Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,73

here,” I said.

“Come on,” said Gray. “I look forward to this all day.”

I blinked. “You do?”

“Final practice, you guys,” said Gray. “Let’s get it.”

We ran through the song. We no longer thought about hitting the right notes. Now was the last chance to earn what Gray called style points.

Jamal was too stiff to really do much of anything, so he settled on a somewhat convincing figure-eight headbang over the neck of his bass.

Milo could twirl both his sticks now, and still land them in time to the music.

And I could windmill, machine gun, headbang, and Fist of Lucifer.

At one point I spied Mr. Tweed spying us through the door glass with snarled lips and finger horns. Gray slid his “water” bottle behind him, out of Mr. Tweed’s view. Not that Mr. Tweed noticed or would even care. After today we would most likely never practice in here again.

We played steady and hard, like an unstoppable windowless steel train traveling straight through the fires of hell. We were not just making music. We were putting on a show.

Throughout it all, Gunner maintained the sound levels and made sure cables were routed safely. Gunner had swung by to wish me luck, took one look at the mess of our setup, and swooped in tsking to tidy things up.

I threw eyes at Milo, and he instantly knew it was time to play forte, then double forte, then dig hard into the last measures. Jamal spread his long high-jumper legs to form a power triangle. He threw out a kick high enough to ignite the upturned fist of my final Statue of Liberty.

We all turned to Gray to hear him call out his percentage. For a moment he said nothing. Then he simply shook his head.

“Always wondered if my song would actually work,” said Gray softly. “Beauty is truth, is beauty, is truth.”

I exchanged glances with Milo, Jamal, and also Gunner—our first and last roadie.

“Well?” I said.

“It does,” said Gray. He laughed a laugh stained blue with memory. “Better than I imagined.”

Gray went to each of us and jiggled our weary shoulders. The five of us brought it in for a final band salute: To metal.

“My beautiful nerds,” said Gray, “you are at one hundred percent. You are ready.”

IV

Kids think they vanish when their eyes are closed.

Everyone else knows that they are exposed.

Sunset

Did I sleep?

I couldn’t tell.

All night I rested on the uncomfortable sharp edge dividing consciousness and unconsciousness, afraid to move for fear of falling.

If I slept at all, my dreams were the meta kind—dreams wondering if I were really asleep, dreams about dreaming.

It was the day of the talent show.

I woke up late. I’m pretty sure half the school did, since so many of us were slated to be at Miss Mayhem’s in Los Angeles all day for sound checks and last-minute stage blocking and whatnot. Classes were in disarray because so many people were missing.

It’s one big study hall today, wrote Cirrus. Just people passing the time. I miss you.

I miss you too, I wrote.

Are you nervous?

Nope, I wrote.

Duh, it’s not like this is your first show.

I stared at that last line, not sure how to respond.

See you tonight, I wrote finally.

Milo came over in his mom’s bulbous minivan, which we loaded up with guitars and whatnot. I brought a toolbox containing Gray’s old stage makeup. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mom and Dad staring out the window with utter bafflement. They had no idea what was happening.

I waved to them, and they waved back.

Milo and I drove to pick up Jamal, who met us with armloads of snacks.

“It’s just a forty-minute drive,” said Milo.

“Road trip,” cried Jamal, ignoring Milo.

“I guess let’s do this,” I said.

We wound through the spaghetti streets of Rancho Ruby, passing Cirrus’s condo, passing the school. We ascended onto the freeway.

We were three fake bandmates in a van. Anyone regarding us would think we looked cool. If we looked cool and acted cool, did that make us cool?

The equipment squeaked in the back. We were listening to “Beauty Is Truth” just a couple times, at my insistence, to cement it in the backs of our minds.

In a vintage GeoCities hip bag I had brought ibuprofen, adhesive bandages, antacid tablets, cough drops, baby wipes, spare change, a key-chain flashlight, a hand-crank radio, earplugs, potable water, MREs, and so on—everything you need for a disaster preparedness kit, just in case.

The van crested a hill, and Los Angeles sat waiting in the smog: a jagged