by David Yoon
“Cool coolcoolcoocoocoocucucucu,” said Jamal.
“This is so exciting,” said Cirrus, and wiggled to settle in. She was, I realized with idiot satori, our first audience ever.
I once read that a writer’s greatest fear is for someone to actually read their work. An artist’s greatest fear is for someone to actually view their painting. A musician’s fear is for someone to actually listen to them perform. I fully understood all of this now.
I clenched my hands to stop them from vibrating. Jamal handed me a guitar, which I slung slowly around myself, stunned with panic. Jamal did the same. He held back bile like a man about to parachute into enemy fire. He flicked on my amp, then his.
My head shot up at the sound of a drum. It was Milo, batting his fingertips against his box stool. The box made a surprising number of sounds: bass kick, snare, and side toms.
I looked at him: What the . . . ?
“It’s a cajon,” said Milo. “My dad got one on a trip to Peru.”
“Duh, right, my cajon,” I said. “You got some serious cojones, ha ha.”
“What do my testicles have to do with anything?” said Milo.
“Huh?” said Cirrus.
“Milo,” I said, very quietly. “Count us in.”
But before he could, Cirrus said, “What’s the song called?”
“It’s, uh,” I said, scrambling to remember. How could I not remember?
“‘Beauty Is Truth,’” whimpered Jamal through uncontrollable amounts of saliva.
“Keats,” said Cirrus immediately. “Nice.”
“Keats . . . I . . . like . . . too . . .” I said.
“‘Ode on a Grecian Urn,’” said Cirrus. She hugged herself. “I like the ending:
“‘“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
“‘Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”
I was going to be sick.
I stared at Milo staring at Jamal staring back at me staring at Milo, forever infinity. A long, heavy moment came rolling through and crushed everything into splinters.
Cirrus was staring at me with puzzlement, so I gave Milo my best showman’s nod.
Milo cleared his throat. “And a-one, and a-two.”
At first, our intro sounded like three trash cans full of shouting goats crashing down the side of an ancient-ass pyramid at different speeds. But we stabilized soon enough. We blinked away panic and threw eyes well enough to maintain a limping momentum.
G, chromatically up to B
Boom, tssh, boom-boom, tssh
I threw eyes at Milo, then at Jamal, so that we would land the final notes. They were our most accurate notes to date. We gave one another the stunned looks of survivors.
“Wooo!” said Cirrus, clapping. “Rock and roll, baby! You wrote that?”
I blinked eight times, cleared my throat, and answered: “Yap.”
“And that’s just the beginning part?”
“Yap.”
I glanced around. Now Milo and Jamal looked like they were going to be sick.
“You’re brilliant,” said Cirrus.
Me and Milo and Jamal rested on our instruments as if we knew what the hell we were doing. To make the illusion complete, I fist-bumped Milo and Jamal just like real bandmates would. The two looked like they had just outrun a torrent of Spanish bulls gone blind with the heat of Eros.
I watched as Cirrus found a Sharpie, uncapped it, and leaned over to add the letters IM to the Mortals flyer on the wall.
“Fixed that for you,” she said. She gave me the most wonderful look. She was proud of me.
I grew instantly addicted to that look. I could never get enough of it.
I began taking off my guitar with the weary flourish of a warrior done with battle. “Anyway, you guys wanna hang out downstairs?”
“Wait,” said Cirrus. “Doesn’t your song have lyrics?”
“Yeah,” I said, because it did. “But they’re not ready.”
“That’s okay,” said Cirrus, with sarcastic nonchalance. “It’s not like I’m dying to hear you sing or anything. It’s not like a guy singing rock and roll isn’t one of the hottest things a girl could imagine.”
Crap.
I looked to Jamal, but he’d already set his bass guitar back on its stand and switched off his amp. He had left mine on, though.
Thanks, Jamal.
“Still figuring out the details,” I said, putting the guitar back on. It felt twice as heavy. I gave the strings a limp strum. “But in general it goes kinda like talkin’ bout aa ee ooo aa oo songs unsung sound so sweet mm ah mm.”
Cirrus covered her mouth with the back of her hand and giggled.
I stopped and giggled back as best I could. “What?”
“No, but your voice is just so high and sweet,” said Cirrus. “I wasn’t expecting a voice like that to come out of you.”
I always suspected that puberty had done a half-assed job with my body. Developing certain parts while skipping others. Like my voice.
“It’s a classic rock falsetto,” I said, quoting Mr. Tweed. “Many a famous rock star can sound like a totally different person when he or she sings onstage.”
“A totally different person,” said Cirrus, intrigued.
I felt Milo looking at me: Isn’t it ironic?
Jamal eyerolled: Don’t you think?
The four of us sat for a moment, just staring at the little red light burning hot on the humming amp. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. Play some more? Offer snacks?
Stare? Stare? Stare?
“What is going on here?” said an uncertain voice.
Gray stood in the doorway, looking confused. “What are you guys doing in my—”
Kerrang, went my guitar, interrupting him.
“Are you playing—”
KERRANG
I fiddled with the amp knobs with carefully feigned concern. “This gain sounds funny,” I muttered, which was total nonsense. My brain was unraveling in my skull. I could not simply keep playing loud sounds to keep Gray from talking. Twice was weird enough.
“Are you supposed to be in a band now or something?” said Gray.
Gray looked like he was in the middle of getting dressed. He wore an undershirt and front-pleated charcoal khakis held up by a plain leather belt. Below, argyle socks in every shade of ash. He was a black-and-white character lost in a world of ultra-high-def color.
Gray turned his gaze. “You must be Cirrus.”
“I am,” said Cirrus, oblivious.
Have mercy, I pleaded silently. Spare me. Could Gray see it in my eyes?
“Gray,” I began, but it came out as a dry croak.
Cirrus’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, then stood.
“Crap,” said Cirrus. “My parents are back downstairs. The camera store was closed, so we’re driving all the way out to Top of Topanga for some lunch thing, yay.”
“Can I come?” I blurted.
Cirrus wheeled her thumbs. “You wanna?”
Oh, how I did! Just get up and run away with my beautiful girlfriend (girlfriend!). But on one side of me, I could feel urgency from Jamal and Milo to continue work on Esmeralda’s Veil; on the other side of me, I could feel the threat of growing indignation coming from Gray.
“I should probably stay here and work on some stuff actually,” I said finally.
There was an expensive-sounding car honk from downstairs.
“Text me,” said Cirrus, and left.
I sat, bathing in those two heavenly words no girl had heretofore ever uttered to me.
In the following silence, Gray took five to consider the mise-en-scène before him with a hardboiled detective’s eye. The ax. The dame what just scrammed. Gray’s old glad rags on this sap right here, and also on Jamal and
Milo. Some kind of hinky grift—with his own brother as the boss fakeloo artist?
When Gray reached the newly doctored flyer—THE IMMORTALS—his eyes narrowed.
I could see him selecting words in his mind and carefully lining them up like surgical tools.
Finally Gray simply said, “Unbelievable.”
He noticed my shirt. “You—”
He noticed Milo and Jamal’s shirts. “And you two—”
Milo and Jamal folded their arms in a useless attempt to hide.
Gray’s confusion broke with a chuckle of amusement that quickly soured into disgust. He took a moment to sneer at all the old things in his old room. I noticed he hadn’t taken a step inside. He clung to the doorway and came no farther, as if the room were a quarantine ward.
He sneered at Jamal. “You enjoying my old shirt?”
Jamal said nothing.
Gray turned to Milo. “You?”
Milo said nothing.
“Please—” I began.
“Please?” said Gray with another laugh. “As long as you’re asking nicely, then yeah, go ahead and play pretend with all my old crap, you amazing losers! Immortals? Really?”
“You can’t say anything—” I began, then stopped myself.
Gray smirked mightily. “She doesn’t know.”
I remained stopped.
“Holy crap,” Gray said. “Of course she doesn’t know.”
I could only hold back the trembles.
“Don’t worry, dude,” said Gray. “Your secret is super-duper safe with me.” He made a swinging exit from the doorway, leaving his grin floating behind for a long time after he left.
Promise
In the chaotic scrum of morning homeroom we debriefed one another via text message for privacy, sitting back-to-back-to-back in Triforce formation—an instinctive response designed to protect ourselves from surprise attack.
JAMAL
So Gray’s gone from garden variety dick to full-on douchtube
Welcome to my never-ending disappointment.
MILO
I found that encounter very stressful
JAMAL
You think?
God I think Gray wants to blow our cover
MILO
But for what possible reason?
Just to mess with my life
JAMAL
He did say our secret is safe with him tho
MILO
Oh Jamal, that was sarcasm.
JAMAL
Oh
MILO
Arch sarcasm.
JAMAL
So our secret isn’t safe is it
I just don’t know what he’s gonna do
MILO
I’m sure he won’t do anything.
JAMAL
Oh god what if he does tho
MILO
I’m sure he was just bluffing, Jamal.
But what if he wasn’t
What if Gray tells my parents . . .
who will then tell Cirrus’s parents . . .
who will then tell Cirrus
Oh my god
JAMAL
Who will then tell the whole school, and then we would be totally ducked and up shut creek without a paddle for sure why why why did we agree to be in a fake band
MILO
Jamal Maurice Willow!
I will do something . . . I got us into this mess, I will figure this out
JAMAL
How??
I will convince Gray to leave us alone, I promise
JAMAL
How????
MILO
Trust Sunny!
JAMAL
Trusting Sunny was the problem to be perfectly honest Milo Hector de la Peña
MILO
You are out of line!
JAMAL
I’m sorry Sunny
I take it back
It’s ok, you are my best friends, I feel terrible about putting you in this situation, love you both
JAMAL
Love you too
MILO
Love you three.
Maybe we could run CREAPS on the problem
JAMAL
lol
MILO
Everything’s going to be fine.
Gray is just being an annoying big brother, that’s all.
He wasn’t always annoying
JAMAL
He wasn’t?
Story for another day
From before our time
Anyway
JAMAL
So Sunny uh
Mhm
JAMAL
Esmeralda’s Veil?
MILO
Jamal.
JAMAL
Sorry sorry nvm
No you’re right I promise I’ll work on that too . . . promise promise promise
The bell rang.
We put our phones away. The teacher came in, made a bunch of trombone sounds, and dismissed us.
Outside, I traveled through rain-wet covered walkways, casting a tube of light and sorcery that dazzled all who beheld me. I wore a stained white Deftones shirt cut into a wide-neck; I wore a pair of Edward Zipperpants. I had discovered a studded leather cuff for my wrist. The cuff did not tell time or light up or fetch your email or anything. The cuff just rocked.
Did I rock?
A trio of freshman girls gave me the Look. I just sighed. If only they knew.
I was an impostor.
This morning I’d been sure I would get caught by Gray, that he would snatch my backpack, unzip it, and dump all his clothes out. But he hadn’t. He was sleeping in, like every morning.
It amazed me that in this life, Gray had gotten to walk around wearing whatever he wanted, switching personas freely as needed. Meanwhile I, ever the loser, seemed to have no license to do such a thing.
Why?
What colossal acrylic lottery-ball blower machine decided that Gray should be the winner and I should be the loser? What higher order had sent down that judgment of fate? I wanted to ask a god, any god, but he was blackout drunk and had left the great wheel spinning abandoned and free for millennia now.
I flexed the leather cuff on my wrist. I wanted to punch a hole in the air. I probably could; such a move probably would look pretty cool. But was it even my move to own, if it was stolen to begin with?
I punched my palm instead, earning a Look from a boy peering out from behind a book.
I turned a corner, and walked right into Gunner.
“Now you?” I said. “Great.”
Gunner held a tray with both hands.
“Nice pants,” said Gunner through sphinctoid lips.
“Nythe panth!” cried Gunner’s glistening sidekick.
Gunner gestured with whatever he was holding. “Are all those zippers for all the, like, the tiny dongs all growing all over your legs?”
In the pre-Cirrus, pre-lie era, my normal response would have been to inaudibly whisper Go away and flee with my eyes fixed upon the ground.
Oh, but isn’t that just the perfect loser response.
Maybe we could run away from Gray, too.
And Cirrus. Don’t forget her.
Yes . . . just run away into our little room and hide among our white storage containers.
Why, we could probably fit inside one of those containers if we made ourselves really small.
“Enough!” I said, and punched a hole in the air.
“Huh?” said Gunner.
I examined the thing in Gunner’s hands. It was not a tray. It was a science project.
Gunner saw me look, then attacked a
gain. “Your [sic] wearing a total girl shirt.”
I took a step forward and squinted.
“Oh no,” I said. “Is that supposed to be a cell model sculpture?”
Gunner gripped the board’s edges. “You wanna flip my board? I dare you. Flip it.”
“Flibbit!” said his milky translucent-skinned sidekick with a low monkey-hop.
I took a step forward. Gunner took a step back. “It looks like five different animals took turns defecating on the same doormat,” I said.
“I know you want revenge,” said Gunner. “For all the cafeteria trays. Go ahead, flip it, I double dildo dare you.”
I waved a lazy fingertip. “No hypothesis, no research, no conclusion synthesis,” I said. “This crap salad’s getting an F, and you know it. Your fourth, right?”
Gunner’s nostrils quivered. He looked at his work. I knew that he knew that I was right. “You shut up.”
I turned to leave. “Have fun repeating junior year again.”
“I know what you’re doing, Sunny Dae,” said Gunner.
Something about his tone made me stop and look back. Gunner was furious.
“I’ve known you since middle school,” Gunner sneered.
My fingers twitched like a nervous gunslinger’s. Where was Gunner headed?
“I know you’re copying your big brother,” said Gunner.
The sky flashed. Blood emptied out of my heart.
“Gyahahahaha,” said his repulsive sidekick. “Luzer!”
“You’re a big faker,” said Gunner. He took a step, made the air rumble. Surely he could smell my spike in fear. To my endless disappointment, I cowered.
“I know why, too,” said Gunner. “You’re trying to be cool for her.”
“Go away,” I muttered, barely audible.
“Goway-goway-goway!” sang the sidekick.
“Okay,” said Gunner, fully in control now. “I’ll go away and tell Cirrus.”
The sound of her sacred name excreting forth from Gunner’s moist abhorrent lips made me wish with all my heart that I could utter gladius sanctus! and summon my paladin character’s holy sword (special attack: « DEMONKILL ») straight from the astral plane into my open palm to slay this despicable duo as! Well! As! the unsatisfactory schoolwork.
Instead, Gunner smiled, turned, and began taking his leave. The sidekick scampered ahead of him off into the cold wet.
“Wait,” I said.