Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,26

to the person who killed Sukey?”—as if I had known how she died all along.

I thought they’d freak out when I said that. I thought they’d say, Oh, Kiri, how did you find out? Did Denny tell you? and they’d fuss about how sorry they were for lying to me and ask if I was okay.

But instead they act like I asked if they know where the blade for the blender is because I want to make a banana smoothie. Mom demurs and Dad says something dismissive, and somehow we’re back on sea tortoises and piano. The conversation feels like one of those shopping carts whose wheels lock if you try to push it past the edge of the parking lot. There are things I want to say, but I just can’t.

“Did your program for the Showcase come in the mail yet?” Mom says cheerily.

“No, but—”

“Do you know if you’ll be competing with that Japanese boy?”

“He’s Korean, Mom. I don’t know. Did Sukey—”

“What?”

The connection is bad. Our voices are echoing on top of one another, piling up like cars in a highway wreck.

“I found a bag of Sukey’s things,” I enunciate loudly. “In the basement.”

A little white lie, but whatever. At this rate, it would take about a million dollars’ worth of long distance to explain the truth.

“Don’t make a mess,” says Dad. “I don’t know who was rooting around down there last, but they left a snowboard right in the middle of the floor where somebody could trip over it and break their neck.”

I don’t think he heard me right. I clench the phone in frustration.

“There’s a pianist on the ship who plays during dinner,” says Mom. “You could do that for a summer job when you’re in college.”

I imagine myself in a cruise ship dining room, wearing a sequined dinner jacket and tootling out jazz standards while people like my parents eat lobster.

“Sounds good, Mom,” I lie. “Sounds really, really good.”

I go back to the piano and try to practice some more, but my hands start shaking, and no amount of scolding myself will steady them. I can’t stop thinking about Sukey. I can hear her screaming with every note I play. I can see her face reflected next to mine in the piano’s shiny surface, the same dark hair on our shoulders, the same blood running through our veins, leaking out, spilling on the floor.

I force myself to play the Beethoven.

Then play it again.

Then play it again.

But halfway through the third time, tears pool in my eyes until I can’t even see the keys. I stop playing, peel myself off the piano bench, and stagger to the phone to call Lukas. He’ll come pick me up. Petra will feed me borscht and lemon cake and let me sleep on the fold-out couch in the Malcywycks’ tiny living room. She’ll hug me to her solid, round body and tell me everything’s okay, and later, once she’s gone to bed, Lukas will take me in his arms and tell me the same thing.

I start to dial the Malcywycks’ number, but a little voice in my head sneers at me.

Is that how you want to be? You want them to think you can’t handle things? Go crying to Petra. I’m sure Lukas will find that very attractive.

I push the voice away and keep dialing. But it comes back.

Okay, fine, you can call—but don’t do it tonight. If you still feel bad tomorrow, you can call. Tonight, take it easy. You don’t even have to practice anymore if you don’t want to. Just don’t call right now.

My finger hovers over the last digit.

I press the red button and hang up the phone.

I’m just high-strung and need a break. No reason to turn it into a crisis. I stand in the kitchen, trying to decide what I want to do to relax. I could watch TV, or take a bath, or—

It occurs to me that the best way to deal with this situation is to get completely effing blazed.

Five seconds later I’m kneeling on my bedroom floor, pulling the old wooden jewelry box out from under my bed. I pop open the lid. The small plastic bag of weed and papers Lukas gave me a while ago is sitting there, untouched. I’ve never smoked by myself before, but tonight seems like as good a time as any to start.

I sit on the floor for a long time trying to roll a joint, then go downstairs and root through the junk drawer for