Wild Awake

suspicious mole on her cleavage. When I’m finished, she looks up and says one word: “Good.”
    I stand up, bow, collect my books, and breeze out of the room.
    International Young Pianists’ Showcase? I’ve got that shit in the bag.
    The thrill of victory is a pleasant antidote to the sludge of humiliation left over from last night, and I float past the bus stop and on down the street, my fingers tingling with bliss. I did it. I did it. I did it. I did it . My lips keep drawing upward in a loose, dopey smile, and I can barely feel the pavement beneath my feet. I did it. I did it. So what do I want to do now?
    I want to ride my bicycle.
    Where is my bicycle?
    In Bicycle Boy’s shed.
    I swivel around like an ice skater and glide in the direction of downtown.
    It turns out downtown is a two-and-a-half-hour walk away, plus another twenty minutes of backtracking when I mysteriously end up near the stadium.
    Along the way I buy:
          -three kiwis, a plum, and a pluot, all of which I eat except for the third kiwi, because the roof of my mouth starts itching in that way that sometimes happens when you eat too many kiwis;
          -a cup of probiotic frozen yogurt with blackberries that inexplicably costs seven dollars, despite being very small and containing approximately twelve calories;
          -a yam roll and an avocado roll from Happy Sushi that come in a plastic clamshell with fake green grass, a wasabi turd, and a little pile of pickled ginger like fairy tongues;
          -a can of Diet Dr Pepper that makes me feel insane;
          -a coffee drink with Chinese characters on the can that makes my sweat smell like coffee and makes me have to pee;
          -a coffee at a coffee shop so they let me use the bathroom;
          -a tube of SPF 60 sunscreen so I don’t get mysterious moles on my cleavage when I’m old like Dr. Scaliteri;
          -a new pair of flip-flops after the toe-thong thingy on my left flip-flop comes out of its socket and I can’t get it back in;
          -a wide-brimmed straw hat;
          -a pair of tweezers and some questionable depilatory cream to deal with my eyebrow situation once and for all;
          -a cranberry oat square at a coffee shop so they let me use the bathroom;
          -a blue lightbulb;
          -a jumbo bag of Meow Mix;
          -an acorn squash;
          -henna powder, incense, and temporary tattoos of various Hindu deities.
    On my way to Skunk’s house, I stop off at the Imperial to give the Meow Mix to Doug. The same woman who gave me directions to the modern art gallery when I was looking for razzle!dazzle!space is sitting on the steps in pink spandex pants and a tank top. Her brown hair is piled up in a high ponytail on her head. She looks like Workout Barbie if Workout Barbie had aged a few years and was starting to lose some hair.
    “Is Doug around?” I ask.
    She shakes her head and answers in her sexy, raspy voice. “He’s not here, baby. He went to the clinic for his checkup. Did you bring him something?” She eyes my shopping bags. I show her the cat food.
    “Aww, that’s sweet, baby. Doug loves that kitty. You should go on up and leave it in his room. None of the rooms lock around here; you can go right in.”
    She tells me her name is Jasmine and she used to have a straw hat just like mine. I reach into one of my shopping bags. “Do you want a kiwi?”
    “No thanks, babe, I’m allergic,” she says, taking a drag on her cigarette.
    I climb the steps to the fourth floor two at a time, hardly noticing the garbage or the rotten air. When I get to Doug’s room, I march right in and set the bag of cat food on the floor. Snoogie materializes out of nowhere and rubs herself against my legs until I crouch and drag my fingers through her scruffy fur. I imagine Sukey picking her up in the alley behind the Imperial, stroking her ears and inspecting her stumpy leg, and thinking, This cat is exactly what Doug needs . I imagine Doug admiring her paintings, telling her how beautiful they are, and saying Don’t let that kid Billy hang around you, Sukey-girl, he’s nothing but trouble .
    Guilt and jealousy splinter through me. Those missing months before Sukey died—they’re something I’ll never be a part of, something I’ll never get to know. It fills me with a kind of howling indignation to know that Doug and Sukey shared something without me, that Doug stole something I’d desperately