Super Fake Love Song Page 7

  Aside from the hum of the lights above in the music room, the whole school was tranquil but for the distant bark and whinny of the color guard practicing their knock-off martial routines somewhere. It felt cool being here late, having the place to ourselves.

  You think it’s cool to be at school after hours. You are a super mega-nerd.

  Part of the music room had timpani, upright basses, a piano: everything you’d need for a classical performance.

  The other part had a drum kit, an amp, guitars, a mic: everything you’d need for rock and roll.

  Mr. Tweed, the music teacher, said we could stay as long as we needed to, because Mr. Tweed knew that music had the power to remind humankind to be human and kind.

  There was a large poster with cartoon instruments of every kind looking at us with googly eyes. In unison, they all declared MUSIC IS MAGICAL!

  I rapped the brass crash cymbals with my knuckles. They were part of something that looked like drums but was stacked vertically, like a sparkly garbage can with a fancy lid.

  “Cocktail drums,” I said, like a reverent tour guide. “Prince played these.”

  “No,” said Jamal. “He would never.”

  My reluctant co-conspirators stared at me, waiting for guidance.

  “How about we just familiarize ourselves with the tools of the trade?” I said.

  “Did you really just say tools of the trade, Dad?” said Milo.

  Jamal hoisted a bass guitar and inspected it as if it were a musket. “Tell me how this thing works.”

  I found an electric guitar and slung it over my shoulder. “Wear it like this.”

  Jamal threw it over his torso and stumbled for balance under its weight. He plucked a few strings. “There’s no sound.”

  I plugged him into an amp, turned it on, and provided fresh earplugs to protect the delicate hair cells deep within the cochlea, which, once damaged, would never grow back. I did the same for my amp and ears.

  Milo was crouched at the drums, muttering to himself. “This foot pedal must activate the bass drum. This must activate the dual cymbal assembly. Okay.”

  Milo settled onto the drum throne like a rookie pilot. He brandished two sticks. “Okay.”

  Jamal and I looked at each other. “Okay.”

  “What now?” said Jamal.

  “Wanna play a G?” I said.

  “Show me.”

  I pointed at my guitar. “These bottom four strings go in ascending order from E, to A, then D, then G. Your strings do, too.”

  “This is way different from Guitar Poser VR,” said Jamal.

  “Hold your hand like this,” I said. “Grip it like this.”

  Jamal quickly processed these instructions. With his index finger he held down the third fret of the lowest string, which was fat as a metal cable. “Three half steps up from E means G would be here,” he said. He plucked.

  Geeeeeeeee, hummed the amp.

  Jamal palmed the string silent. “I guess it is kind of percussive.”

  “Count us in,” I said to Milo.

  Milo beamed, as if he had always harbored a secret dream of counting a band in with his sticks. He bashed them together. “One, two, three, four!”

  GEEEEEEEEE

  Milo crashed everything he could before him: snare, toms, cymbals.

  Me and Jamal strummed away at our one mighty chord. We even vamped a little. Like rock stars.

  GEE GEE GEE GEEEEEEEEEEE

  I leaned into a mic and sang rock-and-roll nonsense: “Baby baby baby baby!”

  My pulse was going. I could feel Jamal and Milo’s energy too. From just one G chord. Imagine adding another!

  “How about E?” I shouted.

  We paused to gingerly walk our fingers down, squeaking and squonking along the way as we counted one fret, then two, only to discover that E was an open note that required no digital pressure whatsoever. The amps patiently waited with an electric hum. Milo counted us in again, which was not strictly necessary.

  EEE EEE EEE EEEEEEEEEEEE

  The three of us continued to do this with other simple chords. Together, we made an imprecise, ultra-dorky form of music, but music nonetheless. We did not shred. Far from it.

  Still. I could see us getting better. I could see our timing improving.

  BOOM! BA-BOOM! TSHH!

  Milo stood at the odd drum kit and shouted, “We! Are! The—”

  He twirled his sticks a half revolution before dropping them because his drumstick-twirling skills were extremely poor.

  “—Immortals,” muttered Milo, bending down to retrieve the sticks.

  When Milo got back into position, I could see a happy flush in his cheeks. In Jamal’s, too. They had played but the simplest, dumbest music—but I could tell they already thought it was fun.

  “And I thought rock and roll was dead,” said Mr. Tweed. He had entered the room with an armload of spiral-bound music books, and we hadn’t even noticed. He threw a devil horn salute, cool as can be. “Since when did you three get into music?”

  “It was sudden,” I said.

  “I assume this is for the talent show?” said Mr. Tweed.

  “Huh?” I could feel the eyes of Jamal and Milo on me like red sniper sights. I glanced at them, shook my head. “There’s a talent show?” I said, with genuine ignorance. I had no idea there was a talent show.

  “You’re gonna have to bring it. The school rented out Miss Mayhem on Sunset, gonna be big.”

  Miss Mayhem. In my mind I saw the royal-yellow flyer on Gray’s wall:

  THE MORTALS

  AT THE WORLD-FAMOUS MISS MAYHEM

  ON SUNSET STRIP IN HOLLYWOOD, CA

  The same place Gray and the Mortals played years ago.

  “Do you, uh,” I said, “do you actually think we’d be good enough to play Miss Mayhem?”

  “With your classic rock falsetto?” said Mr. Tweed. “Sure.”

  Falsetto, from the Italian falso meaning “false,” is when a singer fakes a higher voice above their natural range. There was nothing falso about my voice—it was just naturally high. I’d never felt proud of it until just now.

  “Ahem,” said Jamal.

  He was glaring at me: Absolutely not.

  I glanced over at Milo, whose face said: What Jamal said.

  “We’re actually metal, not classic rock,” I said.

  “Buncha hellspawns, very nice,” said Mr. Tweed. “So, Jamal and Milo: As bass and drums, you are the backbone. Keep your eyes locked. Communicate. Your job is to give your front man Sunny here a rock-solid stage to headbang on. That alone will elevate you above the dance gangs, Ariana-bes, and honey-baked Hamiltons.”

  “That’s really great advice, thank you,” I said.

  Jamal looked pained. “Wait a sec—”

  “I’ve seen a lot of talent shows, you know what I’m saying?” said Mr. Tweed with a side-pshaw. “I would love it if you guys rocked it the-hell-out for the sake of my weary soul.”

  And he held out a paradise-pink flyer.

  RUBY HIGH TALENT SHOW—AT THE

  LEGENDARY MISS MAYHEM ON SUNSET STRIP

  IN HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA—

  NO PRESSURE LOL

  “We will rock you,” I said, secretly addressing Cirrus.

  “We will not even think about it,” corrected Jamal.

  Mr. Tweed clocked the whole situation before him with his brown eyes and chuckled to himself. “Did you know that all serious rock stars started out as total self-taught nerds?”

  I looked down at myself and at my friends and wondered: Are we that obvious?

  “The cool comes later,” said Mr. Tweed. He polished his tortoiseshell rims. “Trust me.”

  “Huh,” I said, gospel-nodding.

  “What is happening—” whispered Jamal.

>   Mr. Tweed slapped a hand on the large poster on the wall. “Say it with me.”

  “Music is magical,” we chanted.

  “This room’s yours, day or night,” said Mr. Tweed. “Door code is six, six, six.”

  “Number of the beast,” I said.

  “Stay metal, Sunny boy,” said Mr. Tweed.

  Salsa

  I changed back into my civvies, rode home, and stared at my fingertips—fingertips that had gone red and sore from the pressure of the fine wires of the guitar. I smelled them.

  They smelled metal.

  “Hello?” I said.

  No response. I remembered Mom and Dad were at the country club for yet another vapid convocation of douchenozzles crucial to unlocking millions in potential new business.

  Gray appeared, holding two plates and a pizza box.

  “Mom said we have to eat dinner together,” said Gray, and vanished outside.

  It was dusk on the back patio, and the landscaped terraces of our yard looked out onto a rolling valley so full of villas and marching cypress you could almost believe you were in freaking Tuscany if not for the blue rectangles of outrageous home theaters flickering here and there.

  I stared at a lovely fountain of two marble dolphins regurgitating upon six marble turtles, who didn’t mind. The mood lights awoke, realized what time it was, and immediately set themselves to Romance Mode. I wished it were Cirrus sitting across from me. Eating with Cirrus would be very Romance Mode.

  Eating with Gray was very not Romance Mode.

  We ate and filled the air with the wet despondent music of our chewing.

  “This pizza sucks,” said Gray suddenly.

  “You’re sitting in perfect weather in September in the sprawling backyard of a brazillion-dollar home eating celebrity-chef pizza summoned by an app,” I said. “But your pizza sucks.”

  “Brazillion is the low end for Rancho Ruby,” said Gray.

  “Housing crisis?” I yodeled. “What housing crisis?”

  I had been hoping to get a laugh out of Gray—I used to love making him laugh—but he only hung his head. “Whatever, you don’t understand,” he said.

  “Try me,” I said.

  Gray just chewed. He thought of something and laughed a dark and disgusted laugh. Something else struck him, and his expression quickly became one of sorrow. He was having a whole inner dialogue right in front of me. Now he froze up. He looked like he wanted to cry.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Gray. “There’s nothing to talk about, so why would I, just think for one single second, Sunny, use your stupid brain.”

  Unlike with Milo, for me It’s nothing was ice-cold water splashed upon the fire of my compassion.

  “God, fine,” I said, and tore at my pizza.

  Gray inhaled and exhaled loudly as he masticated, producing a super-gross sound of a man buried in food trying to eat his way out, and flung a pizza rind onto the lawn. A squirrel appeared immediately and dragged it into the bushes.

  “Whoa,” said Gray.

  “It’s like the little guy was waiting for it,” I said.

  We both chuffed to ourselves. Then I remembered I was supposed to be annoyed with Gray. But when I looked over, he wasn’t annoyed with me. He looked heavy with sorrow all over again.

  “I need salsa,” said Gray, and left.

  I did not follow. I decided I would finish my pizza, put my plate away, and give him space.

  But I barely got in three more bites before Gray came jogging back, his eyes thrilling at something in his hand.

  “Dad went back to this crap?” said Gray, and brandished a jar.

  “Yep,” I said. “La Victoria salsa. I guess he gave up on the fancy stuff.”

  Gray had a strange habit of pouring salsa on pizza, and he now did so with an almost tearful glee.

  Maybe a little salsa was all Gray needed?

  “God,” he said. “I haven’t had La Victoria in forever.”

  He took a bite, sending his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “It’s so good. Try some.”

  After a moment of hesitation—when was the last time I had shared food with Gray?—I took a bite.

  “That tastes like regurgitated minestrone on top of grilled cheese passed through a hot hair straightener,” I said. “It’s great.”

  “La Victoria, dude,” said Gray, chewing and nodding excitedly. “Keep it on the top shelf so it doesn’t freeze, boys, remember? Next to the Vlasic spears and Grey Poupon in our crappy fridge? Back in Arroyo Plato?”

  “The Frost Giant!” I cried, reeling from the memory of the refrigerator door that sometimes couldn’t shut against all the billowing overgrown ice. I could see little bits of our old kitchen in Arroyo Plato plopping into view like drips of watercolor. “Remember how Mom and Dad used to hoard Diet Pepsi when it was on sale? Remember Coors Light?”

  “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!” said Gray. “Tapatío.”

  “Hot Pockets,” I said, shooting out my fingers with each word. “Shrimp Cup Noodles—Lunchables—Easy Cheese—Pepperidge Farm pot pies—”

  “Hormel corned beef in those weird trapezoid tins,” said Gray. He narrowed his eyes, hit by a dark vision: “Vienna sausages.”

  “Nasty!” I said.

  “You cried when we left our old house,” said Gray.

  “You cried too,” I said. “So shut up.”

  We both sat there with eyes dancing. I saw myself in my enchanted tinfoil helm again, following Gray the Gallant down the hall with a yardstick for a sword and a torn sam taeguk fan as my shield.

  I wondered if Gray remembered our adventures, too, but did not ask, because I was terrified he would say Not really or, worse, We were such nerds. I had the feeling he and I remembered our childhoods very differently.

  But I knew we both remembered every inch of our old Arroyo Plato house, and all the cheap junky food in it.

  Our laughter sighed away—as all laughter eventually does—and Gray poured more salsa on another slice. He took a bite. He chewed.

  “Ten bands in three years,” declared Gray.

  I stopped. I listened.

  “You know some places only pay you in booze?” said Gray. “Hollywood is a trip.”

  I continued to say nothing. Gray was in a delicate state, and I wanted him to keep talking. I wanted to know about his music. I wanted to know about his life.

  “Fakes, flakes, and straight-up snakes, man,” said Gray, shaking his head. His face sharpened. “LA’s not as big as people think. There’s only so many clubs and so many hours in the night. It’s such a scene. That was the name of my last band. Endscene.”

  It made me uneasy seeing Gray like this. Gray was once the unofficial king of Ruby High.

  “This next band’s gonna kill it,” I said, speaking from the experience of constantly improving DIY Fantasy FX videos, one by one. Creative work was not the triumphant sartorial yawp people imagined; it was a steady, relentless drip that led to things like Lady Lashblade, and ideally beyond.

  “My next band,” chuffed Gray.

  “It will,” I said. “If not this band, then the one after that.”

  Gray winced at this. “Sun—”

  “You got this.” I discovered I had leaned way forward. I was eager for anything from Gray. A smile, a nod, even an irritating ruffle of my hair.

  But Gray just flung his pizza rind away, this time deep into the sagebrush.

  “Dad said he’s gonna put in a good word for me at the club,” said Gray to the horizon.

  My eyes quizzed. Good word?

  Gray looked down and away, his mouth snarled with loathing.

  “I’m done eating,” said Gray, and flung his chair down. He left and vanished back downstairs.

  I looked at the
stricken chair.

  I folded the pizza box closed. I reset the chair. The sun melted away. I wished I hadn’t said anything. I wished I had talked about anything else: squirrels, or old video games. I was blaming myself for upsetting Gray. Why was I blaming myself?

  Because I just couldn’t understand why Gray wasn’t like he used to be.

  * * *

  —

  Midnight. I crept into Gray’s old room. I sat in the blueness of the darkness there and breathed. From the basement I could hear Gray playing his video game at full, hearing-impairing volume.

  On one of Gray’s guitars were tiny words in Gray’s precise handwriting, arranged as an infinitely repeating wheel.

  BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS

  I took the guitar off its stand, plugged it in to the amp, and put on headphones. I tuned down to a dropped D. I played a simple metal riff I remembered from the Mortals.

  The guitar body shone in the dark. Its strings flashed in parallels sixfold.

  I played okay.

  I played and played, struggling to remember how to climb up and down the pentatonic scale, the foundation for rock guitar solos everywhere for all time. I came up with a few riffs of my own—some dumb, some clearly derivative, and some actually sorta cool.

  I noticed a milk crate full of cables and effects pedals and whatnot, and set the guitar down to dig around.

  I found a framed picture that had lost its glass: a photo of me and Gray marred by orange streaks of dried battery acid.

  I found an ancient piece of technology: a cracked iPod bound by its own charging cable gone sticky with grime. On the back, a strip of gaffer tape with The Mortals scratch tracks Property of Gray Dae written in white.

  I unwound the filthy cable, plugged it in. From its paltry number of basic apps, I tapped one I’d never heard of: SongEdit Free. A barebones multitrack editor. I imagined Gray—the Gray I once knew—recording impromptu sessions in his bandmate’s van, or maybe backstage, or maybe right here in his bedroom late at night on a night like this.

  I unplugged my headphones from the amp and plugged into the iPod, which looked comically thin and small and obsolete. But at this moment, it felt like an alien relic containing all the secrets of a lost society.