Wild Awake

on track. If the doctor says meds at eleven, it’s meds at eleven. Every night. No four a.m. tea parties. And no overnight visitors in my house.”
    Skunk’s aunt looks at me again, then lays into him in French.
    “Vraiment, Philippe. T’es imbécile. C’est pas à toi de choisir si tu vas les prendre ou pas les prendre. C’est à Dr. Winterson à dire.”
    “On peut parler plus tard, Martine? Ecoute. Ecoute-moi, là. S’il te plaît. On peut parler plus tard?”
    They go back and forth like that in sharp bursts, as if they’ve both forgotten I’m here. I do the best I can to mentally translate: Martine’s general vibe right now is It’s not up to you to pick! It’s not up to you to pick it! Skunk keeps saying, We can talk later? Please. We can talk about this later?
    I thought he was tensing up out of anger, but no. My poor dearest love-bison is quivering with humiliation. This has to stop. I have to stop it. She can’t be allowed to hurt him like that.
    I wave my hand in the air.
    “Martine?”
    She looks at me like she can’t believe I’m still here.
    “How did you get here, Kelly?”
    “On my bike.”
    “ Bon . It’s time for you to ride home. Take all your things. Philippe and I have a few things to discuss in private.”

chapter thirty-two
    When I get home from Skunk’s house, it’s almost five in the morning. I tiptoe in through the garage and slip upstairs to my bedroom. There’s no point going to sleep now, so instead I lie on my bed practicing Sesquipaedia in my head until I finally hear Denny get up, and then I go downstairs to start some coffee brewing and do my house-sitting chores, the garbage and the recycling and the azaleas.
    When I take the mail in, there’s a big white envelope with the words INTERNATIONAL YOUNG PIANISTS’ SHOWCASE printed on it in a fancy font. I rip it open. Inside, there’s a copy of the official program, a printout of directions to the concert hall, and a checklist of things to bring to your recital. I scour the program until I find my name:
    K IRI B YRD , 2:07 P.M. S UNDAY
    J. S. Bach, Italian Concerto
    W. Beethoven, Sonata in C–Sharp Minor, op. 6, V. 2
    F. Chopin, Nocturne in D
    C. Debussy, La cathédrale engloutie
    A. Khachaturian, Toccata
    I’m listed again under the master class heading, along with Prokofiev: Concerto No. 2 .
    I call Dr. Scaliteri.
    “The program came!”
    “Kiri, I am teaching a lesson right now.”
    “I have a question.”
    “Kiri—”
    I hear someone plunking keys in the background. “Make the left hand float,” says Dr. Scaliteri to someone, probably Nelson Chow.
    “Dr. Scaliteri. Dr. Scaliteri? I’ve decided to change which piece I’m playing for the master class.”
    “You cannot change this piece.”
    “No, it’s fine, I’m learning a new one with that technique I told you about. It’s a little-known composer, very obscure. It’s going to be a world premiere.”
    “Kiri, I have no time for this nonsense. You will play the Prokofiev.”
    Whoever’s on the piano bench plunks away. “Good, Nelson,” says Dr. Scaliteri. I knew it.
    “You just haven’t heard me play it yet. How about I come over this afternoon?”
    “Excellent, Nelson. Your sound is flowering.”
    “Dr. Scaliteri?”
    “Have I already talked to you about the recital in October?”
    “What recital?”
    “Oh, that’s right, you’ll be at Juilliard. It would be worth flying back from New York City.”
    She’s talking to Nelson. Why is she talking to Nelson? She’s supposed to be talking to me.
    “Dr. Scaliteri? Should I come over?”
    “Well, think about it. I’ll give you the information.”
    “Dr. Scaliteri? I can come over now.”
    Nelson starts plunking, oh excuse me, floating. There’s a click and a rumble like Dr. Scaliteri just put down the phone on her desk. Did she seriously forget she was just talking to me? Or is this a subtle way of letting me sit in on Nelson’s lesson without letting Nelson know that I’m listening? Maybe Dr. Scaliteri is trying to show me something, let me listen in so I can give her my input later. I’m starting to think we’re in on this whole Nelson Chow business together.
    I keep my ear pressed to the phone, listening intently for the next twenty minutes, until Dr. Scaliteri starts dialing a number, like she’s forgotten we never hung up. I pick up the program for the Showcase, find the number on the back, and make a call of my own.
    I bike to Skunk’s house so I can see him before