Wild Awake

long enough.
    Down the hall, the toilet flushes. Denny leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest. He has that elaborately interested look about him like he’s trying to make peace.
    “Was that you and Lukas playing? You sound a little like this band called Birdseye.”
    When he says that, Skunk comes into the kitchen. Denny does a double take. His eyes flit to Skunk’s tattoos and back to his face, as if putting something together.
    “Hey, man,” he says. “You want a beer?”
    I slide past Skunk. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I whisper so Denny can’t hear.
    Skunk freezes. “Actually, Kiri, I gotta get home.”
    “You’re not staying?”
    “I can’t. I’m supposed to be home for dinner with my aunt and uncle.”
    “You sure you don’t want a beer, man?” says Denny.
    “No thanks, I don’t drink.”
    Denny is using his cool voice, all casual, super-chill. He leans against the counter like, Oh, I’m the cool older brother who always takes an interest in Kiri’s friends . He keeps trying to check out Skunk’s tattoos while pretending he’s not. I have never, ever seen him act like this before.
    I put my hand on Skunk’s arm. “What about coffee?”
    “I’ll make some at home. Sorry, I lost track of how long we were in the basement. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    He walks to the front door. I follow him.
    “Hey, nice meeting you,” calls Denny. “You should come over and jam again sometime.”
    Outside, Skunk kisses me before getting into his van.
    “What’s going on? Why are you leaving?”
    “I got shy.”
    I arch my eyebrows. “Highly dubious.”
    “Kiri?”
    “Mm.”
    “Give me your phone.” I hand it to him, and he keys his number back in.
    “Call me any time of day or night if anything’s going bad.”
    “Why don’t you just stay?”
    Skunk glances at the house. “I just can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
    When I go back inside, Denny has been joined in the kitchen by his friend Chris. They’re both holding their beers and watching out the window while Skunk drives away. I glare at them and pour myself some coffee.
    Denny looks at me like I have snakes growing out of my head.
    “You never told me you were dating Phil freaking Coswell.”
    I forget I’m not talking to Denny. “Who?”
    Chris is still staring out the window, as if there’s a chance Skunk will come back.
    “Dude, didn’t he go psycho?”

chapter thirty-eight
    There were the magazine headlines: BIRDSEYE FRONTMAN ATTACKS BANDMATE . PHIL COSWELL ASSAULTS DRUMMER DURING SHOW; BANDMATES BLAME DRUGS . BIRDSEYE TOUR CANCELED FOLLOWING FRONTMAN’S PSYCHOTIC BREAKDOWN.
    And the indie music blog posts: Phil Coswell Finally Loses His Mind . Phil “Birdseye” Coswell Knocks Out Bandmate with a Bass Guitar . Birdseye Tour Turns into Psychotic Nightmare .
    And the YouTube videos, shot on cell phones, of the event: Watch Phill Cozwel Goin Psyko at Concert . Phil Coswell Losing His #%$* at the Train Room—Part 1 . Phil Coswell Psycho Attack .
    I click through tab after tab of YouTube videos, Pitchfork write-ups, and articles in the Ubyssey and the Georgia Straight . They’re all about a boy named Philippe with a green bass guitar who lost his mind at the Train Room.
    There are quotes from bandmates, onlookers, and friends: “Coswell, 18, allegedly swung his bass guitar at a bandmate’s head, knocking her unconscious.” “Bandmates say Coswell had been ‘progressively losing his mind’ over the course of the tour.” “They describe Coswell as ‘volatile,’ ‘unstable,’ and ‘really paranoid.’” “Bandmates say he had been abusing drugs for several months leading up to the breakdown.” “Tess Elowak, Coswell’s bandmate and former girlfriend, says she will not press charges.” “Coswell has since been hospitalized for psychosis.”
    I watch all the videos. At first, I can’t believe it’s Skunk. He’s skinny. He has the same black hair and brown eyes, but he’s about a hundred pounds lighter and his face is sharper, more triangular. The only way I know it’s really him is by looking at his tattoos. The videos are really low quality, but I can make out the general shapes of the ink on his arms, the bird silhouette and the bass clef. It’s Skunk, but it’s also not Skunk—it’s this wiry teenage rock star clutching a bass like he’s drowning.
    I recognize the wooden stage at the Train Room with the rusty railway crossing sign nailed to the wall. His band,