Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,81

him. And now look what I caused.”

Mom took me under her chin. “This is not your fault. I promise.”

“I called him a loser,” I said with a sob. “Right before I pushed him.”

Her phone buzzed, and Mom took a peek. “Get up,” she said. “Dad says they moved him to a private room. We can go in.”

I wiped my eyes.

“This is not your fault,” said Mom again.

* * *

—

I shut the door. This was Rancho Ruby, so all the hospital rooms had couches and sinks and views of the Pacific. Out of habit I began formulating a rant about our failing, deeply inequitable Pay up or die health care “system” (if it could even be called that), but stopped when I caught sight of Gray.

Gray slept. His hair lay crushed to one side, like a hog-bristle brush slashed diagonally. He was all tubes and wires: lines coming out of both arms, wires coming from his chest and fingertips.

“Did you not know he’d given up on music?” I said. “That he was basically depressed?”

“No,” said Dad. “I did not know that.”

My face twitched. What were we doing as a family, if we were not even aware of such fundamental things about one another?

I lost it. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”

“Sun,” said Mom.

“He was up in LA, and he tried so hard and failed and his soul was absolutely crushed, and you had no idea,” I said. “You had no idea how crushed he was.”

“We thought he was okay,” said Mom.

“He was so sad,” I said. “And all I did was kick him when he was down. I was bad to him. All because of a stupid thing I did.”

I wasn’t yelling at my parents. I was yelling at myself.

Mom held me. “I’m not going to say what you did wasn’t stupid,” she said. “But I will say you shouldn’t ever feel like you have to do or be something you don’t want to just to impress people who don’t know the real you.”

“What Mom said,” said Dad.

I looked at them. “Are you guys serious?”

Mom and Dad looked at me: Yes?

“All you guys do is try to impress other people,” I said. “Trey Fortune.”

“That’s work,” said Dad. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” I said.

“Everyone has to put on a face for work,” said Dad. “You will, too.”

“Gray was the one who keyed your car,” I said.

Dad’s brow flashed with disbelief. “Why?”

“Dad, what was the name of Gray’s last band?” I said.

Dad took a breath, but no response came out, because he did not know.

“Endscene,” I said. “It was Endscene.”

Dad shifted his weight, rapped twice on a chair as if to test its material strength, and grimaced, as if something had suddenly gone bitter in his mouth.

“I’m a good dad, aren’t I?” said Dad.

My eyes instantly dilated with panic. Had I just done something horrible? “Of course you are.”

“You’re the best dad,” said Mom.

“Am I?” said Dad, and released two heavy teardrops.

“You are,” I said. “You are the best dad.”

“Why is everyone crying?” said Gray.

We looked up. We rushed to the side of the bed.

“Ungh,” said Gray. “Is my head open or something?”

“You okay?”

“I am not okay,” said Gray.

“You have to be okay, stupid,” I said, hugging him as best as I could through all the equipment. I wanted to hit him, too, but I cried instead.

“Are you in pain?” said Mom.

“Nn,” said Gray.

“I’m gonna call the nurse right now, buddy,” said Dad.

“It’s fine,” said Gray.

“Where’s the stupid call button,” said Dad.

“I said it’s fine,” said Gray.

Everyone froze. Gray squeezed his eyes shut and held a breath for a long moment.

“I’m sorry I keyed your car, Dad,” he said finally.

“You heard that,” I said.

Mom and Dad leaned in to hold Gray’s hand, Gray’s shoulder. It was awkward, but they didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you angry with me?” said Dad.

Gray sighed a big sigh, like this was a stupid question. “Ten bands in three years,” he said. “You guys could’ve come to one of my shows.”

“Oh, Gray, honey—” said Mom.

“You were busy, and that’s fine,” said Gray. Something occurred to him that was painful enough to bring tears. “All I needed was for you to ask me—one time—how things were going. That’s why I keyed your car. Your stupid, poser, look-at-me car.”

Mom and Dad flinched, as if they realized they’d been touching the wrong person.

I watched as Dad cycled through emotions: anger, forced calm, remorse. He spoke quietly.

“Buddy, if you want to do music, then I promise I will support you one