by David Yoon
Gray kept me close to give me a steady stream of commentary. The performance wasn’t just about the clothes or the moves. It was something ineffable.
“These guys are freaking cool,” I said. “It’s not great music, but—”
Gray looked at me. But?
“But it’s fun,” I said. “Fun is the point.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Gray with a grin.
Gray hustled off for more drinks—to beat the intermission rush—and in the subsequent lull we drank in relative quiet while the audience queued up at the bar or the bathroom or the entrance to smoke outside. I watched as a woman air-guitared to her friend, who headbanged in response; after a few seconds of this they reached some kind of accord sealed with devil horns.
It was the stupidest, most beautiful conversation ever.
Gray watched them, too, with a wistful look.
“What was your band called?” I said. “When you played here last?”
“Nausea,” said Gray, still watching. “Most people don’t know this about these clubs on Sunset, but unless you’re Radiohead, you have to pay to play,” said Gray. “Your band buys a wad of tickets up front; then it’s up to you to sell the tickets to recoup your costs.”
“How spectacularly exploitative,” I said.
“We were sick of the scene,” said Gray. “We did not recoup our costs.”
Gray sucked a bitter gap between his teeth, then found the energy to smile again.
“What was your music like?” I said.
Gray looked bemused. “Like young Trent Reznor meets old Trent Reznor.”
“Does every band base themselves on another band?” I said. “Is any band truly unique?”
“The only way to learn who you are is by copying someone else first,” said Gray.
“That makes no sense,” I said.
“It doesn’t,” said Gray with a big open laugh. “But also it does.”
I could’ve asked Gray questions all night. Maybe it was because we were outside of familiar Rancho Ruby. Maybe it was seeing Gray where I’d always only imagined him, deep in the gullet of Los Angeles, witnessing with my own eyes how he was so at home here in the dank, sour dark of a rock club.
“Was the plan to get signed to a big label?” I said.
“You know?” said Gray, searching for words. “I didn’t even care about playing stadiums or becoming famous. I just wanted to make music and have a place to live and be happy on my own terms. Like, be my own boss, not get stuck in a suit like—”
Gray paused. He took a sip. “Like Mom and Dad.”
He was growing heavy, so I changed the subject. “Why music, specifically?” I said. Why not, say, fantasy props?
“Why music,” said Gray.
“Nn,” I said, and sipped more of my club soda, which was quickly becoming my favorite beverage ever. Onstage, the Repugnants were getting set up again. The crowd began to stir with hoots and chirps.
Gray thought. “You can really be yourself onstage. If you don’t like that self, you can try on some other one. It’s really freeing. But also limiting, but in a good way? Plus dangerous, but at the same time weirdly safe. I’m not explaining things well.”
“You’re really not,” I said, with a laughing sputter.
“Why do you make your videos?” said Gray.
My belly quivered. Because I’ve been bullied. Because it’s easier to hide behind a computer screen.
Because my big brother hasn’t been there to protect me.
“Because,” I said finally, “like the rest of humanity I’m just another pathetic soul scrounging for likes in a world deadened to all sensation?”
It was a cop-out answer: one of my cynic’s prefab proverbs.
My cynicism, I realized, was my way of removing myself from the equation so that I could not get hurt.
The band began a slow dirge—a wall of sonic sorrow.
Gray had to shout. “Everybody’s a pathetic soul. But when you put yourself out there, and the audience responds, we’re no longer pathetic. I think that’s why you make your videos. That’s why I did music.”
I blurted out an awkward laugh, because I had never heard Gray talk like this before.
Gray continued in a kind of dream. “Our audiences would respond to our performances, and it was this amazing feeling of, like, I see you.”
“I see you,” I said.
“I really see you,” said Gray. His aura grew so thick, I could smell stargazers.
“Cool,” I said, using the word as nonchalantly as possible.
“You’ll see once you’re up there,” said Gray. “It’s the best high. Better than any drug.”
I regarded Gray for a moment. No matter how old you got, your eyes stayed the same.
Me and my brother turned to watch the band together, without a word.
Eucalyptus
I woke from another one of my dreams. This time, I was paddling to keep afloat a raft made out of a giant crispy marshmallow square. The faster I paddled, the faster the square dissolved. Meanwhile, a nimble mermaid flashing scales of silver-black named Cirrus peered at me from the water and asked me why I even needed a raft in the first place since I could just swim with her.
It was a super-obvious dream.
Come over, wrote Cirrus. I sprang out of bed and got dressed.
But at Gray’s closet, I stopped. I felt tired. Tired of changing in the dirt by the junipers, doing laundry in secret, putting clothes back where I found them, leaving no trace for Mom or Dad to find.
After the talent show, I wouldn’t be able to just go back to being Old Sunny, like flipping a switch. I would have to keep up the disguise for a while. I would have to gently dial things back from Rock Star to Super Mega-Nerd, where they originally belonged.
Which was ridiculous, because I wasn’t even that person anymore. I was more confident. Even my body moved differently. I wasn’t sure if I still even liked all the old things in my closet: the criminal cargo shorts, those dot-com-era tees that were really an exercise in obtuseness born of insecurity. Honestly, who on earth knew or cared about Boo.com?
No one did, and that’s what made that shirt so safe to wear. It was a way to make a statement without risking ridicule.
I left Gray’s closet and went back to my room.
I chose normal jeans and a simple red tee bearing the ampersand from D&D, done with an ornamental dragon head. It was understated. It could be anything, a pretty letterform.
But it was me.
I really wanted to start being me.
I packed a bag with a blanket and food—adorable mini-gimbap rolls and sodas and cheese doodles and teeny-weeny probiotic yogurt drinks—and gave my Velociraptor® Elite a wistful caress before rolling out instead on the creaking ten-speed.
I would glide on elliptical platforms once again, soon.
Cirrus kissed me at her front door. Amazing how we could do that, right out in the beautiful sunlight. Only the sound of Cirrus’s mom’s voice made me leap back.
“Hello, Sunny,” said Cirrus’s mom.
“AAAaa-hi,” I said.
“I noticed the house is conspicuously clean,” said Cirrus’s dad, who had slid eerily into the door frame like a shooting gallery target. He held an eyebrow raised behind his transparent Bong Joon Hos, and it was not clear to me if his brow was playfully conspiratorial or accusatory.
Adults.
“Welcome back from . . . ?” I said.
“We’re not really here,” said Cirrus’s mom. She touched a necklace made of golden toothpicks. “Just a few days of meetings, then it’s off to the Middle Kingdom.”
“You mean Middle-earth?” I chirped.
“I mean China,” said Cirrus’s dad, as my attempted joke cleared the top of his head with meters to spare.
“I should put on my bike helm
et,” said Cirrus, reaching for a hook.
Cirrus’s mom examined her daughter sideways. “This American obsession with helmets.”
The two went back inside.
Cirrus strapped on her helmet tight so she could slam her head safely into the steel doorjamb three, four times, more, had we not noticed her neighbor’s unsettling eye and fled.
We journeyed forth on wide, quiet roads filled with sparkling trees and jasmine and birds cheeping high and low. The sun warmed our skin without burning it. The air perfectly humid, never sticky. The sky with just the right amount of clouds.
Cirrus beamed at the road before her. “This right here is why you live in Southern California.”
“Who needs their daily thousand-IU vitamin D supplements when you have this?” I said.
“Sad old people who never venture outside,” said Cirrus.
“Ha ha ha,” I said, making a mental sticky to get rid of my collection of vitamin, cod liver oil, and gut flora supplements as soon as I returned home.
“Did I mention I’m starting track?” said Cirrus.
My mind boggled. “You run?”
“Oh my god no,” said Cirrus. “Artemis roped me into joining. I’m kind of weirdly looking forward to it. My uniform is very officially official. Go, Ravagers.”
“Welcome to the team,” I said, grinning like a fool on my bike in the sun with my beautiful girlfriend.
“Where are you taking me?” said Cirrus.
“You’ll see,” I said.
I remembered the way through pure muscle memory. Hop the curb at the horizontal fire hydrant. Take the wide drainage ditch down past the embankment of multicolored succulents. At the five-armed intersection, take the one marked Pyrite. Dismount at the fire road, walk around the chain barrier, and—
“We’re here,” I said.
Cirrus held on to her helmet and inhaled deeply. “What is that?”
“Eucalyptus,” I said.
The eucalyptus grove was the same but for a plastic hubcap that had found its way in from the road. I picked up the offensive garbage and placed it on the curb for street sweepers to later consume.
I hadn’t been here in years. Not since my last attempt at gaming in public, right before Gunner stole Gray the Paladin from my locker and rasped the figurine down to a nub.
I led her to a spot—a tree stump, where Jamal and Milo and I once sat—and spread the blanket. We ate. The wind picked up, but the surrounding thicket protected us from flying dust and leaves. It was like picnicking on the floor of a cathedral ruin sparkling with sunbeams.
“I haven’t been here in forever,” I said. I popped a gimbap into Cirrus’s mouth and watched her chew.
“Was this, like, your spot?” said Cirrus.
It could’ve been, if only they’d have let me be.
All that was too much to explain, so when I spotted movement in the distance, I was grateful for the distraction.
“Look,” I said.
Cirrus turned. Six children, each around age ten, ran about wielding tree branches, which they used to spray each other with imaginary elemental attacks.
i got you
no because mine is fire and fire melts ice
lightning cancels fire
no it doesn’t
and so on.
“They’re so cute,” said Cirrus.
“Nn,” I said.
We snuggled in closer. We kissed. The sky above fluttered and rasped like the world’s most elaborate paper chandelier.
“Ew!” said a voice.
A girl stared at us. She wore mirrored swim goggles and a Frisbee as a chest plate.
“Hey there,” said Cirrus.
The girl aimed a toddler-size tennis racket at us. “Avada kedavra!” she screamed, and ran away to join the rest of her group.
I watched the children play. I’ll make that one Jamal, I thought. That one is Milo. That one can be me, that one can be Cirrus.
“Kind of makes me want to be a kid again,” I said.
“Kind of does,” said Cirrus.
All at once Cirrus took a pause. She became lost in a tiny cluster of eggs on the backside of a dead leaf.
“What is it?” I said.
“My parents,” said Cirrus. “They keep going on and on about some big project going on in China.”
I killed inside at the word China. All I could say was “Okay.”
“Another mall, the world’s biggest this time, but apparently still not big enough,” said Cirrus. She found a twig and bent it.
My heart fought against blood suddenly turned thick as syrup. “But you haven’t even been here two months. I thought that project in LA was supposed to last for a long time.”
I thought we were supposed to be together for a long time.
“It’s on hold because of city budget red tape or something,” said Cirrus. “Dunn matter.”
“Wait—” I said. “So—”
Cirrus snapped the twig, flung it away, and grinned. “Wanna know what I told them?”
I could not help but admire her smile. She had two beautifully crooked incisors.
“I told them that if they just waited a year for me to finish out high school, they could move wherever they wanted without having to bother anymore with the whole parenting thing,” said Cirrus.
I covered my mouth and hooted. “Dude.”
“You should’ve seen how guilty they looked,” said Cirrus.
I tried to picture her parents with any kind of emotion aside from detached inquisitiveness, and failed. But I didn’t care. Because what Cirrus was saying was—
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Cirrus. She buried her forehead in my neck. “I’ve been wanting to say something to my parents for years. Know why I finally did?”
She lifted her gaze to meet mine. I thrilled inside at the sight.
“Why?” I said.
“It’s not because of this place,” said Cirrus. “I’ve seen better places.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, smiling now.
“It’s just that I met this guy,” said Cirrus. “Real dark and broody rock-and-roller type.”
I killed inside again. I thrilled, I killed, thrillkill.
“So Rancho Ruby’s not so bad,” said Cirrus.
“Could be a lot worse,” I said.
I kissed her, and she kissed me back, tighter and tighter, neither of us having any clue just how much worse.
“I love you, Sunny Dae,” said Cirrus.
“I love you, Cirrus Soh,” I said.
And for the rest of the day, neither of us went anywhere except right where we already were.
Ready
You didn’t see my email, did you,” whispered Jamal.
Around us, imbeciles sprinted and hurdled in the purposeless Sisyphean contest known as track.
I removed my cleat spikes using a hand tool, then blew sharply to eject red clay debris. I hated dirty cleats; I found the best way to keep them clean was to avoid running whenever possible.
“Email,” I said, “is the awkward transitional technology between snail mail—”
Jamal hissed me silent, like one does to a bad cat. “I wrote Lady Lashblade late last night. I thanked her for her support. I wrote a freaking torch song for her.”
“You should see this email,” Milo susurrated, like a spy.
I dropped my hand tool. “You wrote to her?”
“I had to do something,” said Jamal. He counted on his fingers. “It’s Tuesday, and last night I wasn’t around because of that stupid dinner with my stupid uncle, and now tonight Milo’s not gonna be around.”
“I have a quinceañera for my cousin all the way in Topanga,” said Milo. “Shoot me.”
“What did your email say?” I said to Jamal.
“And a
ll the after-school time this week’s been eaten up by band practice!” said Jamal, ducking his voice as two jocks passed. “Then we have the show on Wednesday!” he hissed. “The whole week’s been fubared for DIY Fantasy FX!”
“Jamal,” I whispered. “What did your email say?”
“I asked if she could guest star on an upcoming episode,” said Jamal.
“He showed her your video of Esmeralda’s Veil,” said Milo.
“And then what?” I said.
“She loved it!” whisper-shouted Jamal. “She wanted a date and time from us! So I just freaking made the executive decision and said Thursday!”
“The day after the talent show,” said Milo, arms folded.
There was no school Thursday, to allow for what the faculty called a staff work day, otherwise informally known as a staff recovery day, otherwise even more informally known as a hangover day.
“We are locked in,” said Jamal. “I’m forcing our own hand.”
The three of us sat in silence while Jamal fumed.
“But wait—isn’t this a good thing?” I said finally. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you had the guts to reach out to Lady Lashblade herself.”
Jamal, realizing there was actually nothing to be angry about, reluctantly began to calm down. “I did,” he said. “Because I am amazing.”
“Lady Lashblade?” hissed Gunner, jogging toward us.
I high-fived him, realized he had just transferred a few milligrams of his sweat onto my palm, and wiped my hand on the grass before giving Jamal a hug. “Thank you for picking up my slack and taking charge. What’s there to be mad about?”
“I think Jamal just wants some validation,” said Milo.
“Yap,” said Gunner with dual pistol fingers. He jogged away backward.
Jamal softened. “I miss doing our stuff. Our real stuff.”
“I got you,” I said. I touched his shoulder. “Thursday will be spectacular.”
“We nail that, she can’t not invite us to the Faire,” said Milo. “Everything’s getting better and better, I can feel it.”
I could, too. I ran an open hand over the ground covered in green, and when I pinched my fingers closed, I saw I had found not a four-leaf, but a five-leaf clover.
