Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,72

time from us! So I just freaking made the executive decision and said Thursday!”

“The day after the talent show,” said Milo, arms folded.

There was no school Thursday, to allow for what the faculty called a staff work day, otherwise informally known as a staff recovery day, otherwise even more informally known as a hangover day.

“We are locked in,” said Jamal. “I’m forcing our own hand.”

The three of us sat in silence while Jamal fumed.

“But wait—isn’t this a good thing?” I said finally. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you had the guts to reach out to Lady Lashblade herself.”

Jamal, realizing there was actually nothing to be angry about, reluctantly began to calm down. “I did,” he said. “Because I am amazing.”

“Lady Lashblade?” hissed Gunner, jogging toward us.

I high-fived him, realized he had just transferred a few milligrams of his sweat onto my palm, and wiped my hand on the grass before giving Jamal a hug. “Thank you for picking up my slack and taking charge. What’s there to be mad about?”

“I think Jamal just wants some validation,” said Milo.

“Yap,” said Gunner with dual pistol fingers. He jogged away backward.

Jamal softened. “I miss doing our stuff. Our real stuff.”

“I got you,” I said. I touched his shoulder. “Thursday will be spectacular.”

“We nail that, she can’t not invite us to the Faire,” said Milo. “Everything’s getting better and better, I can feel it.”

I could, too. I ran an open hand over the ground covered in green, and when I pinched my fingers closed, I saw I had found not a four-leaf, but a five-leaf clover.

I held up the tiny miracle to the warm afternoon light, where its leaves glowed with a lime translucence. I asked its forgiveness for murdering it and its brethren. All of time slowed down as I beheld this very special specimen: the trees in midsway, the clouds now halted, the wind just a trace of a breath.

I watched as Jamal and Milo gave each other the slowest high five ever. They swung their arms mightily as if underwater.

I blinked one blink, then another. In the distance appeared the girls’ track team, all agonizing over where to sit on the opposite end of the field. Cirrus emerged, her arms limp and exhausted. She plopped down where she was. She sat alone. She picked at the clover. Held it up.

I knew exactly what kind she got.

There was a low, syrupy yell from Ms. Coach Oldtimer, the female fraternal twin to Coach Oldtimer, and Cirrus heaved herself up to run a hundred-meter dash alongside Artemis and six identical blondes.

Boosh, went the starting gun in slow motion. Exploding lazily against the amber sky. The girls: statues en pointe as they accelerated millimeter by millimeter off their blocks. Cirrus, moving a little later than everyone, a little slower than everyone,

her tee shirt the newest,

her shorts the newest,

herself the newest,

feet slapping clay while the others gazelled,

evanescing upon spiked hooves that propelled,

while she stomped to a stop with her arms all a-flail,

now Artemis crashing right into her tail,

both girls grasping their knees

and gasping oh please,

screaming with laughter as they readied their fingers,

cocking and shooting like merry gunslingers:

two fingers—middle finger—

two fingers—middle finger—

and, as if she heard my heart cheering her on,

turning her gaze to meet mine from far yon

and flip her final, most colorful bird—

for me, a boy so happy it was perfectly absurd.

* * *

—

“Show me windmill,” said Gray.

I windmilled.

“Good, but not so hard that you’d break your strings,” said Gray. “Now show me machine gun.”

I raised my guitar and decimated the imaginary audience with four fast left-hand trigger fingers.

“Headbang,” said Gray.

“Fist of Lucifer,” said Gray.

We were in the music room at school. Milo and Jamal sat and watched, smiling dorkily at me through their upper teeth. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Gray was shooting video.

“Finish with a Statue of Liberty,” said Gray.

I did and held the pose, panting. I had worked up a light sweat. Gray hopped down from his perch atop a swivel stool.

“That’s it, great job,” said Gray.

“Years of role-playing!” I said.

“Critical hit, baby!” said Milo.

“Sword of Damocles!” said Jamal.

“Didn’t that hang by a single horsehair?” said Milo. “Something about with great fortune comes great risk?”

“Sword of Sages?” said Jamal.

“Zelda,” grunted Gunner, nodding earnestly.

“Bunch . . . of . . . nerds,” muttered Gray with awe.

I glanced at Gunner, who seemed to take this as a high compliment.

Gray took a swig from his big water bottle, and when he belched, I could smell beer.

“You’re not supposed to have that in