“Your sister will be fine,” Lilia says.
But. Angela. I can see her, as if an image of her was being hazily projected onto the living room wall. She’s asleep—covers kicked off, Tweety Bird pants making another appearance, ceiling fan swishing her bangs around. I can stop looking at her, can’t I? There’s nothing to see, nothing that’s going to change in this picture until her 6:33 alarm because she hates even numbers.
But. She’s mad at me.
When she was in kindergarten, a bunch of the boys on the school bus called her Miss Piggy, apropos of nothing, and I, a cool if not ice-cold third grader at the time, didn’t say a word about it.
When she was starting middle school, our parents bought her a new desk and chair, and I said I liked them more than my own desk and chair, and before I knew it, hers were in my room.
Last summer, when I told Mom that I’d broken up with Bill and that I thought I might go out with a girl next, and when Mom looked at me sideways and walked out of the room, Angela sat with me for a long time, the two of us staring straight ahead at Antiques Roadshow as I burned at my outburst with its ridiculous overrehearsed casualness. And Angela ate chicken soup with crackers and didn’t seem to mind living in my world.
Also, let’s not forget all my smoking.
Shit.
“Lilia.” I shift to looking at her—well, at a noncommittal place on the top of her head—and the image of Angela vanishes. “Can I bring her here? Is there a place she can practice?”
“Your living room works for now, doesn’t it?” It’s like she’s daring me to say no, to complain about how the piano and its teacher’s randomness bother me.
“But Angela’s about a million times better than I am. I mean, good Lord. She’ll probably be playing Beethoven’s unfinished symphony or whatever by the end of the week.”
Lilia pushes back her hair. For the first time, she looks exhausted. “No. That can’t happen right now. I’ll let you know if you can bring her in the future. But now, absolutely not.”
The music swirls around us. It’s only a guitar and drums right now, and has that classic feeling about it, like something I’d hear if Abuela took me to her favorite place for lunch. I should stay here a little longer. I should. I open my mouth to say something to Lilia—a protest, a question—but nothing comes out.
“Mercedes,” Lilia says, “enjoy the music.” She turns away and walks back down the hall.
I finished tonight’s red wall. And Angela will be fine. And I am wearing my purple sandals.
Moving forward.
“Hey!” The voice comes from behind me, and I turn and it’s her—the girl I met in the hall last night. She’s behind the kitchen counter, with glasses and bottles in front of her. It’s an oddly comforting sight. Ah, so this whole shindig does have something in common with a Bill Stafford or Connor Hagins party.
“I thought I’d see you again. Can I make you something?” the girl asks. Tonight she’s wearing her same black clothes, but with a blue-and-white-striped necktie, and no makeup besides a shock of red lipstick.
“What do you have?”
“Anything you want.” She opens a cabinet door to show me the selection.
“Um.” What did Tall Jon make me that one time that I really liked? I told him I wanted a glass of whiskey, and he laughed and told me I’d hate it, but that he could mix it up in something and I might not spit it out. And I didn’t. And that was the night I made out with Callie.
“There was this thing I had once, with whiskey and lime. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She winks at me. “Give me a minute. I’m Edie, by the way. Tell me about you, while you’re here.”
I’m Lilia’s new friend, and I paint walls for her, and that’s currently my main contribution to the world of art. I’ve destroyed everything else. My sweet abuela is too asleep to care about me right now, and my mother is far too awake and knows too much about me and still doesn’t care. And I know this amazing girl named Victoria, and I’ve always thought I shouldn’t tell her I think she’s amazing, but now I’m not so sure. My little sister is a musical genius, and I don’t understand how Lilia is bringing that out of her. I’m at peace here, by the way. Maybe because no one knows about it. Because whatever expectations Lilia has for me, I guess I’m meeting them by painting walls. Because I don’t have to show those walls to anyone else.
“Eh, that’s okay,” Edie says. “Plenty of people come through here whose names I never even know.”
“I’m Mercedes Moreno.”
“Well, Mercedes Moreno, I’m curious about what you’re working on down there on the second floor.”
“Me too.” I don’t mean to smile, but there it is. “I don’t know what it is yet.”
“Hmm.” She mixes my drink with a metal stick. “I think you’ll like this. Try a sip.”
It’s sour, and it’s got a bite. I guess my face gives all that away.
“Hand it over. I’ll add some orange zest. That should do it.” She flings her tie over her shoulder and starts grating an orange. “So who are you thinking about tonight?”
“What?”
“You have that look.” She pushes the sweetened drink toward me. “Wistful, sort of. Like you’ve got people on your mind. Maybe just a person.”
“People, I guess. People in my family. But also this girl.”
The drink is perfect.
“A girlfriend?”
What would it be like to say yes?
“No.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Um, she’s from New York.” A gulp. “Her family’s Italian. She’s a dancer. She’s one of those people who’s good at everything.” Another gulp.
“Tell me what the nicest thing you ever said to her was.”
The first time Victoria and I went out for coffee was also the first time we played “How Many People?” It was a Starbucks in downtown Sarasota, toward the middle of fall semester, sophomore year, and we both laughed ourselves into a state of happy diziness. I think we knew at that point that we were going to be good friends, that soon we would stop counting who owed who money for coffee, that we were going to learn (most of) each other’s secrets.
I kept thinking that I needed to tell her one very true thing: “I’m glad I met you.”
I couldn’t get it to come out.
And then Vic said it, like it was the easiest thing in the world. She twisted the cap back on her water bottle and said, “Mercedes, I’m so glad I met you this year!”
“I am, too,” I told her.
If the heart of “How Many People?” is infinite possibility—that, yes, any bizarre theory you suggest in the game either has happened, or will happen, or is happening right now—then maybe that was the heart of our friendship, too. I would have a million more things I would want to say to her, and a million more chances to say them.
And the possibilities are here, as well. Each room, each step, each floor, each person. I feel them all.