Wild Awake

of those metal things you’re not supposed to use, apply scentless deodorant, pluck a few eyebrow hairs, and moisturize everything. Twice. I imagine Sukey here with me, helping me get ready for the date.
    Lookin’ good, babe , she’d say approvingly. Then she’d mess up my hair, because you don’t want to look like you spent time on your hair, and quickly fill me in on the sort of arcane sexual knowledge I imagine all older sisters, but especially Sukey, must possess.
    I root through my closet and find the filmy blue dress Auntie Moana sent me for Christmas last year. I slip it on, my skin still warm from the shower, and float downstairs.
    At 8:20 Lukas shows up with the Netflix envelope bearing Zardoz . He’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and looks like a model in a Habitat for Humanity ad, like he’s about to pick up a hammer and build some disadvantaged refugees a duplex. I uncork the wine, and while it’s breathing we hang around the kitchen, talking music. Lukas’s eyes keep darting to my dress, which rides up my thighs in a dreadfully sexy manner when I sit on the kitchen counter, one leg draped over the other.
    “Have you heard of this band called Mist?” says Lukas.
    We have my laptop out, and we’re listening to songs on the internet. Lukas clicks on a music video, which starts to play. It’s some kind of hipster twee-pop crap, all xylophones and cutesy lyrics. I cringe.
    “Lukas, this music blows.”
    “Just listen for a second.”
    I listen for precisely one second, during which said music continues to blow. I raise my newly plucked eyebrows at Lukas.
    “I’m serious, why are you showing me this?”
    “I was thinking we might want to move our sound in that direction.”
    “Are you kidding me? This sounds like it was written by the Mickey Mouse Club.”
    Lukas ignores me. “Hear how the synth’s a little dancier?”
    He hums along for a few bars. I punch him lightly on the shoulder.
    “Lukas, we are not dumbing down our act. You’re the one who’s always saying you want us to be a serious band. Where’d you even hear about these losers?”
    “Kelsey played their album at her party after you left.”
    “Great. Now we’re taking career advice from Kelsey Bartlett?”
    “She actually knows a lot about—”
    “Lukas. Listen to me. We are building cathedrals. These guys”—I wave my hand at the laptop—“are making instant pudding.”
    Lukas rolls his eyes.
    “No, but that’s the thing. You make your first album mainstream to get radio play, then later, once you have a record deal and a following, you can slowly introduce the headier stuff. When you’re established.”
    “Yeah. Established in sucking.”
    “I just think we should make our music a little more accessible for Battle of the Bands. It’ll be temporary, okay?”
    I raise my eyebrows. “The douchy sellout you pretend to be is the douchy sellout you become.”
    “Since when are you so concerned with selling out?”
    “I just think we should live dangerously.”
    “Sure. After Battle of the Bands.”
    This isn’t the kind of flirtatious banter I’d been imagining. I give Lukas a smile. “Come upstairs. There’s something I wanted to show you.”
    I hop down from the counter, pick up the wine, and pour us each a glass. It glugs in the neck of the bottle in a way I think most waiters would disapprove of, but I don’t know any other way to do it. I hand Lukas his wine and pick up mine, cradling the glass in my hand. As an afterthought, I tuck the bottle under my arm. You never know. This could take a while.
    “Come on. It’s upstairs.”
    I start for the staircase, glancing over my shoulder to cast Lukas an encouraging smile. After a slight pause, he follows me. I can hear my dress swishing against my legs as we climb the stairs. When we get to the top, Lukas’s face is slightly red. He hangs outside the door when I go into my room, looking down at his wineglass like he’s afraid my bedchamber is filled with scandalous things to shock his Victorian sensibilities. Part of me is glad I stuck that bra in the drawer. Another part of me is enjoying his discomfort—it means I’m doing something right.
    I beckon him in.
    “It’s okay, Lukas. You can come in. I can’t show you out there.”
    He looks flustered but comes and joins me next to my bed. For a moment, all I can think about is the fact that Lukas is standing next to me in my bedroom. It makes the whole room feel different. I’m suddenly aware