Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,59

But whatever. None of that matters. Not anymore.”

I swallowed. I stood staring at a value bag of cheese puffs as big as a pillow.

“Because I belong here with you,” said Cirrus.

Upon hearing these words, I made a pledge deep within to do whatever it took to keep Cirrus from getting hurt.

And I kissed her.

Cirrus sent the cart away with a push. “You know, I think I’m good?”

“Really?” I said.

Cirrus smiled. “This store’s got nothing.”

Hand in hand, she led me toward the exit.

We left, with not a single dollar spent.

Part-A

I looked at myself in the mirror. I squashed my cheeks with my fingertips.

I was in love.

I was in love.

I stared hard at my phone in an effort to activate it using my mind powers. I firmed up my abdominals and bore down as if evacuating. Picture her, I told myself. In her blank room, waking up late from a long sleep, unplugging her phone, gazing into its tiny black eye, and typing—

Jhk jhk, went my phone.

“Yes,” I said, relaxing with an exhale. My mind powers had done it.

Aaand my parents are gone again, wrote Cirrus.

Where? I wrote.

No comment, she wrote. So I decided I want to do that thing that you’re supposed to do when you’re in American high school and you have the house to yourself.

I nibbled my fingertips. What did she mean?

Picture me and her, I told myself, alone in her blank room—

Part-A! wrote Cirrus.

Huh?

Party, wrote Cirrus.

You mean par-tay, I wrote.

Oh.

You’re doing great, I wrote.

I’m inviting you and Milo and Jamal of course but can you get everyone else to come? I spent all morning and there’s enough of everything for everybody.

I checked my wrist. My pulse, which had surged, now flagged back down to normal. A party. Not just me and Cirrus, alone in her room. Okay.

I’ve been here for weeks now and never had a housewarming and I thought it would be really special to have it filled with . . . people, she wrote.

It was impossible to argue with that.

That sounds great, I said. Need help with anything?

No, I’m good!

What time should I come over tonight?

Tonight? wrote Cirrus. How about now?

Okay! I wrote.

Is it too early? I don’t know what I’m doing.

You’re doing great, I wrote. One moment.

I put my phone down, thought for a moment, and smiled. Cirrus wanted people for her part-A, and I knew where to acquire all of them.

Gunner appeared on screen, panting.

“Yo,” said Gunner. Behind him I could see three guys—footballers—shoving padded sleds on a lawn.

“Why are you at school?” I said.

Gunner wiped sweat dripping from his nose and jogged to somewhere secluded. “Not school. Backyard. Dad’s having us do leg work. How you doin’, buddy?”

“You have training equipment at your house?” I said.

“You wanna meet up for some homework later?” said Gunner.

Normally, this sort of exchange between two strapping young men might have been considered romantic; in this case, it was game related. Such was the language of nerds.

Gunner leaned in and whispered, “I killed the gargoyle, and now I’m stuck in that place with all the doors that won’t open.”

I scanned my brain. “The Complex of Secret Doors.”

The footballers crossed the frame in the background. I recognized them: Hunter, Trapper, and Stryker.

“We’ll get to that,” I said. “Listen, how many friends do you have?”

“If you mean fan-friends, then it’s basically the whole junior class,” said Gunner. “If you mean actual friends, there’s only one. Well, two now.”

Aw, Gunner.

“Think of an excuse to tell your dad,” I said. “There’s a party that urgently needs some love.”

* * *

—

I enjoyed a long shower. I carefully made my selections from Gray’s closet, stuffed them into one of his backpacks—a classic leather ruck studded with nickel-plated spikes—and emerged from the maw of the garage on my ten-speed to begin the downhill glide. I stopped along the way to change in the junipers.

I’d never been invited to a traditional American house party before. Such phenomena occurred solely on insipid television shows written by middle-aged hacks eager to cash in on the young adult demographic.

I had always thought house parties were breeding grounds for the next generation of idiots. But now, I found myself pedaling with eager pumps of each leg. I could see myself holding one of those red plastic cups (why always red?), playing table tennis incorrectly without a paddle, performing a handstand on a pressurized beverage container, and so on.

When I arrived at Cirrus’s condo, I could only stare at what I saw.

There was a twenty-meter-long inflatable Nora the Explorer palm