Wild Awake

they’re beautiful.”
    “That’s really all you do?”
    I’d been expecting boyfriends, drinking, all the usual things Sukey got in trouble for. But somehow this felt more luminously dangerous, more thrilling, like swallowing fire.
    She dabbed her brush in violet and touched it to a spot of green. The lizard Sukey was painting seemed to come alive and wriggle, as if her touch was all it took to make it real. She smiled.
    “That’s really all I do.”
    The memory kills me. I pull my hands off the keys and stand up. I’ll go for a bike ride. Just a little one. A starter adventure. I’ll go out and explore and find some ships of my own.
    At first, I stick to familiar streets, making a wide circle around the neighborhood. The leaves in the treetops form a starry tunnel overhead, bathed now and then in orange lamplight. I turn left when I get to Arbutus, then right and then left again. Pretty soon I’m in a neighborhood I’ve never been to before, with brick houses and flower beds so perfect it looks like they were unpacked, fully grown, from a cardboard box. I roll past a park where people are playing late-night tennis under spotlights and a short strip of restaurants where the smell of frying onions is sharp in the air.
    Each street I turn down is a revelation. With every push of my pedals, I can feel the map getting bigger, new squares and lines and landmarks appearing like new levels in a video game. When midnight rolls around, I’m way down in East Van, cruising down Commercial Drive. I roll down the street, eyeing the record stores and hippie clothing shops and dimly lit bars. Up ahead on my left, I can see a small crowd of people gathered in a playground, all of them on bicycles—fixies and road bikes and one recumbent covered in yellow reflectors. With their blinking lights and shiny helmets, they look like a flock of fireflies. I swoop closer to get a better look. There’s maybe twenty people, mostly college kids, with some people my age and a few older-looking riders thrown in for good measure. Some of them are holding beers or flasks, and there’s a couple joints going around.
    I’m so pumped from my bike ride I don’t feel shy at all. I ride my bike up to the edge of the crowd and nose in next to a girl in a cute leather jacket and sparkly tights.
    “Hey. Whatcha guys doing?”
    She adjusts the strap on her black helmet.
    “Midnight Mass. We go for a ride twice a month.”
    “Where you going?”
    “I don’t know yet. We kind of make it up as we go along.”
    I look around at the rest of the group. My eyes wander over girls in furry-eared hats and guys with pink and silver tassels hanging off their handlebars. Everyone’s talking, laughing, drinking, oddly glamorous on their tricked-out bikes. They remind me of the people at Sukey’s art opening. Alive. Happy. Free.
    Then I spot him.
    Skunk.
    He’s standing at the other edge of the crowd almost exactly opposite to me, his huge body balanced over the slender angles of a black Schwinn bike.
    I stand up on my tiptoes and wave.
    “Skunk!”
    He doesn’t hear me. He’s peering down at his handlebars while he feels the brake wire with his fingers, no doubt planning some completely unnecessary repair.
    I back up my bike and ride around the edge of the crowd.
    “Skunk! Hey.”
    His face registers a brief moment of surprise and confusion.
    I roll my bike right up alongside his.
    “I can’t believe you’re here! Do you do this every month?”
    There’s a joint coming our way. I can smell it, but can’t place it with my eyes.
    Skunk fiddles with his brake wires. “Sometimes.”
    “I’ve already been out riding for three hours. My bike’s riding totally straight now, thanks to you.”
    His face brightens. “Good.”
    “I’ve been thinking about fixing those brake pads. Pending you taking care of that Fender, of course.”
    Skunk doesn’t answer. We stand there in silence, scuffing the grass with our feet. I wonder if Skunk wants me to leave. Maybe I’m ruining his quiet night out with my chatter. Maybe this is the kind of thing that drove Lukas away from me: Kiri Byrd, professional motormouth.
    When the joint gets to us, Skunk passes. I waver, then pass too so he doesn’t think I’m a druggie. When a fifth of Captain Morgan comes around, Skunk passes again. I’m starting to worry that he’s a Mormon or a straight-edge punk like this kid Alex at my school, who wears a Mohawk and safety pins but won’t touch a beer. I lean over