She brushes at a bit of dust on her pants. “Look at that. That’s all I was able to bring with me this time.” She shakes her head. “Mercedes. What did I tell you about everyone’s art? I have to help keep it there. I have to help keep everyone else’s secrets safe.”
“Fuck all those secrets.” I don’t know where this comes from, but the words strike the building and bounce back at me. “If everyone else who’s been here doesn’t know what to do with them, then why should you have to take that responsibility? Fuck it.”
Lilia meets my gaze. “Did you ever tell your dancer friend how you feel about her?”
“I should have known you’d remember that,” I say, kicking at the Fritos bag.
“Of course,” Lilia says.
I watch her as she’s walking away. Her long black hair. Her strange stride that goes from slumped over to confident within seconds. I remember back when Rex introduced her to me, how I was wondering if she was going to be like Frida Kahlo. That’s such a weird thought now. She’s not Frida at all, but she’s got a sense about her that reminds me of Frida’s portraits, how you look at them and want to know the subject.
And I know her now. Sort of.
A green minivan rumbles into the parking lot. Firing Squad. They park at the front of the lot, the sliding door opens, and none other than Angela Moreno pops out.
The rest of the band is right behind her. I duck around the corner of the building again and let them go in as a group. Angela doesn’t say anything, but she smiles in that comfortable way I know, the way that says she belongs, that she’s not afraid to show how happy she is to be with these people.
I wait a few minutes for them to be well into the building, and then I enter.
The music is clear even from the lobby. Angela is playing with Firing Squad again. The one comforting thing about having the keys Lilia gave me (wait, do I still have them? Yes, they’ve sunk to the bottom of my bag, hanging around with my lighter and my actual non-art-related key ring) is that I know I can find Angela, no matter where she is in the building. I can get to her.
They ramble through the first part of “City That Does Not Wake” (track one on the album) and then make it connect with “At Four in the Afternoon” (track six) and now they’re playing something I’ve never heard, and all the while I’m climbing stairs. My steps occasionally sync with the beat of the music, but not often. Not when it keeps changing this much. How can Angela keep up with them?
It’s exactly what the Estate needs right now. It’s not enough to move the clouds or anything, but it’s what will keep this place humming.
The eighth-floor landing. I’m parallel with the music now, for sure. I pass the door to my new studio, and a few more doors, and I stop at 815, at the end of the hall. No keys needed this time—the door opens with a gentle push.
“I found it in my heart to give you the strip of myself that says ‘always,’” Brad sings, and he waves to me as I take a few steps into the living room. They’re all right here, Angela and everyone, along with a very familiar piano.
I smile at everyone as though I’ve popped in to chill out and hear the music. Brad and Mae nod at me as I saunter across the room (nodding along to the music—enjoy it, enjoy it).
The music comes to a close, and Angela wipes the sweat from her cheeks and underneath her bangs. She lays the wooden cover over the piano keys and runs her hand over the piano. She’s stalling, clearly. It’s like when she used to put her Lego blocks away brick by single brick, to avoid having to get ready for bed.
“Hey, Ange.” I lean against the wall by the front door. “I was about to go to school to wait for you.”
“Sorry,” she says, not looking at me. “I was in sixth period and I couldn’t concentrate. I had the urge to come here and play.”
There are a whole bunch of things I could say to this, things that would make me sound maybe not so much like our mom, but like a mom. You could have been patient. You could have kept on being like the Angela I have always known, rather than this girl who sneaks out and plays with my favorite band. That would be easier.
“Are you finished?” I ask her.
She glances around at the rest of Firing Squad (is she officially a part of the band now? Are they going to add her name and picture to their website?), notes that they are packing up too, notes that no one is stopping her from leaving, and says, “Yeah, I guess so.”
I got so into the habit of cooking that it’s weird not to have to. I offer to help Mom, but she insists that only she can make her famous chicken soup. So I put the clean dishes away and watch her chop the carrots and onion, her fingers soft machines making precise movements. It is a nice evening—Mom opens the door to the back porch and the breeze breathes in and out through the dining room and kitchen.
“I haven’t seen you painting since I got back,” she says.
“Yeah. I’ve been doing most of my work in art class lately,” I tell her. “I had kind of a breakthrough.”
“That sounds promising.” She scoops the chopped vegetables into the big soup pot.
“Maybe.”
“I took your advice about Abuela.” Chili powder into the soup pot. “I whispered to her everything I could think of that I had never told her. And I hope you don’t mind, I whispered all sorts of things about you and Angela, too.”
“Oh yeah? I don’t mind.”
“I told her I sensed something was happening back at home, but I didn’t know what. I almost felt like she would wake up and tell me, but she didn’t.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Well, everything’s fine here.”
Except that when we sit down to dinner, Angela is silent and pale, and her soup spoon never moves from the bowl.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling that great,” she says when Mom notices that she hasn’t eaten anything.
Mom sets some crackers by Angela’s bowl. “Have these, then try the soup again.” She says to me, “I bet you remember. When Angela was two, she had a terrible stomach bug, and I gave her this soup for the first time. It was like magic, the way she ate a whole bowl and then asked for more.”
But I don’t think it’s going to work this time.
Angela lies on the couch all evening, not eating crackers or soup, not watching TV, but just staring at the ceiling with her headphones on. Mom, as usual, has no plans for going to sleep anytime soon, and she sits at the dining room table, drinking tea and reading one of her thriller novels, this one in Spanish. Should I say something—to either of them—or should I retreat to my room and sink into myself?
“Hey, Mom,” I say. “I’m gonna pop next door for a minute. The girl renting Rex’s room has a bunch of natural remedies.”
“Oh?” Mom looks up from her book.
“Yeah, I thought, you know, it might be worth a shot.”
“The soup always worked before,” she says.
“I know.”
“Who is that girl?” Mom asks. “I saw her getting into a car this morning, but that was it. I said hello and she didn’t even turn around.”
I say, “Her name is Lilia. She works odd hours. I think she’s tired a lot.”
Mom says, “Hmm,” like she wants to ask more, but also doesn’t really want the whole story.