Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,31

tahini. A woman in a green dress pushes the door open, and the sudden whiff of baking pita bread reminds me I haven’t eaten yet today. Lukas notices the blossom and bats it off.

“Want to know what was in the bag?”

I start to list the objects in no particular order. Lukas stops me when I get to the bloody quilt.

“I don’t think I can listen to this.”

I blink at him.

“Why not?”

“It’s horrible! He gave you a bloody quilt? That’s sick.”

I have to admit I hadn’t thought of it that way.

“He didn’t seem like a sicko.”

“Are you kidding me? He gave you a bloody murder-quilt he kept in his closet for five years.”

I shrug and do a pirouette on the sidewalk. I know I’m acting strangely for someone who spent all night sifting through a bag of pill bottles and rancid clothes, but that’s precisely the reason Lukas’s presence is making me so batty with joy. I poke him.

“He has a three-legged cat. I trust a man with a three-legged cat.”

“I thought you said he was smelly, obnoxious, and too drunk to walk.”

“Goes with the territory.”

“You do need some sleep.”

I pluck a daisy from someone’s front yard and stick it, boutonniere-like, in the pocket of Lukas’s shirt. It rides there for half a block like a puppy with its head out a car window before tumbling out and doing a face-plant on Kelsey’s front step.

Kelsey Bartlett lives in one of those houses that doesn’t look like much from the outside, but once you go in it’s all black leather couches and hardwood floors and a curiously invisible sound system that even plays music in the bathroom when you’re going pee. There aren’t many people there when we show up, just a few girls sitting on the couch eating celery sticks and ranch dip. When we walk in, Kelsey swoops over to greet us, wearing a purple halter dress and those stupid forty-dollar flip-flops all the girls at our school are wearing this year. Lukas’s face perks up when she appears, like he’s relieved to see someone who won’t talk his ear off about her murder scene evidence collection.

“Welcome, welcome,” gushes Kelsey. “I’m so glad you guys showed up. I haven’t seen you in forever, Kiri. How’s it going?”

Even though I secretly think Kelsey’s kind of a ditz, I give her a big smile.

“Fine. My practice schedule is positively murderous.”

Lukas shoots me a look, but Kelsey doesn’t notice. She makes a little face and pulls me into a hug.

“Crazy piano girl. I don’t know how you do it.”

Kelsey and Lukas start chatting about which bands they’re going to see at IndieFest this year. I try to join in, but I’ve been too busy to look at the lineup, and I probably won’t have time to go anyway. After a few minutes I wander away to see who else is here. I say hi to my friend Angela, who’s in the middle of telling a story to this girl Rhett whose dad owns the Cactus Club.

“Hey, Kiri,” says Angela, sipping her Sprite. “So anyway, he came back again yesterday, and this time he brought his friend. . . .”

I listen as Angela shares the breaking news about the latest additions to her pervert collection. Highlights at six:

-her forty-year-old manager at the snack bar has a crush on her;

-her old boyfriend from middle school wants to get back together;

-Pete Vozt texted her a picture of his schlong.

I peel away from Rhett and Angela and go say hi to the orchestra kids, who are entertaining themselves by playing Chubby Bunny with the cherry tomatoes. There’s no room on the couch, so I plunk myself down on Bryan Kravchenko’s lap. He groans and tries to push me off.

“Get off me, yo!”

Instead I lean back and try to crush him against the couch.

“Help! Get her off me! She’s crazy!”

I finally get off when he elbows me in the ribs. They start talking about a TV show and I get restless again, so I mill around the house, stealing chips off people’s plates. Somebody sets up Guitar Hero and everyone clusters around the TV to watch.

All of a sudden, I feel incredibly bored.

This party is stupid.

There’s nothing happening.

Everyone’s just flirting and posing and trying to look cool. There’s no greater meaning here. No beauty. Sukey was stabbed to death, and I’m supposed to stand here watching fools play Guitar Hero?

A hum of anxiety is building in my chest like a swarm of wasps. I should do something. I