Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,82

hundred percent,” he said.

“I let that go, Dad,” said Gray. “I made my peace with it. Just didn’t think it would turn into all this.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dad. “We let you down.”

“We’re both sorry,” said Mom.

Gray reached out, wincing slightly, and squeezed both their hands. “Just—we’re all in the same house now, okay? Let’s be in the same house together.”

“We’re glad you’re home,” said Dad, somewhat missing Gray’s point, but hopefully not by much.

“I mean, you went to Sunny’s freakin’ show,” said Gray. “Didn’t it feel great to be there?”

Mom gazed at me with sparkling eyes. “You were such the rock star.”

Finally I found myself laughing, and it felt good. “I am so not.”

“Yeah you were,” said Gray. “You just put your mind to it and bam, one month later you’re playing Miss Mayhem. That’s you, man. You just go ahead and do whatever the hell you want. Like you always have.”

I blinked. I have?

The machines beeped and beeped.

“Sun,” said Gray. “I’m really, really sorry I messed everything up.”

“None of that matters,” I said, and I meant it.

“I’m so stupid,” said Gray.

“You’re not stupid,” I said.

“I am,” said Gray.

“Maybe a little stupid.”

Gray laughed, then grit his teeth to cough. Mom fetched him a cup of water the size of a thimble that would be later billed to us as PATIENT HYDRATION × 1 UNIT(S) for $300.

“You know the last time I played at Miss Mayhem was the last time I played anywhere?” said Gray. “It became all auditions for original studio work toward the end.”

He chuckled at those last words: toward the end.

“It was?” I said with a frown. Gray had mentioned playing Miss Mayhem. All this time, I had imagined Gray playing all over the city and beyond. Pay-to-play probably had become unsustainable.

The three of us—me, Mom, Dad—sat and listened. We were finally hearing about Gray’s time in Hollywood for real for the first time.

“Every producer was like, You sound just like this band or that band, you need to work on defining your own sound,” said Gray. He bobbled his head in mock imitation. “Like, your own identity. Like, What makes you you?”

“Is that why you let it go?” said Dad. “Because maybe all you need to do is work on coming up with—”

“Shh,” I said. “Let him talk.”

Dad nodded, with a look that seemed to say, Let him talk, now why didn’t I think of that?

“The thing is,” said Gray, “all those producers were right. Every gig, every audition, I sounded like a very, very good tribute band. But never an artist. I was very good at copying sounds and looks and trends the whole time I was in Hollywood. And all through high school. God.”

Gray nodded soberly at us—his head full of revelations jarred loose tonight—and we waited for him to continue.

“You know, when we moved to Rancho Ruby,” said Gray, “on like day two, some kid asked me if I ate dog?”

“Me too!” I blurted.

Gray threw eyes at me with sudden concern—Really? You got it, too?

Mom reached out to touch my shoulder. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

Dad fumed. “I’m calling the school first thing tomorrow.”

“Please don’t do that,” I said.

Mom looked sick with worry. “It is pretty different here. Isn’t it.”

Gray and I just looked at each other and said nothing. Mom sagged. She knew that was a yes.

“I miss our old place,” I said simply.

“Nn,” added Gray.

Mom looked at Dad, who kept his eyes on the floor. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. It was the most physical contact I’d seen between them in years.

“Did kids at school say that stuff pretty often?” said Dad.

“Sure,” said Gray with a shrug. “Are you Chinese, do you know kung fu. I even once got Can you sing K-pop.”

“I hate K-pop,” I said with a groan.

“Actually K-pop does this amazing thing where it switches multiple, entirely different genres in the same track,” said Gray. “It was kind of a huge inspiration for ‘Beauty Is Truth.’”

The structure of “Beauty Is Truth” formed in my mind. Rock, trap, acoustic, all in a single song.

“I wrote ‘Beauty Is Truth’ just for myself,” said Gray. “All that other music, pff—” Gray hid his face in his hands and spoke through them. “All that other music I made because I wanted friends.”

“It worked,” I said. “You were Mr. Popular.”

“I was flavor of the week,” said Gray. “For like a hundred weeks. It made me tired.”

“You had so many friends,” I said.

Gray disputed me with a look. “Not friends like Jamal.