by David Yoon
Thirty more people filled the floor out of nowhere, and suddenly the club went dark but for the pastels of the stage lights.
“Welcome to the eighth annual Rancho Ruby Senior High School talent show extravaganza and gala fundraiser!” said Mr. Tweed.
The audience erupted.
“I didn’t think we’d be starting so soon,” I said.
“We’re right on time, actually,” said Milo.
“Feels really soon,” I said. “Doesn’t it feel super soon?”
The three of us held one another as if we were riding out a bombing raid.
“First act’s up, here we go,” said Jamal. “These guys rap and juggle at the same time.”
One by one, the acts went up and did their thing.
We watched. We waited.
Next came the celebrity impersonator. Then the comedy skit. The tap-dancing magician. The acoustic duo. Each act had their little legions of fans, and they all bowed to the rabid kind of applause only friends and family could provide.
Finally Mr. Tweed took the stage again, with a show host’s languid ease, and murmured words into the mic. A yelp came from the audience. I didn’t have to look to know it was Cirrus’s voice.
Mr. Tweed said more words, like These guys have been working at it for weeks and If you think rock is dead, then think again, but I pretended not to hear them. I looked over and watched Jamal and Milo slapping each other around to get psyched up.
“Get in here,” said Jamal, extending a hand.
“Let’s rock,” said Milo, extending his. He looked at me. “Say it.”
“Last time,” said Jamal.
I extended my hand, too. We saluted the air on three.
“To metal,” I said.
Losers
I stepped onto the stage.
Stepping onto the stage felt like stepping into a dream box painted black on all sides.
The multicolored lights, the buzzing mic.
The crowd, clapping soundlessly now.
And Cirrus, standing in the middle with the back of her hand covering an uncontrollable smile.
Hadn’t I seen all this before in my head?
Yes, and now it was all there before me. It was all real.
There was no shouting How you doing tonight, Hollyweird! or anything like that. I barely remember the mic. I didn’t think I’d thrown eyes at Milo to count us in, but I guess I had, because suddenly he just was, and now we were playing the intro.
Gee, GEE, GEE, chromatically up to BEE
Like a car heading straight for a cliff, we reached the part where I had to touch my chin to the mesh of the mic and sing.
You fade out, I reach in
Crack the floor, fall within
Did I move my lips?
I did.
Did I sing up into the mic? Did I curl my lips in a snarl now?
I did, I did, I did.
I was doing it. It was happening. If I stopped, the whole thing would stop—a terrifying thought. So I did not stop. I went louder and harder, because this was it. After this, I was done. There was a light at the end of this tunnel, and as I exited through the other end, I wanted to make sure to scorch the sides with green flame—the hottest kind.
The audience screamed with joy. I eyed Cirrus—she and a group of about ten classmates were jumping up and down in their black Immortals tee shirts, including Oggy. Cirrus excitedly pointed at me, then herself: That is my boyfriend!
I caught sight of Mom. She beamed at me in a stupefied daze. Next to her were Cirrus’s parents, moving their arms in steady reciprocal fashion like a couple of motorized good-luck cats. I saw Mom cup Dad’s ear, shout into it. What did she say?
First Gray, now Sunny?
Did you have any idea?
Dad shrugged excitedly—I have no idea what is happening!—and cupped his hands to yell my name. I couldn’t hear it, but I didn’t mind.
I threw a side glance and saw Gray, too, standing in the underlit glow of the stage wings. He held on to a truss and raised his beer in a swaying toast at me.
We ripped through each chapter of the song: the first chorus, the EDM breakdown performed on our non-EDM instruments, all of it. I windmilled, machine gunned, even found a moment or two to chain whip the mic like I was a Repugnant. Milo twirled his dual sticks and landed them each time except for one barely noticeable slip-up; he recovered seamlessly thanks to two drumstick wells placed to the left and right of his snare. Jamal headbanged so hard I was worried his head would bend clean off.
I drew my guitar up and face-melted: Love you so much Cirrus after tonight it’s just you and me and I will show you all of my hidden pieces no matter how weird they are without shame or fear.
When we made it to the a capella part, everyone’s phones shot up as if on cue.
Little confetti rectangles of light glowing white and blue and green and orange.
It was beautiful.
The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie
The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie
The truth is—
“You’re beautiful when you lie,” screeched Gray.
What was happening?
I looked up at Gunner at the sound board in the distance, and he stood with an arm pointing toward stage right. I stayed pinned to the mic and threw a glance.
Gray had stepped onto the stage and hijacked Jamal’s mic.
“The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie,” sang Gray.
The crowd applauded, to my horror.
And why wouldn’t they? This was all part of the act, for all they knew. He was handsome! He could sing! Perhaps he was a minor celebrity making a cameo appearance!
Gray swung from Jamal’s mic toward mine like a drunk navigating a moving subway car, because Gray was drunk, very, very drunk, and he embraced me in his cloud of beer breath to share my mic.
“The truth is you’re beautiful when you lie,” we sang.
I had to sing. I couldn’t just stop singing.
I didn’t dare look at Cirrus. I’m sure she was cheering, too. How sweet that Sunny the rock star had invited his corporate workaday brother onto the stage like this!
Gray leaned on me, playfully at first, then with all his weight as he lost his balance.
We fell extremely slowly.
Our fall took long enough to give me time to realize that I was passing through some sort of point of no return, like a one-way portal into another, worse dimension. Through the still-open portal I could see myself finishing “Beauty Is Truth” with the perfect butt-kicker landing of the true lead guitar rock performer; I could see the audience exploding; I could see Cirrus, the glowing nucleus of it all.
The portal shrank down into a spark that died the instant it touched the floor.
Jamal and Milo stood frozen solid. Mr. Tweed quick-stepped onto the stage.
“Are you guys all right?” he said quietly.
Mr. Tweed helped me up, then Gray. “Been a minute, Gray Dae,” he said.
The audience began to murmur.
Because I could not help myself, I glanced at Cirrus. She crossed her mouth tight with both hands, like one does when witnessing an accident.
Gray wobbled—his phantom subway car taking an S curve—and popped hard into the mic to fill the air with an unearthly om of feedback.
Gray held the mic away until the howl died down, then breathed into it. “Sorry ’bout that ever-body.”
Was this really happening? My brain was numb with confusion.
“Guys,” slurred Gray, “let’s pick it up from the last measure before the appa kella, capa pella, a capella, god!”
Mr. Tweed clapped his hands at us. “Let’s be done now, good job, guys.”
I watched as he motioned for Gunner to kill the spotlights dead. W
e stood in the dark now as the crowd softly babbled on.
Let’s be done?
How was I suddenly done now? What was I supposed to do with all this adrenaline still racing through my body? Where was all this hot blood supposed to go?
We could not be done. It wasn’t fair.
We were supposed to have a moment, and now we didn’t. Because Gray took it.
“What the hell,” I said.
Milo whispered something at me in the dark, but I ignored it. I was talking to Gray.
“What, you guys were sounding kinda thin,” said Gray. “I’s just tryna help.”
“This was supposed to be mine,” I shot.
Gray shot back right away. “But it’s my song.”
We rallied with increasing speed. “But—”
“I just let you borrow it,” said Gray. “It’s my song, and I know how to play it.”
“You guys,” said Milo.
“Off the stage, please,” said Mr. Tweed.
“You’ve never ever ever performed!” said Gray. “You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me!”
“Fellas,” said Mr. Tweed.
But I barely heard him. My hands throbbed with ebbing energy. I could feel the makeup on my face, and it didn’t feel cool at all anymore. It felt stupid.
“You thought we couldn’t pull this off,” I hissed, “because we’re just a bunch of pathetic nerds faking it to be cool.”
“I’s just tryna help,” said Gray.
“Help prove that we’re losers?” I said. “Because good job. We were already losers before, and we’re even bigger losers now.”
“You still get to be the front man,” said Gray. “Okay?”
There were so many comebacks I would think of later. Sharp, shameless, profane, profound. But right now I couldn’t think of any. All I could say was
“Thanks a lot, Gray.”
Finally a strong hand grabbed me. I turned.
“They can hear you,” yelled Milo.
He stabbed a finger at the mic in front of me, and its little green light. Green meant on.
“And don’t you dare call us losers,” Milo added. He threw his sticks aside and grabbed Jamal, who flung his bass down with disgust.
I stared with terror at my friends. My insides turned to ice that crashed apart in beautiful sparkling sheets.
I’d only ever seen Milo get mad—like truly mad—twice in our entire friendship. It was terrifying and exciting to behold, because Milo mad could cause serious physical damage unless he removed himself from the situation. Which was what Milo was doing right now.
I had just hurt Milo.
I had just hurt Jamal, too.
Someone—a volunteer mom with a headset—scooted us stage left with outstretched arms. “And we’re offstage,” she said.
The spotlight turned back on behind me.
“That’s one way to end a talent show,” said Mr. Tweed into what once was my mic. “Everyone give it up for the Immortals!”
Another spotlight followed me as I was escorted away, and in its rainbow glare I could discern a cringing audience clapping dutifully through their bafflement. I could discern Cirrus simply clutching fistfuls of hair in a kind of confused paralysis. On her shirt I could discern words that were losing meaning by the second:
THE IMMORTALS 2020
ONE NIGHT ONLY
SUNSET STRIP, HOLLYWOOD
Then I saw her vanish.
Pity
I came to a skidding halt outside. Around me, Sunset Boulevard busily went about being its famous self: drunks careening, rockers smoking, tourists poised with their cameras.
I spotted Cirrus as she dashed around the corner of the club. I could hear my heart beating everywhere. I ran, turned, and almost collided with her.
Cirrus had turned her shirt inside out. She stood before me like she could melt me down into gristle with just her mind.
Angel City howled its nightsong all around us.
“Tell me what I just saw is not what I think I just saw,” said Cirrus.
I had no idea how to do that, so I found myself saying precisely nothing.
“Have I been made the fool?” said Cirrus.
Again, nothing.
Cirrus’s eyes widened. “This whole time?”
Finally my mouth began to move. I wiped sweat from my forehead, my eyes, and saw my hands come away black with makeup. I probably looked like a mess of fingerpaint now.
I held my hands out in the weakest version of hear-me-out ever. “I didn’t want you to think—to think—”
“To think what?” said Cirrus.
“That I was a loser, so—”
“Why would I ever think that?” said Cirrus, angling her head with outrage.
“So I did what I . . . did,” I said, eyes dancing hard enough to make me dizzy. “And then I had to keep doing it, because otherwise, I don’t know. And I’m sorry, can I just say that? I’m so, so sorry?”
A limo went by, and two good friends leaned out the window and screamed at the world with joy. Everything was probably perfect in that limo.
Or it wasn’t, and everyone was just faking having a great time.
“Right now,” said Cirrus through gritted teeth, “all I can think is What else is this guy lying about?”
“This is it,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was saying such stupid words. But I kept going. “This is the only thing, I swear.”
Cirrus chewed her cheek. “What the hell am I doing here?” she muttered, inadvertently quoting Radiohead. “Why am I here, why do I even bother being anywhere?”
My hands grew heavy, but I held them up. “You have every right to—”
“You’re damn right I do,” cried Cirrus. “You lied for months. Months!”
She kicked a chain-link fence.
“If I put on my little Sherlock hat,” she said, “I can deduce that you lied within the first ten minutes that night when we first met. I’m right, aren’t I?”
I said nothing.
“And wait—Jamal and Milo, too?” said Cirrus.
Again, I said nothing.
“Oh no no no,” said Cirrus, in shock at my nonanswer answer. “Every stupid place I go, I have to figure out what the hell is going on, because every time, I go in knowing nothing. Knowing no one. That means I must be being made a fool right now, because I really thought for sure I had it right this time around. You asked me all those questions like you really wanted to know the answers. I’d never had that before.”
Her face crinkled as she sneered at her own oncoming tears. She gave the fence another kick.
“And then I told my parents I wanted to stay,” said Cirrus. “Because I have this super-great boyfriend who I super-much love, and these super friends, and a super life. But none of it was super, because none of it was real. It was all super fake.”
A fresh horror dawned on Cirrus’s face as she opened her eyes wide enough to set her twin black irises jittering.
“Gunner was in on it, too, right in my own house,” said Cirrus. “Plus his sidekick. The whole school.”
“It wasn’t the whole school,” I said.
“That makes everything better,” said Cirrus.
I made those hands you make when a lion is about to charge. “It was my idea,” I said.
“I sat there grinning like an idiot,” said Cirrus. She held her chin, fascinated. “Just happy to be there.”
“I made them do it,” I said. “They’ve got nothing to do with my mistakes.”
“I showed you my tin,” said Cirrus to herself, as if in a dream. “That guitar pick should go, shouldn’t it.”
“This is super real, I promise,” I said. But I could feel her slipping away from me.
“I don’t know who you are,” Cirrus finally concluded.
I took a deep breath. This was my last chance to make a statement.
“I did this because you were so cool and you traveled the world and knew everything and I’m a loser who hides away in his room with a bunch of childish nerd toys and I wanted to impress you,” I said.
“Sunny,” said Cirrus, crumbling a little now. “You did impress me.”
I stepped into a beam of sodium vapor lights to expose my streaked and ruined face. “Did I, though?”
Cirrus reached out to me, stopped, and hugged herself instead. “In the first sixty seconds.” Her face had reached its melting point and now dripped with bitter tears.
I held my hands out. “What I mean is, was it Real Sunny who impressed you? Or Fake Sunny?”
Cirrus let her arms fall. “It was you, Sunny. Don’t turn this around.”
“All I’m saying is you really, really liked Fake Sunny,” I said. “And I liked being Fake Sunny. But the whole time I was petrified, because in the back of my mind I was wondering if you would’ve liked Real Sunny, warts and all.”
Cirrus stared hard at me, her face a mixture of anger and confusion, but also pity. “What are you saying?” she said.
“I am a super-huge mega-nerd,” I said. “I have been uncool ever since middle school. I have been bullied ever since middle school. I like to dress up and pretend I am living a fantasy adventure. I spend my weekends making fake magic weapons. What I’m saying is, would you have liked that Sunny?”
“Of course I would’ve,” said Cirrus, but her pensive squint told me she couldn’t know for sure.
She would never know for sure.
Because I’d been Fake Sunny for so long that Real Sunny no longer existed in his original, pre-Cirrus form.
And now it was all moot anyway.
Around us, the lights of Sunset bloomed cyan and tangerine and magnesium. A rowdy cheer rose from the street and was drowned out by a fleet of rumbling Harleys.
“Heyyyy,” said a voice. “There you are.”
Gray came toward us with the careful catwalk of the inebriated. He found a pole to lean on.