by David Yoon
“Look,” said Gray to Cirrus. “If you wanna blame someone, blame me, ’kay?”
Cirrus could only stare, and I couldn’t blame her.
Go away, Gray, I willed, but it didn’t work.
Neon blinked red overhead, and Gray smiled at it.
“I’m the fake one here,” said Gray. “Not Sun. My little brother, Sunny Dae, played the one song big brother Gray Dae never had the guts to perform in public. ’Cause I’m a no-good piece of crap failure.”
“Go away, Gray,” I said, aloud this time.
“I mean, he might’ve started out by faking it,” said Gray. “But he turned out to be the real deal. All for you. I feel like most girls would think that’s kinda sweet. Whoo, gotta sit.”
Gray slid down to the ground.
I watched as Cirrus’s eyes puzzled between these two brothers before her.
More motorcycles shattered the sky: dr-r-room!
“It was nice knowing you,” said Cirrus, and walked away.
Cirrus was gone.
“You’ll get her back,” said Gray.
“No I won’t,” I said, and kicked a rattling fence.
“This too shall pass,” said Gray.
“I hate you,” I said.
“I hate me too,” said Gray.
“This isn’t about you,” I said.
“You have no idea,” said Gray, which might’ve made some kind of sense in his drunken mind but to me sounded infuriatingly nonsensical.
Gray teetered back to his feet and stood. I suddenly wanted to fight him. I of course had no idea how to fight—all I knew was fire attacks and sword slashes and magic missiles, all fake as hell—and only managed a pathetic shove with both hands, easily batted aside.
“Cut it out,” said Gray.
“I used to think you were cool,” I said, as the sky around us turned dark green. “You’re not cool. You’re a loser.”
Gray simply acknowledged my words. He scowled at the city glittering below us. “I wasted three years of my life in this dump. Do you know I was scheduled to pitch one of the biggest A&R execs in LA, and I stood her up because I overslept? That was it. I was done.”
Dr-room-dum-dum-dum!
I could only stare at him. He had just crashed my show, and now he was throwing himself a pity party?
“All I had to do was let you make it through tonight,” said Gray. “And I screwed that up, too.”
He chuffed to himself. Chuffed!
“I’m going,” I said. “Feel free to hang out on this amazing sidewalk for all eternity.”
Gray threw me a testy look. “You’ll get her back, god! Or you won’t, and you’ll be fine! So many second chances out there, you don’t even know. It’s not like it’s the music industry. This is nothing, trust me.”
Something about the words trust me made me stop. When Paladin Gray had gotten erased down to nothing, the real Gray had not come to my defense. The real Gray was already long gone.
When I shoved him this time, Gray was unprepared. I tripped over a pipe jutting from the concrete; Gray hit the ground backward.
I caught my balance just in time to see Gray do a rolling tumble into the rightmost lane of the rushing river of white and red lights that was Sunset Boulevard. He found his feet, looked right, and held up a polite hand as tires shrieked.
Then he was taken down.
Cool
I watched the black and white and red swirl down the drain. It took three good washings before the makeup was completely gone. Then I rinsed the sink, rinsed it again, and again, and again.
“I think it’s clean,” said a voice.
I looked up and saw Dad.
“You all right?” said Dad.
I gave a grim nod: No.
The restroom door opened, and a nurse walked in.
“They said it’s a mild concussion,” said Dad. “But they want to keep him until the hematoma goes down. Hematoma means the bump on his head.”
“That is correct,” said the nurse, before entering a stall.
Out in the hospital hallway, Dad found a carpeted bench by the vending machines and sat me down.
“You wanna talk about it?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Do you even know how to talk anymore?” said Dad, attempting humor.
“Yes,” I said.
“You know,” said Dad, “I used to look up to my older brother. Like, a lot.”
“Not like this, I bet,” I said. I squeezed my cheeks hard enough to pull my face off.
“You made a mistake,” said Dad. “But you’re gonna be okay.”
I curled a lip with resignation. I could not see how I was going to be okay.
“Let’s get you a snack,” said Dad, and began fussing with the machine.
I took out my phone and stared at its black glass. It was late. I didn’t know who to talk to. Gunner, maybe? Certainly not Milo, or Jamal, or of course Cirrus, or even Mr. Tweed. I felt like my whole world had had quite enough of me for one night. What would I even say besides? I feel terrible that I accidentally pushed my brother into oncoming traffic?
Mom appeared, motioned for Dad to go in. Only one person was allowed in the ER curtain cubicle at a time.
“How much did Gray have to drink?” said Mom. “Do you know?”
“No,” I said.
“And since when did he start drinking?” said Mom.
If you looked up from your laptop now and then, you would know.
Mom offered me a thousand-kilocalorie snack bar the size of a deck of cards—a dystopian triumph of legions of misanthropic food engineers—and I politely refused it.
“I thought I could be him,” I said. “It was such a stupid thing to think. Because even he can’t be him. And now look what I caused.”
Mom took me under her chin. “This is not your fault. I promise.”
“I called him a loser,” I said with a sob. “Right before I pushed him.”
Her phone buzzed, and Mom took a peek. “Get up,” she said. “Dad says they moved him to a private room. We can go in.”
I wiped my eyes.
“This is not your fault,” said Mom again.
* * *
—
I shut the door. This was Rancho Ruby, so all the hospital rooms had couches and sinks and views of the Pacific. Out of habit I began formulating a rant about our failing, deeply inequitable Pay up or die health care “system” (if it could even be called that), but stopped when I caught sight of Gray.
Gray slept. His hair lay crushed to one side, like a hog-bristle brush slashed diagonally. He was all tubes and wires: lines coming out of both arms, wires coming from his chest and fingertips.
“Did you not know he’d given up on music?” I said. “That he was basically depressed?”
“No,” said Dad. “I did not know that.”
My face twitched. What were we doing as a family, if we were not even aware of such fundamental things about one another?
I lost it. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”
“Sun,” said Mom.
“He was up in LA, and he tried so hard and failed and his soul was absolutely crushed, and you had no idea,” I said. “You had no idea how crushed he was.”
“We thought he was okay,” said Mom.
“He was so sad,” I said. “And all I did was kick him when he was down. I was bad to him. All because of a stupid thing I did.”
I wasn’t yelling at my parents. I was yelling at myself.
Mom held me. “I’m not going to say what you did wasn’t stupid,” she said. “But I will say you shouldn’t ever feel like you have to do or be something you don’t want to just to impress people who don’t know the real you.”
“What Mom said,” said Dad.
I looked
at them. “Are you guys serious?”
Mom and Dad looked at me: Yes?
“All you guys do is try to impress other people,” I said. “Trey Fortune.”
“That’s work,” said Dad. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” I said.
“Everyone has to put on a face for work,” said Dad. “You will, too.”
“Gray was the one who keyed your car,” I said.
Dad’s brow flashed with disbelief. “Why?”
“Dad, what was the name of Gray’s last band?” I said.
Dad took a breath, but no response came out, because he did not know.
“Endscene,” I said. “It was Endscene.”
Dad shifted his weight, rapped twice on a chair as if to test its material strength, and grimaced, as if something had suddenly gone bitter in his mouth.
“I’m a good dad, aren’t I?” said Dad.
My eyes instantly dilated with panic. Had I just done something horrible? “Of course you are.”
“You’re the best dad,” said Mom.
“Am I?” said Dad, and released two heavy teardrops.
“You are,” I said. “You are the best dad.”
“Why is everyone crying?” said Gray.
We looked up. We rushed to the side of the bed.
“Ungh,” said Gray. “Is my head open or something?”
“You okay?”
“I am not okay,” said Gray.
“You have to be okay, stupid,” I said, hugging him as best as I could through all the equipment. I wanted to hit him, too, but I cried instead.
“Are you in pain?” said Mom.
“Nn,” said Gray.
“I’m gonna call the nurse right now, buddy,” said Dad.
“It’s fine,” said Gray.
“Where’s the stupid call button,” said Dad.
“I said it’s fine,” said Gray.
Everyone froze. Gray squeezed his eyes shut and held a breath for a long moment.
“I’m sorry I keyed your car, Dad,” he said finally.
“You heard that,” I said.
Mom and Dad leaned in to hold Gray’s hand, Gray’s shoulder. It was awkward, but they didn’t seem to notice.
“Are you angry with me?” said Dad.
Gray sighed a big sigh, like this was a stupid question. “Ten bands in three years,” he said. “You guys could’ve come to one of my shows.”
“Oh, Gray, honey—” said Mom.
“You were busy, and that’s fine,” said Gray. Something occurred to him that was painful enough to bring tears. “All I needed was for you to ask me—one time—how things were going. That’s why I keyed your car. Your stupid, poser, look-at-me car.”
Mom and Dad flinched, as if they realized they’d been touching the wrong person.
I watched as Dad cycled through emotions: anger, forced calm, remorse. He spoke quietly.
“Buddy, if you want to do music, then I promise I will support you one hundred percent,” he said.
“I let that go, Dad,” said Gray. “I made my peace with it. Just didn’t think it would turn into all this.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dad. “We let you down.”
“We’re both sorry,” said Mom.
Gray reached out, wincing slightly, and squeezed both their hands. “Just—we’re all in the same house now, okay? Let’s be in the same house together.”
“We’re glad you’re home,” said Dad, somewhat missing Gray’s point, but hopefully not by much.
“I mean, you went to Sunny’s freakin’ show,” said Gray. “Didn’t it feel great to be there?”
Mom gazed at me with sparkling eyes. “You were such the rock star.”
Finally I found myself laughing, and it felt good. “I am so not.”
“Yeah you were,” said Gray. “You just put your mind to it and bam, one month later you’re playing Miss Mayhem. That’s you, man. You just go ahead and do whatever the hell you want. Like you always have.”
I blinked. I have?
The machines beeped and beeped.
“Sun,” said Gray. “I’m really, really sorry I messed everything up.”
“None of that matters,” I said, and I meant it.
“I’m so stupid,” said Gray.
“You’re not stupid,” I said.
“I am,” said Gray.
“Maybe a little stupid.”
Gray laughed, then grit his teeth to cough. Mom fetched him a cup of water the size of a thimble that would be later billed to us as PATIENT HYDRATION × 1 UNIT(S) for $300.
“You know the last time I played at Miss Mayhem was the last time I played anywhere?” said Gray. “It became all auditions for original studio work toward the end.”
He chuckled at those last words: toward the end.
“It was?” I said with a frown. Gray had mentioned playing Miss Mayhem. All this time, I had imagined Gray playing all over the city and beyond. Pay-to-play probably had become unsustainable.
The three of us—me, Mom, Dad—sat and listened. We were finally hearing about Gray’s time in Hollywood for real for the first time.
“Every producer was like, You sound just like this band or that band, you need to work on defining your own sound,” said Gray. He bobbled his head in mock imitation. “Like, your own identity. Like, What makes you you?”
“Is that why you let it go?” said Dad. “Because maybe all you need to do is work on coming up with—”
“Shh,” I said. “Let him talk.”
Dad nodded, with a look that seemed to say, Let him talk, now why didn’t I think of that?
“The thing is,” said Gray, “all those producers were right. Every gig, every audition, I sounded like a very, very good tribute band. But never an artist. I was very good at copying sounds and looks and trends the whole time I was in Hollywood. And all through high school. God.”
Gray nodded soberly at us—his head full of revelations jarred loose tonight—and we waited for him to continue.
“You know, when we moved to Rancho Ruby,” said Gray, “on like day two, some kid asked me if I ate dog?”
“Me too!” I blurted.
Gray threw eyes at me with sudden concern—Really? You got it, too?
Mom reached out to touch my shoulder. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
Dad fumed. “I’m calling the school first thing tomorrow.”
“Please don’t do that,” I said.
Mom looked sick with worry. “It is pretty different here. Isn’t it.”
Gray and I just looked at each other and said nothing. Mom sagged. She knew that was a yes.
“I miss our old place,” I said simply.
“Nn,” added Gray.
Mom looked at Dad, who kept his eyes on the floor. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. It was the most physical contact I’d seen between them in years.
“Did kids at school say that stuff pretty often?” said Dad.
“Sure,” said Gray with a shrug. “Are you Chinese, do you know kung fu. I even once got Can you sing K-pop.”
“I hate K-pop,” I said with a groan.
“Actually K-pop does this amazing thing where it switches multiple, entirely different genres in the same track,” said Gray. “It was kind of a huge inspiration for ‘Beauty Is Truth.’”
The structure of “Beauty Is Truth” formed in my mind. Rock, trap, acoustic, all in a single song.
“I wrote ‘Beauty Is Truth’ just for myself,” said Gray. “All that other music, pff—” Gray hid his face in his hands and spoke through them. “All that other music I made because I wanted friends.”
“It worked,” I said. “You were Mr. Popular.”
“I was flavor of the week,” said Gray. “For like a hundred week
s. It made me tired.”
“You had so many friends,” I said.
Gray disputed me with a look. “Not friends like Jamal. Or like Milo. Not even close. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
“I am?” I said.
Gray held his hands out, blatantly ripping off my hear-me-out pose. “You got to this new school, where you didn’t know anyone, and everyone made fun of you, but bam, you went out and found yourself a couple of blood brothers for life. Because you’re Sunny, and that’s what Sunny does.”
“It is?” I said.
“I always wished I had what you had,” said Gray. “Because if you have that as sort of your foundation under your feet, you can do anything. You can become a rock star in a little over four weeks.” He grinned and twinkled his hands, voilà.
He made me smile a lopsided smile.
“You three stuck together for years,” said Gray. “No matter what people called you, like nerd, geek—”
“Okay,” I said.
“—dork, loser—”
“Okay,” I said.
“—virgin, weirdo—”
“We get it, honey,” said Mom.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You never cared what other people thought about you,” said Gray. “I always envied that. And you’re crushing it. ScreenJunkie, Miss Mayhem.” He paused. “Cirrus.”
Gray began crying in earnest now. “I really am super sorry.”
“Me too,” I said.
We cried together now, also something we hadn’t done since the day we left Arroyo Plato.
Coldplay
They discharged Gray a few hours later, once the IV drip ran out. It was almost five in the morning. The three of us tucked Gray into bed—a cozy little parade—and flumpity-dumped back up the stairs to let him sleep.
Yawning, I began a slow search for a glass to fill with water. Mom and Dad sat at the kitchen counter, both lost in thought.
“Mom?” I said.
“What, sweetie.”
“Dad?” I said.
“Yap,” said Dad. He stretched and yawned one of those great big dad-yawns.
“Are you guys happy?” I said.
“Hey, hey, hey,” sang Mom in descending arpeggio. “What makes you say that?”