“Sort of. Can I come in and hang out for a while?”
We sit on the balcony, where he tosses me a pack of Parliament Lights and I don’t hesitate to smack it open and take one out. Maybe this is how it should be. Instead of going to school or taking over for Lilia, I could become Tall Jon’s roommate. I don’t know what kind of roommate I would be—I guess sort of the strange one who’s always at home and prompts people to wonder about her and what she does all day. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? This is a place where nothing seems to change, where I’d never have to worry about making a mistake or saying too much or too little. And there’d be no risk of running into various cute blond bartenders.
Actually, besides the point about the bartenders, Tall Jon’s place would be a lot like the Estate, after all.
So maybe that’s not going to work.
I cannot be stuck in the beginnings of things. I cannot hide forever. Look what happened when I took a chance with Victoria. The result wasn’t everything I wanted, but it was more than I ever thought possible. It was more than I would have gotten if I hadn’t begun. And I haven’t been able to take it further since then. Is that okay? Will I ever? The only chance I have is to get myself out of there. To break down whatever barriers were set. And that means getting Angela out, too.
“Hey, do you want to see something wild?” I ask Tall Jon.
“Sure, I guess. What is it?”
“A midday Firing Squad concert.”
I mean, as long as he’s able to get in.
“Wait, so this is your studio?” Tall Jon asks. We’re standing at the glass doors. “I imagined it’d be swankier. It looks pretty broken-down in there.”
“It’s a practice space. So, you know, it doesn’t have to be perfect.” The sunlight strikes the glass doors and beats back at us, as though it’s trying to push us toward the parking lot, toward Tall Jon’s Mazda, maybe all the way back to Tall Jon’s apartment. It doesn’t have to be perfect, I just told him, but it isn’t true. Everything inside these walls has to be exactly right for the Red Mangrove Estate’s magic to keep humming along. A green room at the top of the stairs on the ninth floor. Light and airy music and dance on the floor below the penthouse. My head aches at all this, and Tall Jon looks like he doesn’t believe anything I’ve told him about the Estate so far. He takes his cigarettes from his back pocket and lights one.
“Hang on,” I tell him. “Put that out, and come into the lobby with me. You’re going to hear a song, and when it’s over, I need you to go back to your car. Seriously.”
“Moreno, you’re telling me I have to deal with hearing a Firing Squad concert from some crappy lobby?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “And I guarantee you’ll love it.”
It is strange and heady to be in charge, to be able to bend the rules just as much as I need to. I use my keys to get inside, and Tall Jon steps into the lobby, taking it all in. The air infused with salt and dust, the hiss of the vents, the years of solitude clinging to the gray walls. It must have been an amazing place back when people were really living here. But not everything is worth preserving.
I take the stairs to the eighth floor, where Angela is practicing with the rest of the band. She gets excited when she sees me, and oh please, don’t let her make any grand proclamations about how I’ve decided to stay.
“Hey, guys?” I say. “Can I make a request?”
They all snap to attention.
“Can you play ‘The Getting Is Good’ just once? I have a friend downstairs who would love to hear it. He’s actually the one who introduced me to your music.”
Brad says, “Sure thing, Mercedes.”
Angela readies her hands at the keys. The view through the window of this room is perfect, in some ways—nothing but blue, blue sky. I’d have to get closer, to put myself at a certain angle, to see the gulf and the road and the other buildings from here. You could trick yourself into thinking that only you exist.
“Oh, and wait! He’d love to meet you. He’s a DJ at the USF radio station, so he could give you some more exposure.”
“Mercy,” Angela says, “we don’t need that. We’re fine.”
“Ange, come on. Go see Tall Jon at the end of the song. He’s downstairs, being all weirded out, and he’d love to see a familiar face.”
They begin. The getting is good, so let’s get going. I know what Tall Jon’s hearing in the lobby isn’t exactly like what I’m hearing on the eighth floor, but it’s still Firing Squad, and it’s perfect for him right now, just like it’s perfect for me in here. Angela plays with everything she has, her fingers flying over the keys, head bowed in religious concentration. This is who she’s becoming. But there’s no reason it has to only take place here.
The sense comes again, starting in the soles of my feet and then prickling at my scalp. The sense of what the building needs. A soft, sad song on the third floor. A shocking photograph on the second floor. Somewhere, a splash of yellow. It is exhilarating to feel this power. But maybe I don’t need it.
Except for perhaps one thing.
In the penthouse, in the blank space in the corner, I concentrate as hard as I can on the tiny hospital room in San Juan where Abuela Dolores is. Yes. She is there, silent and unmoving, her life represented by the green waves on her monitor.
My self-portrait in its original, uncovered state flashes on the walls. Angela in the blanket, Victoria’s ballet shoes, my mother and my father and Abuela and the houses of San Juan. Lilia and my red room and my purple room.
It’s here. I can stay. But I don’t need to. I duck out into the hallway and pull the fire alarm.
Then, I sit down and start playing on Angela’s piano. The notes stream out like a tantrum. They thrash against one another and break into pieces. I may as well be playing all of the piano parts from all the Firing Squad songs at once, the way my fingers are flying across the keys. It’s music. It’s noise. It’s every confession I have, bursting out of me in the world’s most mixed-up song, one that no one else will hear. The floors rumble beneath me. The walls shake and crack and I have only a few minutes to get out of here myself. In a minute, I will race down the stairs for the last time. I’m leaving; I’m leaving, just like Victoria. There’s no time to stop and rescue a single thing, no time to smash my fist through the wall on the eighth floor and attempt to steal a piece of my self-portrait.
After heading downstairs, I pause on the second floor and look out the window of the purple room for the final time. A crowd has gathered outside, by Tall Jon’s Mazda and the green minivan. I’m the only one left in here, and my head aches as though a thousand needles were pricking at it—more, more, the Red Mangrove Estate says. We need more of everything. More art, more music, more feeling.
Lilia said that we needed to sense the needs of the Estate, preserve everyone’s secrets.