Wild Awake

like the kind of huge, soft, stuffed gorilla you win at a carnival for throwing a dart at a balloon. I know I should probably feel embarrassed about showing up at his house like this when he probably never expected to see me again, but all I can think about is getting back to the Imperial before Doug decides I flaked.
    I wonder if Skunk can tell how edgy I am. I’m picking at the rubber grips on my handlebars and dancing in place like a monkey. He rubs his eyes.
    “How’s the tire working out?”
    “Great.”
    He glances at my bike appraisingly, as if he thinks I came here to get him to fix something else. Like my squeaky brakes. Or my questionable sanity.
    Before I have the chance to lose my nerve, I jerk my thumb at the van parked in the alley.
    “Is that yours?”
    He nods slowly, his sleepy eyes still half-closed. “Yeah.”
    “Do you think you could give me a ride?”
    I know it’s a long shot. I’m pretty sure I just got him out of bed, and by the looks of it, the van probably doesn’t even run. I know if some random stranger came and knocked on my door looking for a ride, I’d say hell no.
    But Skunk just yawns and says, “Let me get my keys.”
    He steps back into the house, sliding the door and curtains all the way shut behind him. I wonder what he’s hiding in there. Posters of naked death-metal chicks? Indoor grow-op? I try to steal a glimpse inside when he comes out, but he’s too fast for me, and all I see before the door snaps shut is a slice of hardwood floor.
    “Want to put your bike in the shed?” he says.
    “Hm? Oh. Sure.”
    I follow him across the courtyard and wait while he unlocks the shed. When I hand him my bike, I get a shiver of anxiety, like I’m leaving an arm or a leg behind, or a baby, or a pet. As we walk to the van I resist the urge to run back and knock on the corrugated metal and say, I’ll come back for you soon, I promise .
    Skunk’s van smells like cigarettes and sandalwood. The rust-colored upholstery is worn so thin it’s shiny. The stereo is too old to have a CD player, and the cup holders are full of dusty cassettes that must have been there since he bought the thing. Even though Skunk hasn’t asked for an explanation, I find myself babbling at him. Sukey. Columbia Street. Imperial Hotel.
    He seems to get it.
    There’s a faded sticker in the corner of the windshield with a picture of a duck that says FRIEND OF MARSHLANDS . I point to it and say something, but we’re driving down the alley and the gravel’s making a racket under the tires. Skunk says, “What?”
    “Are you a friend of marshlands?” I shout.
    This time, Skunk says, “Yeah,” and I flash him the devil horns because even if he’s just saying that, that’s badass.
    We roll out of the alley and take a right, then left and a right again to get onto Columbia Street. I’m starting to relax a little now that we’re on our way. I hate cigarettes, but I find it oddly comforting when cars smell like them. When Sukey lived at home, she smoked Marlboro Lights out her bedroom window, and sometimes if I was good, she’d let me flick the lighter.
    “This it?” says Skunk.
    I look out the window. It’s taken us all of ten seconds to drive to the Imperial.
    “Yeah.”
    “Want me to wait here while you grab your stuff?”
    I nod, fumbling with the door handle. I can see Doug through the dusty van window. He’s sitting against the wall with a couple other guys, talking. My heart bangs. I start to get out, and Skunk says, “You okay?”
    The question takes me by surprise. I hang there awkwardly, my legs already out of the van and the rest of my body still inside it. I hate that question, “Are you okay?” It’s like asking someone if they think you look fat. You’re almost guaranteed to get a lie.
    “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Of course I’m okay. Sorry. I’ll try to be quick.”
    “No, I mean—take your time.”
    He glances out the window, taking in the snaggletoothed windows of the Imperial Hotel.
    I give him my best and bravest smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be done in five minutes, tops.”
    Doug and his homies are still drinking on the steps. When I walk over there, they’re caught up in an argument over whether Larry stole Fink’s cigarettes. Nobody looks at me. The guy who is apparently Fink is wearing a red ball cap that looks like it survived several cycles through a trash compactor. He has pale white skin and red hair that looks surprisingly delicate compared to the rest of his