my studio.”
“What behavior?” I say. “I’m trying to help him.”
“Kiri,” she says, “I have never before had this kind of behavior in my studio. You will go home now and practice.”
“I just told you, Dr. Scaliteri. I already am practicing. I’ve been practicing the whole time we’ve been talking.” I point at my temple. “In my head.”
On my way out of the room, I realize the stained-glass fruit bowl is glowing a little too hard, like someone installed neon tubes behind the glass.
Denny and I get sushi most nights because I threw out all the food. Denny always gets an avocado roll and a yam roll. I always get a yam roll and a California roll. I rip open the foil packet of soy sauce and pour it over my sushi like pancake syrup. Denny can hardly contain his disgust.
“That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” he says, pouring soy sauce onto his tray and mixing in a dainty green dab of wasabi with the tip of his wooden chopstick. “You’re supposed to dip it in the soy sauce. Like this.”
I pay close attention, marveling at Denny’s mastery of the simple things in this world, thinking if I could only learn to mix my soy sauce correctly, maybe my life would make perfect sense.
I read the Tao te Ching over and over until I have it memorized.
I text Lukas over and over about band practice, and when he doesn’t text back I show up at his house with my synth and my own stash of weed. I’m pretty sure he’s dating Kelsey Bartlett; his phone beeps ten minutes after I show up, and he gets all awkward and says he has to go.
I bring my bike to Skunk’s house, and we snarfle in the shed with pear blossoms knocking on the door.
I sit in the hall after my lesson, listening to Nelson Chow’s lesson and taking notes.
I follow Nelson Chow to the bus stop when he comes out and read him my notes.
I sit next to Nelson Chow on the bus, questioning him about his practice habits until he pulls the yellow cord and gets off.
I text Lukas about buying a new amp, and when he doesn’t text back, I go on eBay and order one to be delivered to his house.
I smoke weed and practice piano until Denny says, “When did you turn into a fucking pothead? Don’t you sleep?” and then I practice inside my head, pacing and pacing around the living room very slowly like a Zen monk doing walking meditation in a garden of very tiny bonsai trees.
Skunk makes me promise to call him at once if I am hit by any more cars, or if I have even the slightest suspicion that I am being followed by secret agents. We fix my brakes and he sniffs my hair like a flower. We listen to radio mysteries and I climb onto him like a branch. We read the Tao te Ching out loud to one another and suck on guavas. We ride bikes to English Bay and build a nest in the sand. We make love ten thousand times and then make omelets. I call him Bicycle Boy. He calls me Crazy Girl.
Denny says, “Where are you always going on your bike?”
chapter thirty-one
Since Lukas doesn’t seem to think we need to practice anymore, I spend the last few days before Battle of the Bands finals keeping a close eye on Skunk. He doesn’t like to talk about his paranoia-thing, but ever since my bicycle crash I’ve been noticing the ways it slips out when he’s not paying attention, like a foreign accent or a stutter he’s worked hard to tame.
Sometimes when Skunk wakes up he’s really groggy and disoriented, and he squints at me suspiciously like I’m a Russian spy whose motives are not to be trusted.
Sometimes when I show up at his house without calling first, I catch him standing outside smoking with a pile of cigarette butts at his feet, his face blank like an open document with all the text deleted.
Sometimes when we snarfle he gets embarrassed, and when I ask him why he’s embarrassed, he gets apologetic and says he didn’t always used to be this fat.
I tell him he’s my love-bison and to stop apologizing.
I silently take note of all the things that trigger his paranoia and steer clear of them when we’re together. I do this so masterfully that Skunk thinks he’s the one looking out for me.
“You should