Wild Awake

the only sister I have left.”
    We stare at each other, spent. At the intersection, the walk sign chirps bleep-bloop, bleep-bloop, bleep-bloop . Denny puts an arm around my shoulder as if he half expects me to bolt down the street, which I half intend to do.
    “What time are they getting here?” I demand as he guides me to the car, my mind already blazing with to-do lists, stratagems, battle plans.
    “Who cares?” he says. “Let’s get Mongolian.”
    “There’s no time for Mongolian,” I say. “Give me your phone.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m going to call them.”
    “You can’t. They’re probably on the plane.”
    “I’ll leave a message.”
    “And say what?”
    “Just give me the phone.”
    Denny hands it to me, and I dial Dad’s cell number. It goes straight to voice mail.
    “Hi, Mom and Dad,” I say. “It’s Kiri. I hope you’re having a good time on your trip.”
    Denny rolls his eyes. I make a face at him. “Anyway, I’m just calling to say that—”
    Denny is watching me with a curious expression, and for some reason my voice catches. “ What? ” I hiss, but he just shakes his head and waves at me to finish the message so we can go. I swivel away from Denny and plant myself on the sidewalk.
    “Anyway—” I start again, but then I glance down at the silver shoes I’m wearing, so shiny against the dull pavement. There’s a warm breeze playing with the hem of my dress, and I can smell the salt in the air from the harbor a few blocks away. The sky, stained orange from streetlamps, is still dark enough to show a speckle of stars.
    I feel a sudden wave of homesickness, and I don’t even know what for—beauty, or freedom, or love, all the wild and dangerous parts of myself that die a little with every carefully sanitized syllable I speak into the phone. What am I so afraid of, anyway? Let them come home. Let them see me as I am for once, and not as they need me to be. I’m braver than they think I am.
    Hell, maybe they’re braver than I think they are, too.
    I flip the phone shut and toss it to Denny.
    “Let’s get that Mongolian,” I say.

chapter forty-two
    We don’t mention Mom and Dad the whole time we’re wolfing down dinner. But on the drive home, my resolution starts to waver, and I ask Denny what he thinks I should do.
    “Get some sleep,” he says automatically.
    I tug at my seat belt. “That’s not what I mean. Do you think I can replant the old azalea bushes, or is there a nursery open where we could stop and buy new ones?”
    For some reason, the azaleas feel extremely significant—like Mom and Dad will take one look at the ruined bushes and know my every thought, every twitch, every transgression. Who but a monomaniac would pull up the azaleas? What kind of sinister deviant would broadcast her own broken-ness in such a public way?
    Even though I know there are a million other things I should be worrying about—like the Showcase, and how to explain the fact that our magazine-perfect house is now home to an irascible three-legged cat that I am starting to suspect is an alcoholic—the azaleas seem to overshadow it all.
    “We can’t buy new azaleas bushes at three a.m.,” says Denny. “Get some sleep. Anyone would go nuts if they slept as little as you.”
    A wave of dread rolls through me. “But what about—”
    Denny’s hands are calm and even on the steering wheel. “Tell you what,” he says. “You go to bed and let me worry about the azaleas.”
    “Promise?”
    “Yeah.”
    My body untenses when Denny says this, like the matter of the azaleas was a big hairy spider on my shoulder and Denny just flicked it off. I’m safe , I think, drawing a deep, rattled breath. The azaleas. Thank God .
    It turns out that when you unsubscribe from sleep, it’s actually rather hard to get started again. The sleep gods don’t just let you back into the club after you’ve snubbed them. You need to make some kind of sacrifice or penitence or offering to get back in. I light a stick of the incense Skunk gave me and wave it around my bed, singing a wheedling sleep chant as my room fills up with fragrant smoke. I say a little prayer, Oh sleep gods, please let me in , and climb under the covers. The first few minutes seem promising. I snuggle into my pillow and try to let my brain go still. For a moment, it seems like I might really fall asleep, and if I can really fall asleep, then maybe there’s no problem after all.
    But a few seconds later, my brain’s at it