Wild Awake

I’ll tell him. Thanks, Mom. How’s the cruise going?”
    Through my bedroom wall, I can hear Denny turn up his music to drown me out. I smile ferociously into the mouthpiece, hearing precisely nothing of my mother’s reply. “Ha-ha, sounds awesome. Say hi to Dad for me. Talk to you later. Bye.”
    When I hang up, relief is coursing through my veins. I take the phone downstairs and drop it into its cradle.
    “Mom says to let me practice!” I shout up the stairs.
    I go to the piano, right the toppled bench, and start up where I left off without even getting ice for my chin.
    Denny doesn’t come down again.
    At one p.m. I take a quick lunch break, scarfing chips and salsa in front of the computer. There’s an email from my mom, saying it was nice talking to me on the phone this morning, but she just got a very worrisome email from Petra Malcywyck, who says that I seem to be having a rough time, and is there something going on that she should know about?
    I reply to inform her that I have in fact been having a lovely time. I have been attending Hot Yoga classes at FitCity thrice a week, I have been learning the art of bicycle repair, I have been cooking organic macrobiotic three-course meals using the grocery money she left on top of the fridge, I have been practicing piano like a child of traditional Asian parents, I have been reading all the links to supposedly fascinating physics articles my friend Teagan has been emailing me from physics camp, and, oh yes, I have been watering the living crap out of the azaleas.
    I write a similar email to Petra that is slightly more acerbic in tone.
    A few minutes later, Lukas calls. I almost don’t answer. Then I do. I have a couple things to say to him. But instead of apologizing for being a treacherous narc, he says his great-grandma’s sick and they’re going up north to be with her next weekend so, um, sorry, but he can’t play our victory show at the Train Room on Saturday and is throwing everything we’ve been working on since September on the stink barge.
    I tell Lukas to have fun at IndieFest with Kelsey Bartlett next weekend, whereupon he mumbles something about dropping off my gear and hangs up.
    A little after noon, the phone rings again. It’s Dr. Scaliteri. I take the phone into the kitchen with me and press a pack of frozen peas to the bruised part of my chin, thinking, Dr. Scaliteri, if you knew how much I’ve suffered for my art—does Nelson Chow have to stand up to vicious thugs every time he practices piano? Does Nelson Chow have slivers of shattered metronome stuck to the bottoms of his feet?
    It turns out Dr. Scaliteri did not call to congratulate me on my fortitude.
    “Kiri, I am thinking we will cancel your lessons. It has been a very bad summer for you, and I cannot be teaching you if you are not doing serious practice.”
    I lift the frozen peas off my chin.
    “But I have been practicing. I’ve been practicing constantly.”
    I’ve been practicing since six in the morning, in spite of brutal beatings and an awful comedown from those yellow pills that’s left me queasy and dry-mouthed.
    “Yes, yes, I understand this, Kiri, but you know, if you are not serious about piano, it is not right you should be taking lessons from me. The rest of my students, they are very serious, and it’s not fair to them. Besides this, I have received a call from the Showcase, and they tell me you are wanting to change which pieces you play.”
    “Yes—I’m going to play Sesquipaedia instead of the Prokofiev. Remember, I showed you the music last year?”
    “This is completely unacceptable.”
    “It’s a great piece. Risky, sure. But I think I’m up to the challenge.”
    There’s silence on Dr. Scaliteri’s end. I pace to the window and look out. Our neighbor Mr. Hardy is pulling up a shrub from his front yard. He plunges his shovel into the dirt and pries it up. Each time he pries, a little more of the tangled, woody rootstock is wrenched up from the ground until the whole plant is lying on its side, naked and wretched and impossible to screw back in. Dr. Scaliteri sighs.
    “I have told this Showcase you will not be able to perform. You do not have the discipline for piano.”
    My body goes numb.
    “You can’t do that. You can’t withdraw me.”
    “Okay, Kiri. You remind your parents to mail me the check for your last lesson when they come home.”
    “Wait—I need to—”
    “Ciao.”
    When I take the phone away from my ear, the air in the