Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,6

commercial development consultants, you’ve never met them, are here from London for the next three to six quarters, working on this ginormous mixed-use project in downtown LA, but, and, so, we got Trey, who should be here tonight, to score them a condo just down the street, anyway, their daughter, Cirrus, you’ve never met her, same age as you, she’ll be at Ruby High starting tomorrow, so we figured you could show her the ropes, because we and the Sohs have always done favors for each other.”

“Sohs?” I said.

“Jane and Brandon Soh, S-O-H,” said Dad.

“Cirrus isn’t gonna know anyone,” said Mom. “So I figured you could be her orientation buddy.”

“I’m the world’s worst orientation buddy,” I said, because it was true. My main interest was in cataloging the imbecilic spectacle of human folly, not justifying their inane rules and customs with explanation. I bit a nervous fingernail.

“Friends in need, Sunny,” said Dad, eyes on screen.

I hated meeting new people. New people terrified me.

“Tha-anks,” chanted Mom.

Dad looked up from his phone and narrowed a hunter’s gaze. “I see Trey Fortune,” he said. “Right there.”

“Take the conch,” hissed Mom. She swatted his shoulder. “Go, go, go.”

Dad holstered his phone, took a breath, and whispered a little prayer: “Keep a super-duper positive attitude.”

“There’s my CEO,” said Mom. She patted his back.

Then Dad slunk off into the dark. Within moments, he reappeared with Trey Fortune.

Mom shot to her feet. “It’s so good to see you, Trey,” she chirped.

I groaned silently and rose, as etiquette demanded. “Hi,” I said.

“Love the tie, Gray,” said Trey Fortune.

I could only blink at the man.

“I mean Sunny—my goof,” said Trey Fortune. “You and your brother are practically twins.”

I wanted to point out that Gray was five inches taller than me and eight points handsomer, but I could not. I said nothing. For a good couple of seconds, too.

“All Asians are technically identical twins, at the genetic level,” I said.

Trey made a horse face: Did not know that!

Dad, who often confused my jocularity for unhinged derangement, erupted into the fakest laughter in the annals of laughing, dating all the way back to the prehistoric walrus. Mom picked up on Dad’s cue and laughed as well. Together they laughed loud enough to cover up their mortification at their son.

The laughs did the trick, and soon Trey Fortune was laughing right along.

All of us laughed, except for me.

* * *

—

Later.

Back in my room.

As I changed back into my cargo shorts and placed my dress slacks into a white plastic storage container, a miniature teaspoon fell out.

I smiled.

I took the little spoon across the hallway to Gray’s room.

I walked in. I sat on the bed, which was perfectly neat from years of disuse. When Gray moved into his own apartment in Hollywood, he took only what he needed from this room and left the rest sitting wherever it sat, giving the place the feel of a ship abandoned mid-dinner:

Posters, old vinyl, three guitars, a bass, amps, club flyers. Graffitied Docs in the closet; a frayed wardrobe of black pants and tee shirts, all still hanging; a leather jacket.

Gray had left it all without a second thought, creating a ruin frozen in time. A Tomb of Cool.

I opened Gray’s old desk drawer. It was full of tarnished teaspoons, all stolen from the country club by either me or him over the years. It had been our little gag ever since we moved to Rancho Ruby. We had performed this small act of disobedience without fully realizing why. Without fully understanding that it was our small way of claiming this new, unfamiliar neighborhood as our own.

I dropped the spoon in and slid the drawer shut.

Who knew what Gray was up to these days? I imagined him on a stage bathed in light. I imagined him in a slick studio booth, transfixing a team of producers with his rock star magnetism.

Gray had been in a few bands in high school—pop, rap, folk, whatever was trending at the time—but the Mortals were my favorite. They were dark. They were metal. Gray played a growling dropped D, as metal demanded. They had played the legendary Miss Mayhem on Sunset; Gray was only eighteen at the time.

We are mere Mortals, Gray would boom into the mic. And so are you.

Behind an amp head I spied a royal-yellow club flyer taped to the wall.

THE MORTALS—OCTOBER 15—FINAL NIGHT OF THE 2ND ANNUAL ASIAN AMERICAN AND PACIFIC ISLANDER ROCK AND ROLL FESTIVAL SPONSORED BY KOREATOWN AUTO MALL—AT THE WORLD-FAMOUS MISS