Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,77
time except for one barely noticeable slip-up; he recovered seamlessly thanks to two drumstick wells placed to the left and right of his snare. Jamal headbanged so hard I was worried his head would bend clean off.
I drew my guitar up and face-melted: Love you so much Cirrus after tonight it’s just you and me and I will show you all of my hidden pieces no matter how weird they are without shame or fear.
When we made it to the a capella part, everyone’s phones shot up as if on cue.
Little confetti rectangles of light glowing white and blue and green and orange.
It was beautiful.
The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie
The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie
The truth is—
“You’re beautiful when you lie,” screeched Gray.
What was happening?
I looked up at Gunner at the sound board in the distance, and he stood with an arm pointing toward stage right. I stayed pinned to the mic and threw a glance.
Gray had stepped onto the stage and hijacked Jamal’s mic.
“The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie,” sang Gray.
The crowd applauded, to my horror.
And why wouldn’t they? This was all part of the act, for all they knew. He was handsome! He could sing! Perhaps he was a minor celebrity making a cameo appearance!
Gray swung from Jamal’s mic toward mine like a drunk navigating a moving subway car, because Gray was drunk, very, very drunk, and he embraced me in his cloud of beer breath to share my mic.
“The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie,” we sang.
I had to sing. I couldn’t just stop singing.
I didn’t dare look at Cirrus. I’m sure she was cheering, too. How sweet that Sunny the rock star had invited his corporate workaday brother onto the stage like this!
Gray leaned on me, playfully at first, then with all his weight as he lost his balance.
We fell extremely slowly.
Our fall took long enough to give me time to realize that I was passing through some sort of point of no return, like a one-way portal into another, worse dimension. Through the still-open portal I could see myself finishing “Beauty Is Truth” with the perfect butt-kicker landing of the true lead guitar rock performer; I could see the audience exploding; I could see Cirrus, the glowing nucleus of it all.
The portal shrank down into a spark that died the instant it touched the floor.
Jamal and Milo stood frozen solid. Mr. Tweed quick-stepped onto the stage.
“Are you guys all right?” he said quietly.
Mr. Tweed helped me up, then Gray. “Been a minute, Gray Dae,” he said.
The audience began to murmur.
Because I could not help myself, I glanced at Cirrus. She crossed her mouth tight with both hands, like one does when witnessing an accident.
Gray wobbled—his phantom subway car taking an S curve—and popped hard into the mic to fill the air with an unearthly om of feedback.
Gray held the mic away until the howl died down, then breathed into it. “Sorry ’bout that ever-body.”
Was this really happening? My brain was numb with confusion.
“Guys,” slurred Gray, “let’s pick it up from the last measure before the appa kella, capa pella, a capella, god!”
Mr. Tweed clapped his hands at us. “Let’s be done now, good job, guys.”
I watched as he motioned for Gunner to kill the spotlights dead. We stood in the dark now as the crowd softly babbled on.
Let’s be done?
How was I suddenly done now? What was I supposed to do with all this adrenaline still racing through my body? Where was all this hot blood supposed to go?
We could not be done. It wasn’t fair.
We were supposed to have a moment, and now we didn’t. Because Gray took it.
“What the hell,” I said.
Milo whispered something at me in the dark, but I ignored it. I was talking to Gray.
“What, you guys were sounding kinda thin,” said Gray. “I’s just tryna help.”
“This was supposed to be mine,” I shot.
Gray shot back right away. “But it’s my song.”
We rallied with increasing speed. “But—”
“I just let you borrow it,” said Gray. “It’s my song, and I know how to play it.”
“You guys,” said Milo.
“Off the stage, please,” said Mr. Tweed.
“You’ve never ever ever performed!” said Gray. “You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me!”
“Fellas,” said Mr. Tweed.
But I barely heard him. My hands throbbed with ebbing energy. I could feel the makeup on my face, and it didn’t feel cool at all anymore. It felt stupid.
“You thought we couldn’t pull this off,” I hissed, “because we’re just