Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,24

always something short, a door he slides shut quickly so whatever’s inside won’t escape. He looks down at the table.

“It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

“It can’t have been that long ago. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Three years younger than Denny. I’d been trying to guess. “Are you in school or something?”

“Not right now. I’m starting a bike repair apprenticeship in September.”

I trace the rim of my teacup with my finger. “I’m in a band too.”

He looks up, glad to have the attention deflected from him. “Oh yeah? What do you play?”

“Synth. I’ve got an old Juno.” I sniff. I have that post-cry headachy thing, like my head is being crushed inside a vise. “We haven’t actually played any shows yet, but we’re doing Battle of the Bands this summer at the Train Room. Do you ever go to shows there? It’s, like, the only all-ages venue that doesn’t suck. It’s pretty near your house.”

The smile that was starting to form when I said I played synth vanishes from Skunk’s face. It’s like somebody drew a curtain: His expression goes neutral, mouth straight, eyes blank. I pick up the clay pot and pour him some tea.

“What’s wrong? What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“My band played a show there once.” He shakes his head as if to dislodge the memory. “But I haven’t been back.”

I imagine Skunk onstage, pawing an electric guitar. I try to guess the band name that goes with the tattoo—Bird Slayer? Big Skunk and the Birds of Death? Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as Sonic Drift. I pick up my warm teacup and cradle it in my hands. “Why’d your band break up?”

“It didn’t.” The words seem to pop out of Skunk’s mouth before he has a chance to stop them. A look of regret flashes across his face, and he hurries on before I can question him.

“They went back to the East Coast,” says Skunk. “And I stayed here.”

I’m about to ask him why, but the bells on the restaurant door tinkle softly, and a party of five crowds into the tiny reception area. It’s almost six—dinnertime. Time to give up our table. I decide to let him off the hook.

“I guess we should go.”

“Sure you don’t want more dim sum?”

“I’m good.”

Skunk nods. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

When Skunk drops me off, we trade numbers so I can pick up my bike later.

“I don’t really keep my phone turned on all the time,” he says, handing me back my phone after keying his number into my contacts. Which I take to mean: I hope to God this messed-up girl doesn’t start calling me.

He lifts the garbage bag out of the van for me and dismisses my renewed volley of thanks and apologies with an embarrassed shake of his head. He looks relieved as he pulls out of the driveway, giving me a quiet half wave over the top of the steering wheel. By the time I carry the bag to the front door, he’s already gone.

Even though my first instinct is to rip the garbage bag open as soon as I get in the door, that’s not what I do. There’s something about the house that stops me: the neatness of the shoes on my mom’s prized Pottery Barn shoe rack, the muted coolness of the front hall. I pause, my fingers already tearing through the thin plastic, and force myself to lift them off.

This is neither the time nor the place, the house seems to say. Have some self-restraint.

I stand up reluctantly and gaze down at the garbage bag. As if on cue, the antique clock in the living room chimes six o’clock. With each sanctimonious tong of its bells, I feel more and more ashamed of myself.

I have duties, I remind myself. Responsibilities. While I was out making a fool of myself in the Downtown Eastside, I missed six hours of piano practice. While I was out there blubbering over private family business with a total stranger, the azaleas went unwatered and the mail went unretrieved.

I glance at myself in the mirror hanging opposite the front door. Puffy, tearstained face. Messy hair. Pitiful eyes.

I remember the day when my seventh-grade teacher called my parents to tell them I’d been crying in the bathrooms at lunchtime after Sukey died—how disappointed Dad was that I was using Sukey’s death as an excuse to get attention from my teachers; how delicately Mom suggested that Sukey would have wanted me to be happy;