Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,55

do?” I said.

“Stop saying No, but,” said Gray. “Say Yes, and. It’s Improv 101.”

“Improv,” I said.

“I took a class back in Hollywood,” said Gray in an offhand way that was undeniably—

“Cool,” said Jamal.

“Very cool,” said Milo.

“Yes, and keeps the momentum going,” said Gray. “No, but shuts everything down. The former represents acceptance; the latter represents rejection.”

To be clear, Gray was not being annoying. He smiled. He glowed. For a moment, my mind flashed back to our kitchen back in Arroyo Plato.

“Yes, and click tracks are very useful and valid,” I tried.

Gray shot a finger at me: That’s the spirit. Then he turned to Milo. “Use these earbuds.”

Milo stuffed the earbuds into his ears. “Boop, boop, boop, beep!” he shouted.

“Obviously you guys won’t have my recording to keep time with for the real show, because any chucklehead knows a real show is not supposed to be freaking karaoke,” said Gray. “So lock in with Milo. Milo is the ground everyone is standing on.”

Milo raised his eyebrows with meek understanding. “I am?”

“We gotta do something about this cocktail kit,” said Gray. “No one plays these, except maybe Prince that one time as a joke.”

I kicked a leg at Jamal. “Told you,” I said.

“Eat my hole,” said Jamal.

“Jamal-on-bass,” said Gray.

“Yes sir,” said Jamal.

“Your groove is solid, but my god, look up at the audience once in a while.”

Jamal tried looking up.

“You look like you’re holding in a king-size dookie,” said Gray. “Give me a bass face.”

By bass face Gray meant puckered lips and a back-and-forth head bob.

“Like this?” said Jamal.

“Yes!” said Gray. “But no overbite. You are a duck. You’re a super-serious duck and you’re walking, you’re walking.”

“Super-serious duck bass face,” said Jamal.

“Actually,” said Gray, approaching me, “all of you look up. Sunny, you’re the friggin’ front man. Look up at me.”

“Like this?” I said, raising my chin as if I were at the doctor’s.

“Now bring up your guitar and just kinda curse out the neck real close as you’re playing,” said Gray. “Just grit your teeth like this and mouth a bunch of angry stuff like, You ugly guitar with your dumbass frets and your dumbass strings.”

That part was easy. Stupid rock-and-roll faker making up lies to impress a girl who do you even think you are.

“Correct!” said Gray. “That is a proper face melt.”

And he showed me a freshly taken photo on his phone to prove it.

“Ugh, no pix,” I said.

“Get used to it, man,” said Gray. “You will be onstage.”

“Miss Mayhem, no less,” said Jamal, who had a habit of saying the perfect thing to accelerate anxiety.

Gray froze at the name. “What?”

“The school rented out Miss Mayhem for the talent show,” I said.

“You’re kidding me,” said Gray. “What in god’s cruel sense of humor does that even mean, right?”

“I don’t know?” I said.

Gray’s eyes swam. “I played Miss Mayhem. Twice.”

“Hey, dude,” I said.

Gray returned to the room. He smiled a frown.

“Anyway,” said Gray. “You’ll be up there. In front of an audience. But I want you to focus on a single, certain someone. Not some flaky A&R rep or fake insta-friends. Someone important. You know who I’m talking about.”

I imagined Cirrus standing before me, watching. Photographing me with her mind. What would I look like to her? Would she mostly see the top of my head as I gazed down at my shoes?

I lazily stroked a chord, then another, then another. I seemed to be unable to play any harder. I was, I realized, paralyzed by fear. Fear of taking a chance, since taking a chance meant risking ridicule, and I did not know if I was really prepared for such a risk.

“That is not rock,” said Gray. He choked my strings silent and drew his face suddenly close to mine. He must’ve had Bloody Marys: I now detected garlic and celery. “Friggin’ take it seriously. Or maybe you’d be better off taking a job as a friggin’ accounting intern and sitting and nodding all day like a friggin’ yes-man with the other pathetic corporate burnout losers.”

I blinked. I drew my hands back. My lower lip disappeared into my mouth. Milo and Jamal looked terrified, too.

Gray released the neck of my guitar, which gasped out a quiet E-minor 11 with relief. He hung his head. He didn’t have to say what he was thinking. I could tell simply from the way he found an amp to sit on. Back-in-the-Day Gray, so briefly visible, was deflating into a puddle.

I didn’t know how to talk to Gray right now. So I talked