Wild Awake

you don’t do what she wants?”
    Pause. “Yes.”
    “Does she think you’re having a Thing?”
    Pause. “Yes.”
    “Do you think so?”
    Pause. “No.”
    “Is that why you went to the marshlands?”
    Pause. “Yes.”
    “Will you come watch my band tonight?”
    Pause.
    “Skunk? Hey, Skunk?”
    Pause. Static.
    “Can I come over?”
    Pause. Static.
    “I can be there on my bike in twenty minutes.”
    Static.
    “Okay, I’m getting on my bike.”
    “No.”
    Pause. “Why not?”
    Pause. “You should sleep.”
    Pause. “Why?”
    Pause. “It’s four thirty, Crazy Girl.”
    “It’s four thirty, Crazy Boy.”
    Pause. “Make you a deal. You go lie on your bed and I’ll go lie on my bed.”
    “Oh, I know! We’ll fall asleep at exactly the same time, and we’ll both have a dream where we go bike riding together.”
    “Yes.”
    “And we’ll ride around Stanley Park in our dream, and we’ll break into a condo in our dream, and we’ll take a long steamy shower together in the finely appointed bathroom with stunning views of Burrard Inlet.”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you’ll come hear my band tonight.”
    Pause. “I love you,” he says.
    My body goes so bright and hot I’m surprised the cell phone doesn’t melt in my hand.
    “I love you too,” I say in a rush, like in the city of myself I’ve just stumbled on a fountain.

chapter thirty-four
    “My mom thinks you’re having a hypermanic episode.”
    I happen to be carrying a very heavy, very expensive, very brand-new amp when Lukas says this. It starts to slip out of my hands, but my left knee shoots up to catch it before it falls.
    “Urff.”
    Lukas keeps walking down the Train Room’s steep, narrow stairs.
    “I don’t know much about it, you should really talk to her, but—”
    “Urrrh! Urrhh!”
    The amp is teetering preteeterously on my rapidly tiring thigh. If Lukas doesn’t turn around and help me soon, there will be one more piece of high-tech music gear for me to fix in Skunk’s shed using only a socket wrench and a set of tire irons.
    “Urrrrrrgh!”
    Lukas finally turns around, sees me balancing this giant amp on my knee, and scrunches his nose.
    “What are you doing with that amp? It’s going to fall and break.”
    Heaven forbid Lukas come back up three steps and assist in said amp’s timely rescue. He stands there watching me struggle with it until I manage to slip a hand under the leather strap on top of the amp and lower it to rest on the stair. He scratches a zit on the side of his head.
    “I’m just saying it seems like maybe you’re having some issues,” he says.
    I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We just won Battle of the Bands, for chrissakes, which means that next Saturday we get to headline our very own show. We just did our Invincible Gods of Time and Space thing where our minds meld together and the force of our collective vibrations could shatter the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. An indie photographer with chunky glasses took our photo for an obscure music zine. Straight-edge Alex and Nikky Sharp even gave us high fives. A nerd from CiTR-FM asked if we had a demo. That’s how hot we were. Hotter than the freaking sun.
    “What?” I shriek. “But I’m fine. I’m acting totally normal.”
    I know that flipping out will only prove Lukas right, but the thing is, I tried really hard to keep it together tonight. I’ve been alert and lucid, polite and serious and humble and helpful and friendly and kind. It felt like things were finally good again. Why is he wrecking it now?
    Lukas raises a hand as if to fend me off. “My mom’s a social worker, Kiri. If she thinks you’re hypermanic, you probably are.”
    I stare at Lukas. Sandy yellow hair. Tight T-shirt. Black jeans. Standing three steps below me on the stairs going down to the street after Battle of the Bands, Final Showdown Edition. This is the Lukas whose earlobe I touched on his birthday. The Lukas in whose basement I played music every afternoon after school. The Lukas at whose kitchen table I sat drawing album cover after potential album cover for the Bucket of Skulls Snake Eats Kitten Sonic Drift debut EP. The Lukas in whom I used to take such irrational delight, just because he was a Lukas and I was a me.
    Who the hell is Lukas, anyway?
    I am carrying a four-foot-long synth, a tangle of cords, and an amp that weighs more than I do. Lukas is carrying a pair of drumsticks and a green sweater. His parents have gone