I said. “You got some serious cojones, ha ha.”

“What do my testicles have to do with anything?” said Milo.

“Huh?” said Cirrus.

“Milo,” I said, very quietly. “Count us in.”

But before he could, Cirrus said, “What’s the song called?”

“It’s, uh,” I said, scrambling to remember. How could I not remember?

“‘Beauty Is Truth,’” whimpered Jamal through uncontrollable amounts of saliva.

“Keats,” said Cirrus immediately. “Nice.”

“Keats . . . I . . . like . . . too . . .” I said.

“‘Ode on a Grecian Urn,’” said Cirrus. She hugged herself. “I like the ending:

“‘“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all

“‘Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”

I was going to be sick.

I stared at Milo staring at Jamal staring back at me staring at Milo, forever infinity. A long, heavy moment came rolling through and crushed everything into splinters.

Cirrus was staring at me with puzzlement, so I gave Milo my best showman’s nod.

Milo cleared his throat. “And a-one, and a-two.”

At first, our intro sounded like three trash cans full of shouting goats crashing down the side of an ancient-ass pyramid at different speeds. But we stabilized soon enough. We blinked away panic and threw eyes well enough to maintain a limping momentum.

G, chromatically up to B

Boom, tssh, boom-boom, tssh

I threw eyes at Milo, then at Jamal, so that we would land the final