Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,40

headier stuff. When you’re established.”

“Yeah. Established in sucking.”

“I just think we should make our music a little more accessible for Battle of the Bands. It’ll be temporary, okay?”

I raise my eyebrows. “The douchy sellout you pretend to be is the douchy sellout you become.”

“Since when are you so concerned with selling out?”

“I just think we should live dangerously.”

“Sure. After Battle of the Bands.”

This isn’t the kind of flirtatious banter I’d been imagining. I give Lukas a smile. “Come upstairs. There’s something I wanted to show you.”

I hop down from the counter, pick up the wine, and pour us each a glass. It glugs in the neck of the bottle in a way I think most waiters would disapprove of, but I don’t know any other way to do it. I hand Lukas his wine and pick up mine, cradling the glass in my hand. As an afterthought, I tuck the bottle under my arm. You never know. This could take a while.

“Come on. It’s upstairs.”

I start for the staircase, glancing over my shoulder to cast Lukas an encouraging smile. After a slight pause, he follows me. I can hear my dress swishing against my legs as we climb the stairs. When we get to the top, Lukas’s face is slightly red. He hangs outside the door when I go into my room, looking down at his wineglass like he’s afraid my bedchamber is filled with scandalous things to shock his Victorian sensibilities. Part of me is glad I stuck that bra in the drawer. Another part of me is enjoying his discomfort—it means I’m doing something right.

I beckon him in.

“It’s okay, Lukas. You can come in. I can’t show you out there.”

He looks flustered but comes and joins me next to my bed. For a moment, all I can think about is the fact that Lukas is standing next to me in my bedroom. It makes the whole room feel different. I’m suddenly aware of the nubbly carpet beneath my toes, and the notes from Teagan tacked to my bulletin board, and the way the pale blue curtains are furred with dust. Lukas is standing close enough that our arms brush, and for the second time this evening I’m aware of the delicious clean-smellingness of my own body, like a fresh-cut branch.

“See that painting?”

I point at the wall. He has to lean over my bed to see it clearly in the carefully dimmed light.

“Sukey did it.”

I can hear the pride in my voice, as if I’m the one who painted the silver-edged birds. Lukas squints.

“What does it say?”

“‘We gamboled, star-clad.’”

“Is that from Shakespeare or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does it mean?”

“Literally, it’s about frolicking under the stars. But it can mean anything you want.”

Lukas finishes looking and straightens up, his arm brushing mine again. This is my moment. I put my hand on his inner elbow.

“Shall we?”

We both lift our wineglasses and take a sip at the same time. I can feel my pulse speeding up like in the moment before you get a test handed back to you and you’re still not sure whether you bombed it or got an A. The smell of French bread is starting to fill the house, warm and floury.

“Um,” says Lukas, his hand darting up to touch his collarbone like he does when he’s nervous. “Shall we what?”

“Gambol, star-clad.”

I can tell he’s thinking about it. Wondering exactly what type of gamboling I mean. Debating whether this is an acceptable breach of Focusing on Our Art. Asking himself if he can spare the vital forces necessary to give in to fleeting physical attraction and still have enough left over for his drum kit. He glances at the painting again, then down at my red bedspread, then back at me. His lip quivers. As if on cue, we both take another sip of wine.

The smell of warming bread is growing stronger, mixed with the scent of lilac bushes wafting in through the open window. For one utterly still moment, we’re suspended, Lukas and I, like two tightrope walkers far above the ground.

I reach out and touch his earlobe with my finger.

Lukas jerks away like I’ve just burned him with a match.

“Wait, Kiri. I need to tell you something.”

The warm, swimmy feeling I was getting from the wine evaporates instantly. I feel the tightrope shaking, then snapping. Then I realize I was walking on it alone. My mind races over the past few minutes, scanning them for wrong turns. Did I go too far? I didn’t grab