David Yoon

Milo threw the shot put n meters, n being a number Milo neither remembered nor cared about, because shot put meant about as much as playing Frisbee in the dark with a corpse

Fake it till you make it,” said Dad, and he high-fived Mom

she covered her mouth with the back of her hand to laugh—she had the velvet laugh of a villainess—and for a moment I stood spellbound.

“You’re more than cool,” continued Cirrus. “You’re brave. Most people barely have hobbies, if they bother to try anything at all. Most people let the dream starve and die in the kill-basement of their soul and only visit the rotting corpse when they themselves are finally on death’s door wondering, What was I so afraid of this whole time?”

“Jesus, you’re cynical,” I whispered.

The Look was the expression people gave to someone doing something well, and with passion. It was an instinctive attraction to creativity—the highest form of human endeavor—expressed by emitting little hearts out of our eyes. It was falling a little bit in love with people who were fashioning something new with their hands and their imaginations.

I had always wondered what it would feel like to get the Look, and now I realized I had just found out.

The Look was pure deadly sweet terror, and it felt incredible.

I instantly wanted another

“I am,” said Cirrus, then laughed until she had to place a hand on my shoulder for support, at which moment I decided she could laugh however long she wanted. All night would be fine by me

I fiddled with my fingers at my belly, which had gone a little sour. I shoved my hands into my pockets, only to find it was too hot for pockets. So I took them out again and just kind of rested my fingertips on my ribs. Many people sat like this all the time, except those who didn’t, which was everybody.

Sometimes I feel like I’m just appearing in the same place. Again and again. Just alternate realities in an infinite multiverse.”

Up until this point in my young life I had never heard anything more romantic

You must be the Immortals.”

Jamal and Milo looked puzzled, as expected. I nodded with great earnestness from behind Cirrus. Just say yes.

Milo clued in first. “Yes,” he said.

“That’s us,” said Jamal, dutifully mimicking my bobbing head.

“Very cool,” said Cirrus.

Milo and Jamal exploded with gasps of nerd pleasure bordering on the profane. They were unaccustomed to this word cool, and now laved at it like dogs discovering fallen chocolate.

I pantomimed a dual-blade decapitation with my hands. Knock it off.

They stopped. They awaited further instruction.

I lowered downward-facing palms slowly, as if calming a cross-eyed horse. Be cool

You don’t look okay.”

“I don’t feel okay, so that makes sense,” I said with a laugh.

“What’s wrong?” said Milo.

This was bad. When Milo asked what’s wrong, he did not let go until the question was fully answered. He was like a bulldog. A big, gentle bulldog that clamped down on unexpressed emotions and shook with rabid fury until they’d been ripped free and were dripping wet in his powerful jaws of compassion.

“It’s nothing,” I said, and winced at my error. It’s nothing was bloodscent for Milo.

Milo’s emotional jaws squeezed harder. “Tell us what it is, Sunny Dae.”