Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,76

give her a forced smile.

Next to them stood Jane and Brandon Soh, observing the stage through little brass field binoculars. They looked like they had just stepped off a steam-powered drill transport that had arrived moments ago from the secret civilization at the center of the earth.

Thirty more people filled the floor out of nowhere, and suddenly the club went dark but for the pastels of the stage lights.

“Welcome to the eighth annual Rancho Ruby Senior High School talent show extravaganza and gala fundraiser!” said Mr. Tweed.

The audience erupted.

“I didn’t think we’d be starting so soon,” I said.

“We’re right on time, actually,” said Milo.

“Feels really soon,” I said. “Doesn’t it feel super soon?”

The three of us held one another as if we were riding out a bombing raid.

“First act’s up, here we go,” said Jamal. “These guys rap and juggle at the same time.”

One by one, the acts went up and did their thing.

We watched. We waited.

Next came the celebrity impersonator. Then the comedy skit. The tap-dancing magician. The acoustic duo. Each act had their little legions of fans, and they all bowed to the rabid kind of applause only friends and family could provide.

Finally Mr. Tweed took the stage again, with a show host’s languid ease, and murmured words into the mic. A yelp came from the audience. I didn’t have to look to know it was Cirrus’s voice.

Mr. Tweed said more words, like These guys have been working at it for weeks and If you think rock is dead, then think again, but I pretended not to hear them. I looked over and watched Jamal and Milo slapping each other around to get psyched up.

“Get in here,” said Jamal, extending a hand.

“Let’s rock,” said Milo, extending his. He looked at me. “Say it.”

“Last time,” said Jamal.

I extended my hand, too. We saluted the air on three.

“To metal,” I said.

Losers

I stepped onto the stage.

Stepping onto the stage felt like stepping into a dream box painted black on all sides.

The multicolored lights, the buzzing mic.

The crowd, clapping soundlessly now.

And Cirrus, standing in the middle with the back of her hand covering an uncontrollable smile.

Hadn’t I seen all this before in my head?

Yes, and now it was all there before me. It was all real.

There was no shouting How you doing tonight, Hollyweird! or anything like that. I barely remember the mic. I didn’t think I’d thrown eyes at Milo to count us in, but I guess I had, because suddenly he just was, and now we were playing the intro.

Gee, GEE, GEE, chromatically up to BEE

Like a car heading straight for a cliff, we reached the part where I had to touch my chin to the mesh of the mic and sing.

You fade out, I reach in

Crack the floor, fall within

Did I move my lips?

I did.

Did I sing up into the mic? Did I curl my lips in a snarl now?

I did, I did, I did.

I was doing it. It was happening. If I stopped, the whole thing would stop—a terrifying thought. So I did not stop. I went louder and harder, because this was it. After this, I was done. There was a light at the end of this tunnel, and as I exited through the other end, I wanted to make sure to scorch the sides with green flame—the hottest kind.

The audience screamed with joy. I eyed Cirrus—she and a group of about ten classmates were jumping up and down in their black Immortals tee shirts, including Oggy. Cirrus excitedly pointed at me, then herself: That is my boyfriend!

I caught sight of Mom. She beamed at me in a stupefied daze. Next to her were Cirrus’s parents, moving their arms in steady reciprocal fashion like a couple of motorized good-luck cats. I saw Mom cup Dad’s ear, shout into it. What did she say?

First Gray, now Sunny?

Did you have any idea?

Dad shrugged excitedly—I have no idea what is happening!—and cupped his hands to yell my name. I couldn’t hear it, but I didn’t mind.

I threw a side glance and saw Gray, too, standing in the underlit glow of the stage wings. He held on to a truss and raised his beer in a swaying toast at me.

We ripped through each chapter of the song: the first chorus, the EDM breakdown performed on our non-EDM instruments, all of it. I windmilled, machine gunned, even found a moment or two to chain whip the mic like I was a Repugnant. Milo twirled his dual sticks and landed them each