Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,89

fully, and wore horrible baggy sweats and a horrible baggy hoodie. In one hand he held an acoustic guitar. In the other, a beautiful sunburst mandolin.

“Lemme handle this,” said Gray.

“Okay?” said Dad, perplexed.

“Sunny, get up,” said Gray. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I said. “For what?”

“Oh my god,” said Mom, sweetly realizing some mysterious something. She gave Dad a squeeze. And then she gave him a little kiss. The kiss seemed to squirt a shot of understanding into Dad’s brain, because he brightened like a little bulb.

“Might as well try,” said Dad to Gray.

“Do or at least try, there is no do not,” croaked Gray.

“Never attempt to quote Star Wars again,” I said.

Gray opened the front door with a Picardian flourish. “Engage.”

* * *

—

We walked outside in the chill of the deepening night. Gray tuned the guitar as he walked. It was the first guitar he ever got, way back in freshman year of high school: a little parlor-size classical with nylon strings. He made me wear it.

“You know that song ‘You’re Beautiful’ by James Blunt?” he said.

“That song is so cheesy,” I said. “Milo’s mom piped stuff like that when he was a baby in her tum-tum.”

“That’s the song you’re gonna sing,” he said.

“Doesn’t he say, I will never be with you?” I said.

“That line is precisely what makes it a great love song,” said Gray.

I grappled with the paradoxical logic of declaring your love for a person by singing about how you’ll never get to be in a relationship with them. Maybe the yearning alone made a persuasive case?

“Are we seriously doing this?” I said.

“You are seriously doing this,” said Gray. “I sure couldn’t. The vocals are way too high. But falsetto’s in your wheelhouse. Plus you know all the words.”

This was actually true. I used to sing along with the song every time it came on in the car in grade school. Funny that Gray remembered such a small detail.

“Chords are super simple,” said Gray. “Capo the eighth fret, play G, D, E-minor, C, then for the chorus go C, D, E-minor, D, C, D, and back to G. Just follow my lead.”

“You’re serious,” I said.

“What else are you doing tonight?” said Gray. “She friggin’ leaves tomorrow.”

I went through the chords with Gray, who guided me along by playing lead-in notes on his mandolin.

Down the hill was Cirrus’s condo. I stopped walking, but Gray restarted me with a push of his hand.

It dawned on me—again—that after tomorrow morning Cirrus would be gone. What would a late-night serenade even accomplish? Would she reverse course yet again and ask her parents to drop the project and stay put, all for the chance to be with someone she could never quite trust?

If it were me, I would start learning my basic Mandarin.

But it wasn’t me, and I couldn’t deny that I harbored a tiny crumb of hope that a miracle would happen. This crumb came from the same crappy, tasteless loaf of bread shared with lottery ticket owners, children still believing in Santa Claus (bless them), and every game show contestant ever, including and especially the defunct X-Factor.

We reached her condo. An automatic floodlight flooded us with light.

“That’s your cue,” said Gray. He stood some feet apart to give me more of the spotlight, then counted us in.

Suddenly I was freezing. My hands were freezing. But I clipped on the capo and played the first G, remembering to add the little hammer-on detail.

“Here we go,” said Gray. He led me in with the familiar solo melody. It was a simple phrase played twice over four bars at a leisurely pace, giving me a full eight bars to clear my throat and my fears and just dive in to the song’s oddball fake-out fragment of a first line—

My life is brilliant

—sung before the actual real beginning of the song, which we soon reached in three short bars.

My love is pure

I saw an angel

Of that I’m sure

VERSE 1 → CHORUS

VERSE 2 → CHORUS

BRIDGE → CHORUS

Simple as can be. My voice slotted in so comfortably at this high register that I didn’t have to worry about hitting the notes. I didn’t have to worry about remembering the lyrics, either. My performer’s brain was freed up to go for style points, and I tried my best: adding in grace notes and voice cracks here, mumbles and slurs there. Gray had been right: falsetto was in my wheelhouse. The perks of being a castrato.

Cirrus’s condo remained dark.

I glanced at big brother Gray now and then.