Super Fake Love Song by David Yoon

Author:David Yoon [Yoon, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2020-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

III

Frost holds the virus for thousands of years.

Winter eternal protects us from fear.

Blotter

The next morning, I got up and headed directly to my phone dock located safely away from the delicate tissues in my cranium, breaking my steadfast rule of not checking the infernal first thing in the morning, because doing so led to increased anxiety and unhappiness—

But things were different now.

Because on the screen was one message from very early this a.m., from Cirrus:

I’m on a boat.

And indeed, there was a photo of a boat, taken from a dock. Brandon and Jane Soh stood nearby.

Are you leaving the country? I wrote, then deleted it. Bad joke. Instead, I just went with

Wish I was there.

At the same time, Cirrus wrote, Wish you were here.

Jinx, we both wrote simultaneously. I smiled a big dumb smile.

I think your brother’s a little jealous of you btw, wrote Cirrus.

Really? I wrote.

He’s kind of a dork, no offense, wrote Cirrus. And meanwhile you’re . . . you, heart emoji.

I slapped my thigh and twirled on one foot and hit a white plastic container, which caused me to lose my balance and fall into still more white plastic containers.

When I got back to my feet, I wrote,

Kiss emoji.

And I put my phone in my pocket, which I normally never did because of what microwaves can do to the epidermis and possibly subcutaneous tissue even through thicker fabrics. But I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a message like I had while stupidly asleep at 5:03 this morning. It was currently 11:11 a.m.

I descended toward the breakfast nook. One end of the table there was covered with folders, agreements, and invoices.

At the other end sat Mom, all by herself. Oddly, she was wearing a tee shirt and sweats and not her work clothes. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen her dressed like this. I couldn’t put my finger on the right word to describe how she looked.

Relaxed.

Before her sat two bowls of red. Cold thin flour noodles with spicy gochujang sauce, topped with icy slivers of cucumber, white radish, and pear. It was the simplest meal we’d had in a while, and one we used to have often at our old place.

“It’s bibim naengmyeon for brunch today, okay?” said Mom.

“Love it,” I said. I was drooling already. I took my phone out of my pocket and fastidiously set it next to my chopsticks.

Mom pursed her lips like an imp thief. “Waiting for someone to call?”

I blushed. “No,” I said, so unconvincingly even I was embarrassed for myself.

“’Kay,” Mom said, shrugging, and began pushing her noodles around with the forced indifference of parents of teenagers everywhere secretly aching for those days of unfiltered intimacy they had with their children back when they were small.

I pushed my noodles around, too. The noodles were winning. “Are Dad and what’s-his-face out wheeling and dealing?” I said.

Mom flattened her eyes at me. “You mean Gray, your one and only brother, who you love more than anything?”

“Nurr,” I said.

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