Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,37

impression.”

My palms inexplicably start to sweat, and my eyes dart to the floor. Get it together, Kiri, warns a voice in my head, but that only makes me sweat harder. The piano’s pedals shine back at me, dainty brass paws, and its smell of felt and lacquer presses at my nostrils. I wish I was outside, on the sidewalk, somewhere with air. I wish I was riding a bus with its windows open.

“You will not audition for the Conservatory?” says Dr. Scaliteri.

I look up. “What? Of course I’m going to audition.”

Dr. Scaliteri crosses her arms. “What’s happening with you, Kiri? You used to be so full of focus, and now it’s distraction, distraction.”

Dr. Scaliteri says the word distraction like she’s talking about hard drugs. I recognize that tone. It’s the one Dad used to use with Sukey. I blush. “I’m not losing my focus.”

“Okay,” Dr. Scaliteri says with an exasperated flutter of her well-groomed hands. “Okay. But you know, the other students in the competition, they come from all over the country, all over the world, from all the best teachers. They are serious piano students.”

“I am serious.”

“Then you will stop mooning around with this boyfriend of yours and you will memorize the Prokofiev.”

When she’s finished this little pep talk, Dr. Scaliteri calls in Nelson Chow, who has just walked in the door looking dapper in his khaki pants and a yellow T-shirt, and has me play my entire repertoire over again.

“Now, Nelson,” says Dr. Scaliteri when I’ve just deployed the last deafening atonal slam of the Khachaturian, “do you have any suggestions for Kiri?”

Nelson puffs out his lips while he thinks. Dr. Scaliteri waits, tapping her pen on her knee. He scratches his arm.

“It sounds like she’s afraid of the music.”

Dr. Scaliteri turns to me brightly.

“That’s interesting, isn’t it, Kiri? Tell us why, Nelson.”

“She’s rushing through a lot of places.”

“Aha,” says Dr. Scaliteri, widening her eyes as if Nelson Chow has just pulled a live rabbit out of the piano and set it, hopping, on the floor. “What do you think of that, Kiri?”

I don’t know what I think. My mind is in space. My sister was killed by a kid with a sideways nose.

Snap out of it.

I try to look Serious.

“What?”

Dr. Scaliteri claps her hands.

“Switch places. Up, up, up.”

This is one of Dr. Scaliteri’s favorite tricks, the old switcheroo. I peel my thighs off the leather seat and stand to the side while Nelson takes my place at the piano.

“Nelson, give us the Khachaturian.”

Not play us the Khachaturian. Give us the Khachaturian. As if Nelson in his insufferable yellow T-shirt is some kind of saint from whom all music floweth. He starts playing my piece—my piece—his hands blitzing over the keys. My heart sinks. It sounds completely different from when I play it. There’s something powerful in it I can’t put my finger on, something commanding and deep. Nelson must have stronger fingers than I do, or better technique. By the time he finishes his piece and reverts to Standby mode, I’m so embarrassed I want to melt into the floor.

Dr. Scaliteri turns to me and displays her fangs.

“What did you notice about Nelson’s playing?”

I try to think, but she doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“Nelson listens,” says Dr. Scaliteri triumphantly.

Bitch, please.

Dr. Scaliteri gives me one last long look, as if to gauge my level of Seriousness. She picks up a stack of sheet music that was sitting on her desk and hands it to me. My eyes skate over the cover page: Concerto No. 2.

Dr. Scaliteri nods at the door.

“Next Thursday or nothing,” she says.

chapter nineteen

The next week is simple.

I don’t think.

I don’t sleep.

I don’t have endless looping nightmares about a kid with a sideways nose.

I just practice and practice until the world dissolves and anything that’s not piano fades away. Pretty soon, reality takes on the clean, sharp simplicity of a training montage. Cut to Kiri playing the Prokofiev, turning up the metronome one more notch, playing it again. Cut to Kiri fumbling with the sixteenth note section, frowning, and starting over, her eyebrows knit in an attitude of grim determination. Kiri tapping out notes on the kitchen counter while she waits for her instant oatmeal to microwave, Kiri doing sit-ups on the living room floor while Prokofiev plays on the speakers. Kiri working. Kiri getting Serious. Kiri practicing as if her whole life depends on it.

The kitchen sink fills up with milk-slimed cereal bowls and spoons studded with dried Grape-Nuts. My life consists of the