Wild Awake

seen. I spot some of our gear in a pile by the wall where they dumped it. The Train Room is packed and loud, and it’s too dim to see anything except a crowded mass of horny underage bodies. I stand in the doorway, craning my neck.
    Up onstage, there’s a punk band playing—one of our rivals, assuming we even get to play. All the kids in the band go to our school: straight-edge Alex with the Mohawk, Derick Mason, Ayo Ngebi, and that girl Nikky Sharp, who won’t even talk to you if you’re not punk. They sound like a shitty version of the Dropkick Murphys, all raspy-voiced shouting and bashing drums.
    I drop my gear and go to hunt down Lukas and his dad. I find them at the back of the room, talking to a short, tightly built guy in his twenties with a black beard like a massive halo engulfing his whole face. I join them, panting.
    “Hey. What’s the word?”
    Lukas doesn’t even look at me.
    “I can squeeze you guys in at the end,” says Blackbeard, squinting down at the clipboard he’s holding, “but you only get one song, not three. That’s four minutes, tops.”
    “Can’t we get a little more time if we set up fast?”
    Lukas loses his attractiveness when he pleads. His voice gets whiny like a little kid’s. Shush, Lukas , I beam to him telepathically. Just be thankful he’s letting us play .
    Blackbeard crosses his hairy arms over his chest and shakes his head.
    “Sorry, guys. Venue closes at midnight. We need everybody out of here.”
    Lukas’s shoulders sag, and I can see him gearing up for another round of begging. I butt in, casting Blackbeard a knowing smile. “One song’s fine. Thank you.”
    Blackbeard looks grateful to be talking to someone who isn’t hysterical. He nods at me, uncrosses his arms and walks away. Lukas moves to chase after him. I grab his arm. “Don’t worry about it, Lukas. We still get to play.”
    “One song?”
    “We can kick ass with one song. Plus, this gives us time to fix my synth. D’you think your mom has any duct tape in the car?”
    Lukas looks at me like I’ve just asked him if his mom keeps a bazooka in the glove compartment. “I don’t know! How am I supposed to know?”
    I don’t think I ever realized this before, but Lukas really doesn’t handle stress very well. “Come on. Let’s find your mom.”
    Lukas’s dad, who has been standing there silently this whole time, starts pushing his way back toward the entrance. We follow him, avoiding each other’s eyes. I can’t tell if Lukas is pissed at me for being late, or if he’s just embarrassed to be seen with me in this outfit.
    The Dropkick Sucktards play for another ten minutes, during which Lukas sulks and I do my best to cobble my synth together with a box of Band-Aids the manager gives me from the first aid kit, which he says is the only tapelike substance he could find. As long as I don’t bang on the keys too hard, it should hold together for one song. I can fix it when I get home.
    Lukas’s parents sip coffee from the refreshment booth and browse the internet on their phones, seemingly unaware of how out of place they look among all the teenage scenesters. That’s one thing I love about Lukas’s parents: they always seem comfortable wherever they are. My parents would last about two minutes in here before saying it was too loud and going home.
    After the punks vacate the stage, there’s a twenty-minute set change. A drippy indie band from another high school goes on. Their lead singer is a girl with bleached-blond hair and purple highlights who seems more interested in looking cute than in getting the notes right. She oohs and aahs her way through the chorus until I’m ready to throw up. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they play three minutes overtime and Blackbeard doesn’t even stop them.
    When Blackbeard finally gives us the nod to set up, I feel a stab of guilt. It’s already eleven forty-five. Lukas made a big point of signing up weeks ago so we’d get to play first. Now, even the judges look tired.
    “We got this, Lukas,” I hiss while we’re slapping together the drum kit.
    Lukas tightens the screw on the high hat.
    “Careful with that. You’ll scratch it,” he says.
    I leave him to it and go back to my busted synth. While I’m crouching to plug it in, I sneak a peek at the crowd. A bunch of kids who were here to see the blond girl’s band went home after the last set, but there are still enough people left that the room’s not totally empty. Lukas’s