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right?” She laughed, and I just smiled back, trying to figure out how to respond to her. “I live in New York.”
    â€œCity? That’s cool.”
    â€œYep, the Big Apple. Not that cool, though, unless you like bums and businessmen. Give me your cup. I won’t let you drink that swill.”
    On a map, New York wasn’t really all that far away from Deep Cove, but she might as well have told me she lived on Mars. It explained a lot. Her confidence, the way she talked, her clothes… She handed me a fresh cup of coffee with a flourish. “Now, if you don’t have any more questions, let’s go paint some trim!”
    â€œI have one more question…”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œUmmm…what’s your name?”
    She struck a pose, turning sideways and holding an imaginary pistol up to her face. “Lisa. Lisa Walsh,” she said, blowing make-believe smoke from the barrel.
    For three awesome hours, Lisa Walsh and I talked and painted and listened to music. Well, mostly I did the painting and she did the talking, but she had more than enough to say for the two of us. She had all kinds of stories, like the time in ninth grade that she and some friends had snuck out at night to try and see Nirvana at a club in Brooklyn.
    â€œWe didn’t even make it past the security guard,” she said, “but we could hear them from the alley. It was pretty rad.” Her big cloth bag held an astonishing array of random crap. When she pulled out a pair of old cutoffs and a ratty Guns N’ Roses T-shirt for painting, I caught a glimpse of a big old camera and a deck of cards. After she’d changed in the bathroom, she unearthed a thin purple package of super-skinny black cigarettes. “I don’t usually smoke,” she said, standing in the doorway and lighting up, “but these are French, and sometimes I just want to be like that , you know?” I nodded, although I had no idea what she was talking about.
    When she was done smoking, she pulled an assortment of mix tapes out of the bag and tossed them on the floor. They all had unique handmade covers: carefully glued collages of magazine images and hand-drawn cartoons, with the names of the songs handwritten on the insides in intricate lettering.
    â€œMy friends and I have a tape swap. Every few months each of us puts together a mix tape and makes a bunch of copies to pass around.” She dragged JP’s busted-up old double cassette player into the center of the room and shoved a tape into it, fast-forwarding to find the right song. While I painted, Lisa played DJ on what she dubbed le boom box . Every song seemed to have a story.
    â€œOkay, hang on,” she said, her finger paused over the Play button. “So this one is my friend Naomi’s favorite. She totally lost her virginity to this guy last year, some creepy painter dude who hung out at her mom’s gallery. He was super old, like twenty-five or something, but she totally dug him, and before they did it, she made him wait so she could put this song on. Naomi’s a total drama queen. She’ll be famous for sure.” She pressed Play and the room filled with a smoky voice singing jazz. I couldn’t tell if the singer was male or female.
    Just in time, you’ve found me. Just in time.
Before you came, my time was running
    looooooowwwww…
    â€œWow,” I said. “I’ve never heard anything like that.”
    â€œYou like it? Nina Simone. She’s amazing. She’s like the most badass ever.” Lisa dropped to the floor and twisted her legs into a yoga pose, and then, just as quickly, she bounced back up and twirled around the room. I was getting used to the random movement; she seemed unable to sit still.
    â€œNew York now is so clean and perfect,” she said. “It’s not edgy at all anymore. Back in the day, like in the fifties and sixties, you could get all slicked up in dresses and suits and