by David Yoon
We walked onward. Cirrus found a desk organizer, put it in the cart. Electric fan, gooseneck lamp, cork board, all in the cart.
“The type of what?” I said. “Oop—you don’t want that, I promise you.”
Cirrus held a big bag of pine cones, each dipped in glitter. She slowly put it back.
“The parenting type,” she said.
“Hey,” I said. “My parents drive me crazy, too.”
“But at least they’re there,” said Cirrus, running her thumb along my cheek. “How about we talk about something else?”
“Hobbies,” I said.
“Don’t have any,” said Cirrus. “Next question.”
“But you cook,” I cried. “You single-handedly invented Brazilian pizza.”
“Lots of people cook,” said Cirrus.
She grew quiet.
I went back, retrieved the big bag of glitter pine cones, and delicately lowered it into the cart. I made a big goofy face.
“You can have these, okay?” I said. “Maybe use them at your next yuletide or winter solstice cleansing ritual.”
Cirrus finally smiled. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a bit of a throwback, Sunny Dae?”
“My brother once called me fifteen going on fifty,” I said. What I didn’t say was that it was after he discovered me using a heating pad on my back to recover after sitting at my workbench for forty-eight hours straight.
“Is that why you choose to play olde tyme rock and roll?” said Cirrus.
“Well,” I said, gearing up for one of my favorite rant topics: music.
“Jazz is stupid,” I said, “because it’s all doo-bee-doo-bee-doo, pop is what they resort to after waterboarding, EDM is the warning beeps before the AI apocalypse—”
“You define yourself by the things you hate,” said Cirrus. “Not by the things you love.”
“I do tend to do that, huh,” I said.
“Me too,” said Cirrus. “I agree with you, you know. All music sucks except rock.”
“Rock,” I said.
“Guitars and drums and rahhh.” Cirrus crossed twin devil horns on her chest.
Her gesture transported me back to the school auditorium years ago, watching big brother Gray become the all-powerful God of Noise as the front man of the now-forgotten Mortals.
“Rock is the last time people had an expectation for musicians to be at least a little authentic,” said Cirrus. “They wanted to know what Kurt and Courtney were like for real. They felt like when they watched Joan Jett or Zach de la Rocha or Kim Gordon, what you saw was what you got. People really thought Henry Rollins was preaching gospel.”
“And yet, rock is dead,” I said.
“Now everything is pop in one form or another,” said Cirrus with a sad smirk. “Pop is not music. Pop is celebrity. Fabricated personas that are all style, no substance. Pop is a celebration of fakeness. Artifice is the only cultural currency left, now that the internet has erased all contextual borders. Or something. I have to think about that more.”
My brother said that once, I wanted to say. Back when he was in a rock band himself. Back when he was cool. They worshipped him. So did I.
But of course I couldn’t say such a thing, because then I would seem like a little itty bitty baby boopy schmoopy kid who was copying his big brother with a fabricated persona.
Which I was.
“Oyah,” was all my stupid mouth could come up with. “Yappers.”
“Maybe I hate pop stars because I’m like them in a way,” said Cirrus. “I change whenever I move to someplace new. I do whatever it takes to fit in. It begs the question, What person isn’t just a made-up thing in the first place? Is it the fakery that makes us real? Is anything real?”
I wiped my forehead, thought of what to say next, but the best I could do was
“Out of all the places you’ve lived, which was your favorite?”
We stood before a candy display now—we had reached the snack department already—and a row of candies sat right at my eye level:
SUPER MEGA-NERDS®
THE SOUR CANDIES YOU ALREADY LOVE, JUST BIGGER!
Don’t fool yourself, Sunny, said the candies. You are not cool. You are not a teenaged rock icon. You are a nerd. You are in fact the nerd that other nerds look up to.
You are a super mega-nerd.
Cirrus paused. She thought.
“There’s this study,” she said. “They found out generally how long you have to spend with a person to make them a close friend. It’s sixty hours to establish casual friendship. Another hundred to become a regular friend. After that, another two hundred hours to become a close friend.”
“What stage are we?” I said.
“We’re an outlier in the data set,” said Cirrus.
She hugged my arm, as if to say, And I’m proud of it.
“It’s hard enough to invest hours and hours to make just one friend,” she said. “You search for a flock that might fit your feather. You hang out with them. Observe every little move. Adapt as best as you can. But even if you do hit it off, it doesn’t matter. Because then you have to move away. Right as things are really getting good. And you know what’s worse?”
“Having to do it all over again at a new school?” I said.
I looked at her closer. I could see faint lines in her forehead. A weariness.
Cirrus squared her eyes with mine. “What’s worse is after about the fourth or fifth school. You already know how long it’ll take to fit in. Let alone make a friend. It’s like knowing how long a marathon’s gonna be. What’s worse is then deciding, eh, it’s not worth the effort. Easier to be alone.”
“Jesus, you’re cynical,” I said, in an effort to lighten the mood.
But Cirrus remained heavy. “Ever wonder what it’s like to grow up without any real friends?”
“I didn’t mean to call you cynical. I think I understand.”
“No, but you shouldn’t have to understand,” said Cirrus. “No normal person should have to understand what I’ve had to understand. But whatever. None of that matters. Not anymore.”
I swallowed. I stood staring at a value bag of cheese puffs as big as a pillow.
“Because I belong here with you,” said Cirrus.
Upon hearing these words, I made a pledge deep within to do whatever it took to keep Cirrus from getting hurt.
And I kissed her.
Cirrus sent the cart away with a push. “You know, I think I’m good?”
“Really?” I said.
Cirrus smiled. “This store’s got nothing.”
Hand in hand, she led me toward the exit.
We left, with not a single dollar spent.
Part-A
I looked at myself in the mirror. I squashed my cheeks with my fingertips.
I was in love.
I was in love.
I stared hard at my phone in an effort to activate it using my mind powers. I firmed up my abdominals and bore down as if evacuating. Picture her, I told myself. In her blank room, waking up late from a long sleep, unplugging her phone, gazing into its tiny black eye, and typing—
Jhk jhk, went my phone.
“Yes,” I said, relaxing with an exhale. My mind powers had done it.
Aaand my parents are gone again, wrote Cirrus.
Where? I wrote.
No comment, she wrote. So I decided I want to do that thing that you’re supposed to do when you’re in American high school and you have the house to yourself.
I nibbled my fingertips. What did she mean?
Picture me and her, I told myself, alone in her blank room—
Part-A! wrote Cirrus.
Huh?
Party, wrote Cirrus.
You mean par-tay, I wrote.
Oh.
You’re doing gre
at, I wrote.
I’m inviting you and Milo and Jamal of course but can you get everyone else to come? I spent all morning and there’s enough of everything for everybody.
I checked my wrist. My pulse, which had surged, now flagged back down to normal. A party. Not just me and Cirrus, alone in her room. Okay.
I’ve been here for weeks now and never had a housewarming and I thought it would be really special to have it filled with . . . people, she wrote.
It was impossible to argue with that.
That sounds great, I said. Need help with anything?
No, I’m good!
What time should I come over tonight?
Tonight? wrote Cirrus. How about now?
Okay! I wrote.
Is it too early? I don’t know what I’m doing.
You’re doing great, I wrote. One moment.
I put my phone down, thought for a moment, and smiled. Cirrus wanted people for her part-A, and I knew where to acquire all of them.
Gunner appeared on screen, panting.
“Yo,” said Gunner. Behind him I could see three guys—footballers—shoving padded sleds on a lawn.
“Why are you at school?” I said.
Gunner wiped sweat dripping from his nose and jogged to somewhere secluded. “Not school. Backyard. Dad’s having us do leg work. How you doin’, buddy?”
“You have training equipment at your house?” I said.
“You wanna meet up for some homework later?” said Gunner.
Normally, this sort of exchange between two strapping young men might have been considered romantic; in this case, it was game related. Such was the language of nerds.
Gunner leaned in and whispered, “I killed the gargoyle, and now I’m stuck in that place with all the doors that won’t open.”
I scanned my brain. “The Complex of Secret Doors.”
The footballers crossed the frame in the background. I recognized them: Hunter, Trapper, and Stryker.
“We’ll get to that,” I said. “Listen, how many friends do you have?”
“If you mean fan-friends, then it’s basically the whole junior class,” said Gunner. “If you mean actual friends, there’s only one. Well, two now.”
Aw, Gunner.
“Think of an excuse to tell your dad,” I said. “There’s a party that urgently needs some love.”
* * *
—
I enjoyed a long shower. I carefully made my selections from Gray’s closet, stuffed them into one of his backpacks—a classic leather ruck studded with nickel-plated spikes—and emerged from the maw of the garage on my ten-speed to begin the downhill glide. I stopped along the way to change in the junipers.
I’d never been invited to a traditional American house party before. Such phenomena occurred solely on insipid television shows written by middle-aged hacks eager to cash in on the young adult demographic.
I had always thought house parties were breeding grounds for the next generation of idiots. But now, I found myself pedaling with eager pumps of each leg. I could see myself holding one of those red plastic cups (why always red?), playing table tennis incorrectly without a paddle, performing a handstand on a pressurized beverage container, and so on.
When I arrived at Cirrus’s condo, I could only stare at what I saw.
There was a twenty-meter-long inflatable Nora the Explorer palm forest.
There were two of the biggest bounce castles I’ve ever seen—Ice Princess and Mulam—already spasming with revelers inside.
There was a balloon-animal-making clown who had already broken the fourth wall to share a vape and a beer with a few fellow off-duty Ruby High classmates.
There was a two-story-tall scaffold, from which a screaming girl zip-lined a hundred meters into a pit of foam cubes.
I dismounted from my bike, ducked to let two laser-tag combatants pass, and entered the house.
It was packed. How was it already packed?
In the back patio window I could see Milo and Jamal thick as thieves with Gunner, talking about something while his sidekick wended and wove between the legs of partygoers. Artemis was there, too, ignoring Gunner pretending to ignore her. But I saw him sneak glances from behind his cup.
Milo and Jamal had both come wearing Gray’s shirts from before, because they knew they were coming here, and they remembered. Bless Milo and Jamal.
Gunner found me with his eyes and stabbed the air with a triumphant thumbs-up.
Cirrus emerged. She ducked and twirled her way to me for an embrace. She wore her black apron. She smelled like smoke and steak.
“I’m making Argentinian-style galbi,” she said.
“That’s a thing?” I said.
“It is now,” she said. With one arm still hanging on to my shoulder, she turned to the party and made an announcement.
“Food will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” she hollered. “Till then there’s chevre, manchego, membrillo for said manchego, mild ojingeo, spicy ojingeo, stuff from my parents’ liquor stash like Aperol and Ricard and makgeolli and like six bottles of clara in the fridge if you’re not into makgeolli, which I get, makgeolli’s definitely an acquired taste, ha!”
The whole party stopped and stared at her like she had just spoken in tongues from deep within a snake pit. Cirrus looked at me for help, so I raised her arm and yelled,
“Par-tay!”
Everyone cheered. Someone figured out how to put “All Star” by Smash Mouth on the TV-slash-stereo, and suddenly Gunner was kung-fu dancing with his ridiculous wraparound sunglasses in a circle of people in the living room.
“Hey now, you’re a rock star,” he said, pointing at me.
Cirrus gripped my chin. “Is the bouncy castle age-appropriate? I only realized after the rental guys came that I’ve never seen bouncy castles in American teen movies.”
“It’s highly traditional,” I said. “You nailed it.”
“Oh thank god,” said Cirrus. “I just want to do this right.”
I for one thought she was doing this right. Because I knew nothing!
“How much did all this cost?” I said.
Cirrus smiled. “About three thousand dollars.”
The music switched to a house stomper, and the party accelerated to takeoff velocity. Kids everywhere were day drinking, just like Mommy and Daddy did on the weekends. The football crew showed up like marauders returning home from a voyage, and Gunner leapt to shower them with violent greeting rituals.
Everyone had to shout. It was officially a shouting party now.
“This is Sunny!” said Gunner to someone—Lancer? Driver?—and added, “This is his girlfriend, Cirrus! We’re in her house!”
I beamed. I was Sunny, and this was my girlfriend, Cirrus. I looked at her and saw she was beaming just as brightly. She gripped my hand and held it tight with barely contained excitement.
“Welcome!” she cried.
Driver (Sailor?) looked at me, then at Gunner, as if to ask, What is this guy doing here?
“I’m making him help me with my science homework under threat of bodily harm!” said Gunner. His teammate seemed to understand.
“Say hi, stoner!” said Gunner.
Sailor (Tracker?) shook off his confusion and obeyed Gunner’s command. “Hai!”
The old instinct to flee twitched in my gut, but I looked at Cirrus and acted like I belonged there. Because I did.
“Dude, there’s an obstacle course!” said Tracker.
“That big thing outside!” said Gunner.
“Is that the Nora the Explorer thing?” I said.
Cirrus nodded. “I think they couldn’t get the licensing.”
We realized we were now standing in a surge of people—the drink table attracted them like cult worshippers—and stepped aside. One of those people was Arte
mis.
“I never see you at these things!” said Artemis with her halogen smile. She wiggled bedazzled fingers at Cirrus. “Oh, it’s Sunny’s girlfriend!”
There it was again: girlfriend. That made me boyfriend. It felt like respect, in a way. I had achieved a title that people like Artemis now officially recognized.
The music mercifully switched to a quieter electronic ballad. There was predictably no rock and roll at this party, because rock and roll was dead.
Artemis turned to look at Gunner, who had become very still.
“Obstacle course, let’s go!” said Tracker to Gunner.
“Hi, Artemis Edenbaugh,” mumbled Gunner, before dashing outside with Tracker.
“Uh, okay?” said Artemis.
From outside came a sudden screeching sound—pteranodons in agony—loud enough to cause the din of the party to duck momentarily.
“What the hell,” I said.
“Injuries,” said Cirrus with immediate concern. “Please no injuries.”
We scrambled outside and quickly found the source of the anguish: a small crowd of people at the other end of the zip line.
“No no no,” said Cirrus.
We ran. We shoved our way through the crowd.
In the foam pit were Jamal and Milo, holding each other.
“Arrrayayayaya!” they screamed joyfully.
“Oh for the love of sweet Jesus,” cried Cirrus with a laugh.
“You guys scared the crap out of me,” I said. “I got a Hershey submarine stuck in my port of call.”
Everyone looked at me: Do you?
“You guys have to do this,” said Jamal. “We figured out how to connect two harnesses for partner runs.”
“Is that safe?” I said.
“No,” said Milo.
Cirrus kissed my cheek. “You wanna fly?”
There was only one answer to that question.
Milo and Jamal climbed out of the pit. Milo undid his gear, then reached over to de-harness and de-helmet a dazed Jamal with the alarming efficiency of a New Zealand sheep shearer.
Together Cirrus and I climbed the scaffolding until we were at the top. There, an operator waited with a tablet.
“Thumbprints here, guys,” said the operator.