Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,87

hung out with at school but nowhere else, capable of only the shallowest of conversation.

Or maybe we wouldn’t at all.

Maybe we would just be acquaintances, and nod at one another in the hallways, and that would be it.

In one fell swoop, our flux capacitor now sat splintered apart into separate arms, flux things, whatever. I didn’t even really like that movie all that much. Not even when Jamal and Milo and me watched it for the first time in Milo’s backyard when we were kids, and his mom set up the sheet and the projector and his dad gave us all the homemade elote corncobs we could eat and—

“Sunny,” shrieked Milo.

I looked back. On a conventional bike, such a lookback would surely cause an instant loss of control and inevitable crash followed by property damage, personal injury, or even death and dismemberment. But not on the ultra-stable Velociraptor® Elite.

Milo was piloting a miniature electric bike with his legs frogged out, clown-style. Behind him was Jamal. They were somehow riding the squirrelly thing together.

“Sunny,” cried Jamal.

“Turn around,” said Milo.

“Huh?” I said.

“It’s three minutes till livestream, not fifteen,” said Milo. “Lady Lashblade messaged in to say she’s ready. Jamal, tell him.”

“Sunny,” said Jamal. “We forgive you.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I wouldn’t forgive me.”

“Shut up with that self-pitying nonsense,” said Jamal. “No one could know what they’d do if they were in your shoes—that’s beside the point.”

“Although I’m glad I wasn’t in your shoes,” said Milo.

“We need you,” said Jamal.

“For the livestream?” I said.

“No, you idiot,” said Jamal.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “I need you guys, too.”

“This is all wonderful,” said Milo. “Now bang a yewie.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Turn the heck around and come back with us!” said Jamal.

* * *

—

“Check one two syphilis,” I said.

“Levels are good,” said Jamal.

“Cuing in Lady Lashblade,” said Milo.

We all held our breath as a rectangle appeared on-screen with her eminence herself. Lady Lashblade was one of the few prominent women of color in the world of role-playing games and was known for changing her hair into something architectural in its splendor every week. This time it was done in overlapping lacquered sheets bursting from a spiky halo in the back. A hippogriff pin held the whole thing together. Her eponymous eyelashes sparkled and matched the pin’s crimson hue.

“Good afternoon, fine sirs,” she said. “It’s such a pleasure to be a part of your wonderful show.”

“The honor’s all ours pleasure is we’re so glad to have you thank you this evening,” we all said at once.

“Oh my,” said Lady Lashblade. She got down to business. Livestream shows were nothing for her. “What’s your preferred format?”

“Hi, I’m Sunny,” I said. “Uh, so, um, it’s twenty minutes of banter, and ten minutes of product intro and demo, then thirty minutes Q&A with the audience.”

“That’s typical,” said Lady Lashblade, taking a sip of red wine through a straw in a crystal goblet.

“So I’m the funny one,” said Jamal. “And Sunny’s the Idea Guy.”

“I’m the therapist philosopher,” said Milo, crowding into Jamal’s mic. “Sorta like an Oprah but not quite as good a listener, especially when I get nervous—”

“Fellas, fellas,” said Lady Lashblade. “Just be yourselves. You’re gonna do gr-r-reat.”

Lady Lashblade was right. Of course she was right. She was Lady friggin’ Lashblade.

We began the livestream.

We were ourselves.

And we did just gr-r-reat.

The viewership was ludicrous, in the tens of thousands. We gained hundreds of followers. Once those people started telling other people, Lady Lashblade gained hundreds of followers, too. Understand that these weren’t ordinary followers—nothing like those drive-by scrollers who followed Skittles Official on a whim. These were hard-core fans. The type who made—never bought—their own cosplay. The kind who LARPed even in the rain. The kind who religiously made the pilgrimage to Fantastic Faire every year.

As we wrapped up the livestream, she said it.

“I look forward to seeing all of you at the Faire in—what—just a month now!” she said. “All my close friends will be at my booth, including these good sirs we’ve all just had the pleasure of learning from, DIY Fantasy FX. If their schedule allows, that is.”

My face froze. So did Milo’s and Jamal’s. Jamal inched his face away so that he could freak out properly off-frame.

“I bluh-bluh-believe we’re free?” I said.

“We’refreewurrfreewurrfree,” said Milo.

“See you there!” said Lady Lashblade. She wiggled her sparkling fingers to deliver her catchphrase: “Make and believe.”

“And cut,” said Jamal. “We’re out.”

“Goddess of the game I worship thee Lady Lashblade!” I screamed.

“I’m still here,” said Lady Lashblade.

“Thank you, Lady Lashblade!” we