Free Wild Awake by Hilary T. Smith

Skunk flips the turn signal and does a U-turn at the green light. I wonder if he’s taking me back to the Imperial to be with the other freaks and crazy people where I belong. But we drive past the Imperial and farther into China-town. I watch the red lampposts going by.
    “Where are we going?” I croak, my voice hoarse from crying.
    He signals and pulls into a parking spot. His face, flat and groggy when I knocked on his door this morning, has sharpened with resolve.
    “Lucky Foo’s for dim sum. And then maybe the China Cat Bakery for buns with red bean paste.”

chapter twelve
    Whoever says that food can’t fix your emotions has never eaten a plate of salty, oily dim sum at Lucky Foo’s. By the time the waitress comes by with our third pot of Lapsang souchong, I’ve turned from a ragged, sobbing wreck into an exhausted puddle. The dim sum we ordered is long gone. But I feel like as long as I stay here, snug and cozy in the dim wooden booth with the stone fountain burbling in the corner, I’ll never have to face whatever’s waiting for me in the back of Skunk’s van.
    I’ve told Skunk everything.
    I told him about Sukey’s art show.
    And about the time she snuck me out to McDonald’s past my bedtime and we shared a chocolate milkshake.
    And about the purple paint splatter on the carpet of Sukey’s old bedroom that Mom never managed to scrub out.
    And about the matching paintings she promised we’d hang in our bedrooms forever, daffodiliad and we gamboled, star-clad .
    “And you had no idea she was murdered?” says Skunk.
    “No!” I burst out, louder than I need to. “They said it was an accident. They made it sound like a car crash. Drunk driving, something like that. Mom said it wasn’t nice to talk about.”
    “Nobody mentioned it at the funeral?”
    Skunk’s voice is gentle, but his eyes betray a hint of incredulity. He’s right. How could you not know how your own sister died? My parents must be pretty great liars.
    A little voice inside me adds, Or you must be pretty great at playing along with them .
    I mumble into my teacup, “I didn’t go to Sukey’s funeral.”
    The silence that stretches between us swarms with unsayables. I know what Skunk’s thinking.
    “My parents didn’t want me to,” I squeak. “They said I’d be too upset.”
    Instead, I stayed home with Auntie Moana, in my pajamas all day like a little kid. We watched TV and made cookies, and when they came home from the funeral, Mom and Dad and even Denny made a big deal out of how delicious they were. Later, Mom sat on my bed and gave me “the talk”— this is what we say when people ask about Sukey’s accident, this is how we act —then asked me if I wanted to go to Central Music next week and pick out my very own grand piano.
    “Didn’t they tell you later?” says Skunk.
    “No,” I say, but I’m remembering the music store, the guitars hanging from the walls, the pianos herded together like elephants, shiny uprights and voluptuous baby grands. I felt a strange mix of guilt and anticipation as I wandered through them, testing the keys. Denny turned mean when Sukey died, lashing out at the slightest provocation, going straight to his bedroom the minute he got home from school. I had to be the good one. The talkative one at dinner. Mom and Dad needed me, it was obvious from the way they’d started lavishing me with praise for the stupidest things. The smiles on their faces when I picked out my piano said it all: Someone in our family was going to be okay, and we’d all somehow agreed that person was going to be me.
    Skunk reaches for the teapot. When he does, the sleeve of his T-shirt rides up, and I see the tattoo on his upper arm.
    “Sukey had a tattoo of a bird in the same place,” I blurt. “What’s the story with yours?”
    He finishes pouring the tea and sets the teapot down, his sleeve sliding back over the delicate shape of the bird. His hand moves to his shoulder protectively.
    “Nothing. It’s