Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,39
bed so that the evening air slinks in luxuriously over the pillow.
It’s not that I think all these preparations are necessary for romancing Lukas. He’s a simple person with simple likes and dislikes. It’s more to indulge my own sense of occasion that I whisk from room to room attending to these details. I feel like a theater director fussing over a set on opening night. I want the entrances and exits to be perfect. I want the trapdoors to swing open when they’re supposed to and the bed to swivel into place on cue. I run a sound check and test the lights. I stride around the house making sure that every prop is in place. I go down to the basement and select a bottle of red wine from the wooden rack, go to the kitchen and stick a frozen loaf of French bread in the oven.
My heart fluttering, I go back to my bedroom and dig out the condom I’ve been saving ever since ninth-grade health class, the condom that has been hidden inside a Christmas sock stuffed inside an old running shoe wedged behind a box on the high shelf of my closet for three years and nevertheless seems to bleat its condomy presence to the world like a poorly muffled alarm clock whenever anyone comes into my room.
I put it in an easy-to-reach spot in my drawer, then on second thought I put it back in the sock, because I don’t want it to seem like I just generally keep condoms casually accessible, then on third thought I take it back out of the sock, because what kind of creepy, desperate human owns a single, expired condom they’ve been keeping in a Christmas sock since ninth grade?
Next, it’s time for Ultimate Physical Purification. I shower, shave every body part that isn’t directly attached to my skull, wash my hair, blow-dry it, clean under my toenails with one of those metal things you’re not supposed to use, apply scentless deodorant, pluck a few eyebrow hairs, and moisturize everything. Twice. I imagine Sukey here with me, helping me get ready for the date.
Lookin’ good, babe, she’d say approvingly. Then she’d mess up my hair, because you don’t want to look like you spent time on your hair, and quickly fill me in on the sort of arcane sexual knowledge I imagine all older sisters, but especially Sukey, must possess.
I root through my closet and find the filmy blue dress Auntie Moana sent me for Christmas last year. I slip it on, my skin still warm from the shower, and float downstairs.
At 8:20 Lukas shows up with the Netflix envelope bearing Zardoz. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and looks like a model in a Habitat for Humanity ad, like he’s about to pick up a hammer and build some disadvantaged refugees a duplex. I uncork the wine, and while it’s breathing we hang around the kitchen, talking music. Lukas’s eyes keep darting to my dress, which rides up my thighs in a dreadfully sexy manner when I sit on the kitchen counter, one leg draped over the other.
“Have you heard of this band called Mist?” says Lukas.
We have my laptop out, and we’re listening to songs on the internet. Lukas clicks on a music video, which starts to play. It’s some kind of hipster twee-pop crap, all xylophones and cutesy lyrics. I cringe.
“Lukas, this music blows.”
“Just listen for a second.”
I listen for precisely one second, during which said music continues to blow. I raise my newly plucked eyebrows at Lukas.
“I’m serious, why are you showing me this?”
“I was thinking we might want to move our sound in that direction.”
“Are you kidding me? This sounds like it was written by the Mickey Mouse Club.”
Lukas ignores me. “Hear how the synth’s a little dancier?”
He hums along for a few bars. I punch him lightly on the shoulder.
“Lukas, we are not dumbing down our act. You’re the one who’s always saying you want us to be a serious band. Where’d you even hear about these losers?”
“Kelsey played their album at her party after you left.”
“Great. Now we’re taking career advice from Kelsey Bartlett?”
“She actually knows a lot about—”
“Lukas. Listen to me. We are building cathedrals. These guys”—I wave my hand at the laptop—“are making instant pudding.”
Lukas rolls his eyes.
“No, but that’s the thing. You make your first album mainstream to get radio play, then later, once you have a record deal and a following, you can slowly introduce the