Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,76
which means that next Saturday we get to headline our very own show. We just did our Invincible Gods of Time and Space thing where our minds meld together and the force of our collective vibrations could shatter the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. An indie photographer with chunky glasses took our photo for an obscure music zine. Straight-edge Alex and Nikky Sharp even gave us high fives. A nerd from CiTR-FM asked if we had a demo. That’s how hot we were. Hotter than the freaking sun.
“What?” I shriek. “But I’m fine. I’m acting totally normal.”
I know that flipping out will only prove Lukas right, but the thing is, I tried really hard to keep it together tonight. I’ve been alert and lucid, polite and serious and humble and helpful and friendly and kind. It felt like things were finally good again. Why is he wrecking it now?
Lukas raises a hand as if to fend me off. “My mom’s a social worker, Kiri. If she thinks you’re hypermanic, you probably are.”
I stare at Lukas. Sandy yellow hair. Tight T-shirt. Black jeans. Standing three steps below me on the stairs going down to the street after Battle of the Bands, Final Showdown Edition. This is the Lukas whose earlobe I touched on his birthday. The Lukas in whose basement I played music every afternoon after school. The Lukas at whose kitchen table I sat drawing album cover after potential album cover for the Bucket of Skulls Snake Eats Kitten Sonic Drift debut EP. The Lukas in whom I used to take such irrational delight, just because he was a Lukas and I was a me.
Who the hell is Lukas, anyway?
I am carrying a four-foot-long synth, a tangle of cords, and an amp that weighs more than I do. Lukas is carrying a pair of drumsticks and a green sweater. His parents have gone down ahead of us carrying his drum kit and stool.
“Would you take something? This is kind of a lot to carry.”
Lukas gazes up at me skeptically. “I’m carrying this sweater.”
“Never mind.”
“I guess I could tie the sweater around my waist.”
The thing is, Lukas is serious. He seriously has to consider the fact that he is carrying his sweater, and seriously has to arrive at the conclusion that, okay, maybe he could make a slight adjustment to his sweater-carrying configuration and give me a hand with the amp. It is slowly dawning on me: This is just how Lukas is. He will never know how to turn off a smoke detector. He will never be able to start watching a movie half an hour later than he planned. He will never look at me close enough to see more than a postcard. He won’t even try.
Lukas ties his sweater around his waist.
“Hand me those cords,” he says.
“Hypermanic meaning what?”
Suddenly, carrying the cords and the amp and the synth myself is of utmost importance. I snatch the cords out of his reach.
“I don’t know,” says Lukas. “It might have been some other word. She said you’re a monomaniac.”
“A monomaniac.”
Lukas looks away. “Or something.”
“Your mom said this?”
Nod.
I silently strike Petra off my list of People I Would Take a Bullet For. A monomaniac. Moi.
“She’s been worried about you ever since the last time you came over for dinner.”
“What happened the last time I came over for dinner?”
“You spent half an hour talking about some secret technique you have for learning piano pieces.”
“It’s not a secret, it’s a scientifically proven method for—”
“Kiri—”
“If she’s so worried about me, why hasn’t she said something? Why is she down there waiting in the car while you tell me you all secretly think I’m a monomaniac?”
“Because—”
Lukas presses his lips together several times as if crushing the false starts of sentences he decides not to say. I glare down at him, wielding our expensive new amp like a wrecking ball. Finally:
“She said you might listen if it came from your best friend.”
A hot, hollow bomb of humiliation and outrage explodes in my chest. Our eyes meet briefly and we both look away. He stomps up the stairs and tries to grapple the amp out of my hands. “Let me carry that stuff.”
“No.”
“Come on, let me carry it.”
We struggle for a moment, coming dangerously close to falling down the stairs, amp, synth, and all. Finally, I shove all the equipment into Lukas’s arms.
“Fine. Take it. And you know what? You can tell your parents I’ll get my own ride home.”
“Come on, we’ll give you a ride.”
“No.”
“My mom