Wild Awake

“Ridin’ dirty.”
    Skunk traces his thumb over my kneecap. “What did you do, cut off a bus?”
    “No-o-o. I got hit by a car.”
    Skunk freezes. “You got hit by a car and you didn’t tell me.”
    I swing my legs off his lap and sit up. “Whatever, homey. The Way is an invincible fortress.”
    He looks at me all pop-eyed and distressed. “What color was the car?”
    I reach out and smooth Skunk’s hair. He looks like he’s about to faint.
    “I don’t know. It was just some car.”
    “Are you sure you don’t remember what color it was?”
    I lean forward and lick his ear. “Relax, Bicycle Boy. As you can see, I am alive and well.”
    Skunk’s body has gone all tense, like he hears a strange noise: a mouse in the wall, or a burglar. “Was it following you?”
    I sit there blinking at him. “No. Well, actually she did follow me for a while after it happened, but I think she just wanted to make sure I was okay.”
    “Oh God,” says Skunk.
    “What? What?”
    But Skunk holds his head in his hands and won’t even start to relax until I get up, tiptoe across the room, and quietly turn on a radio.
    Later that day, when Dr. Scaliteri calls me in for an extra lesson, I tell her all about my new practice regimen. I’ve been practicing constantly, I tell her. Now that I’ve realized I can do it in my head, I have basically been practicing piano twenty-four hours a day.
    “How many hours does Nelson Chow practice per day? Probably just four or five, right? I can teach him my technique, if you want. It could really help him out when he’s at Juilliard. He’ll want to practice on the subway.”
    I hear the front door open and Nelson Chow walk in for his lesson. I hear him stop in the hall to take off his shoes.
    “Hey, Nelson,” I shout. “How many hours a day do you practice?”
    No response. Nelson is the kind of person who always pretends he hasn’t heard you. “Hey, Nelson! I said how many hours?”
    Dr. Scaliteri calls out to Nelson that he should wait in the hall. She leans forward so her speckled old cleavage is practically falling out of her silver blouse and hisses, “I will not have this behavior in my studio.”
    “What behavior?” I say. “I’m trying to help him.”
    “Kiri,” she says, “I have never before had this kind of behavior in my studio. You will go home now and practice.”
    “I just told you, Dr. Scaliteri. I already am practicing. I’ve been practicing the whole time we’ve been talking.” I point at my temple. “In my head .”
    On my way out of the room, I realize the stained-glass fruit bowl is glowing a little too hard, like someone installed neon tubes behind the glass.
    Denny and I get sushi most nights because I threw out all the food. Denny always gets an avocado roll and a yam roll. I always get a yam roll and a California roll. I rip open the foil packet of soy sauce and pour it over my sushi like pancake syrup. Denny can hardly contain his disgust.
    “That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” he says, pouring soy sauce onto his tray and mixing in a dainty green dab of wasabi with the tip of his wooden chopstick. “You’re supposed to dip it in the soy sauce. Like this.”
    I pay close attention, marveling at Denny’s mastery of the simple things in this world, thinking if I could only learn to mix my soy sauce correctly, maybe my life would make perfect sense.
    I read the Tao te Ching over and over until I have it memorized.
    I text Lukas over and over about band practice, and when he doesn’t text back I show up at his house with my synth and my own stash of weed. I’m pretty sure he’s dating Kelsey Bartlett; his phone beeps ten minutes after I show up, and he gets all awkward and says he has to go.
    I bring my bike to Skunk’s house, and we snarfle in the shed with pear blossoms knocking on the door.
    I sit in the hall after my lesson, listening to Nelson Chow’s lesson and taking notes.
    I follow Nelson Chow to the bus stop when he comes out and read him my notes.
    I sit next to Nelson Chow on the bus, questioning him about his practice habits until he pulls the yellow cord and gets off.
    I text Lukas about buying a new amp, and when he doesn’t text back, I go on eBay and order one to be delivered to his house.
    I smoke weed and practice piano until Denny says, “When did you turn into a fucking pothead? Don’t you sleep?” and then I practice inside my head, pacing and pacing around the living room very slowly like a Zen