Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,44

notes. They were our most accurate notes to date. We gave one another the stunned looks of survivors.

“Wooo!” said Cirrus, clapping. “Rock and roll, baby! You wrote that?”

I blinked eight times, cleared my throat, and answered: “Yap.”

“And that’s just the beginning part?”

“Yap.”

I glanced around. Now Milo and Jamal looked like they were going to be sick.

“You’re brilliant,” said Cirrus.

Me and Milo and Jamal rested on our instruments as if we knew what the hell we were doing. To make the illusion complete, I fist-bumped Milo and Jamal just like real bandmates would. The two looked like they had just outrun a torrent of Spanish bulls gone blind with the heat of Eros.

I watched as Cirrus found a Sharpie, uncapped it, and leaned over to add the letters IM to the Mortals flyer on the wall.

“Fixed that for you,” she said. She gave me the most wonderful look. She was proud of me.

I grew instantly addicted to that look. I could never get enough of it.

I began taking off my guitar with the weary flourish of a warrior done with battle. “Anyway, you guys wanna hang out downstairs?”

“Wait,” said Cirrus. “Doesn’t your song have lyrics?”

“Yeah,” I said, because it did. “But they’re not ready.”

“That’s okay,” said Cirrus, with sarcastic nonchalance. “It’s not like I’m dying to hear you sing or anything. It’s not like a guy singing rock and roll isn’t one of the hottest things a girl could imagine.”

Crap.

I looked to Jamal, but he’d already set his bass guitar back on its stand and switched off his amp. He had left mine on, though.

Thanks, Jamal.

“Still figuring out the details,” I said, putting the guitar back on. It felt twice as heavy. I gave the strings a limp strum. “But in general it goes kinda like talkin’ bout aa ee ooo aa oo songs unsung sound so sweet mm ah mm.”

Cirrus covered her mouth with the back of her hand and giggled.

I stopped and giggled back as best I could. “What?”

“No, but your voice is just so high and sweet,” said Cirrus. “I wasn’t expecting a voice like that to come out of you.”

I always suspected that puberty had done a half-assed job with my body. Developing certain parts while skipping others. Like my voice.

“It’s a classic rock falsetto,” I said, quoting Mr. Tweed. “Many a famous rock star can sound like a totally different person when he or she sings onstage.”

“A totally different person,” said Cirrus, intrigued.

I felt Milo looking at me: Isn’t it ironic?

Jamal eyerolled: Don’t you think?

The four of us sat for a moment, just staring at the little red light burning hot on the humming amp. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. Play some more? Offer snacks?

Stare? Stare? Stare?

“What is going on here?” said an uncertain voice.

Gray stood in the doorway, looking confused. “What are you guys doing in my—”

Kerrang, went my guitar, interrupting him.

“Are you playing—”

KERRANG

I fiddled with the amp knobs with carefully feigned concern. “This gain sounds funny,” I muttered, which was total nonsense. My brain was unraveling in my skull. I could not simply keep playing loud sounds to keep Gray from talking. Twice was weird enough.

“Are you supposed to be in a band now or something?” said Gray.

Gray looked like he was in the middle of getting dressed. He wore an undershirt and front-pleated charcoal khakis held up by a plain leather belt. Below, argyle socks in every shade of ash. He was a black-and-white character lost in a world of ultra-high-def color.

Gray turned his gaze. “You must be Cirrus.”

“I am,” said Cirrus, oblivious.

Have mercy, I pleaded silently. Spare me. Could Gray see it in my eyes?

“Gray,” I began, but it came out as a dry croak.

Cirrus’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, then stood.

“Crap,” said Cirrus. “My parents are back downstairs. The camera store was closed, so we’re driving all the way out to Top of Topanga for some lunch thing, yay.”

“Can I come?” I blurted.

Cirrus wheeled her thumbs. “You wanna?”

Oh, how I did! Just get up and run away with my beautiful girlfriend (girlfriend!). But on one side of me, I could feel urgency from Jamal and Milo to continue work on Esmeralda’s Veil; on the other side of me, I could feel the threat of growing indignation coming from Gray.

“I should probably stay here and work on some stuff actually,” I said finally.

There was an expensive-sounding car honk from downstairs.

“Text me,” said Cirrus, and left.

I sat, bathing in those two heavenly words no girl had