Wild Awake

who I am, either, pleading with him in a twenty-four-hour diner while my head thrashes in a sea of chemicals like a cat trying to find its way out from under a heavy blanket.
    I am a heartless monomaniac.
    I don’t know what to do.
    I spin on my silver heels and bomb out of there just as fast as I can possibly limp.

chapter thirty-six
    Sometimes, a problem looks so small you can crush it between your fingers. Then you wake up one morning and it’s eating you alive.
    When I leave the diner, it’s like the world comes unplugged. I run around pressing buttons, but nothing is working and nothing makes sense.
    First, Denny and I get into a huge fight because I start practicing piano as soon as I get home without even bothering to change out of my murder-shoes or my scotch-smelling dress. I start practicing piano because I don’t know what else to do. There is nothing left to do. There is nothing left to do except what I was supposed to be doing in the first place, all summer long: practicing. I play Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Debussy, and Fish, Fish, Debussy, Chopin, Beethoven, and Bach. I drown out the worries that snake through my brain. I block out the touches of spiders and skunks. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a five-piano alarm.
    Denny comes down the stairs, white-hot furious with sleep-puffy eyes.
    “Where the HELL have you been?”
    “Battle of the Bands.”
    “I drove around looking for you for TWO HOURS. Your friend’s mom called at midnight and said I had to pick you up, then you weren’t even there.”
    “Leave me alone. I’m practicing.”
    “It’s six o’ clock in the FUCKING MORNING.”
    “It’s not my fault you sleep all the time.”
    “You’re FUCKING INSANE.”
    He snatches the wooden metronome from on top of the piano and throws it hard at the floor. Like everything else in the world, it explodes into a million splintery pieces. I keep playing.
    “You’d better listen to me, you psycho BITCH.”
    Denny’s voice has a high-pitched strain to it like wind screaming in a chimney. I don’t care. I need to practice. The International Young Pianists’ Showcase requires my presence at 2:07 p.m. on Sunday, July 30. Now that I’ve scared off Lukas and abandoned Skunk, piano is all I have left. Triplets, triplets, left hand plays triplets. Right hand floats above .
    Denny grabs my shoulders. Before I realize what’s happening, the piano bench topples like a kicked colt. My chin cracks against the floor. I am down. I have been downed. Kiri down. An ache springs up where my jaw hit the hardwood. My head floats dizzily from the surprise fall. I hear Denny stomp back up the stairs and slam the door.
    For a moment, I lie there, stunned. I get up, lurch up the stairs, and pound on Denny’s door. “Denny—”
    “Piss off.”
    I talk at his door in a loud, fast, choppy gurgle.
    “I’m sorry, Denny. I didn’t mean to wake you up. Maybe you could wear earplugs or something. The Showcase is in two weeks, and I basically need to practice nonstop until Mom and Dad get home.”
    He crashes around his room. I hear him dial a number on the cordless phone. It’s sixteen digits long, which can only mean one thing.
    The cruise ship .
    “Mom? Hey. Kiri’s lost her mind.”
    No .
    I grab the doorknob, but it’s locked. Denny speaks nice and loud so I can hear.
    “Yeah, she never sleeps, and she starts practicing piano at six in the morning, and I’m pretty sure she’s on drugs.”
    No. No, no, no .
    I jiggle the doorknob frantically and strain against the door with all my weight. “He’s lying!” I shout.
    “What’s that?” says Denny, his voice dripping with responsible-older-brotherness like a switchblade dipped in honey. “Sure, you can talk to her. Hang on.”
    The door pops open. Denny smirks as he hands me the phone. I snatch it and stalk down the hall to my room. By some miracle, I hear my own Responsible Voice spool out, calm and reassuring.
    “Hi, Mom. I don’t think Denny understands. The Showcase is in two weeks .”
    I sound so convincing it’s scary. I keep going, amazed at my own skill.
    “I know, but he didn’t even try asking nicely. He can’t just come home out of the blue and expect me to work around his slacker schedule when I have so much to do.”
    This is going well. This is going better than well. I press on. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I told him I was sleeping over at Angela’s last night, but he doesn’t listen to a word I say. Ha-ha. Okay.