Mr. Allen was kind enough to give me a chance to redo my perspective drawing homework after butchering my first attempt. He’d given me back the paper with straight, red pen lines on top of mine and said, “Inconsistent measurements, Julia.” So I stayed behind to figure out how to make my measurements consistent until River and I were the only ones in the room. The radio station in my head confirmed my frustration with a loud, almost maniacal set of drunk trombones in disarray. I flipped my ruler and, with a gigantic sigh, rested my head on top of the newly set white paper. I should’ve listened to Alex when he said I would hate art. I was starting to.

  “As entertaining as it is to see you struggle with three lines…,” River passed me a notebook with their scribbles, “I’m officially taking pity on you.”

  “I thought it’ll be an easy A.”

  “It is…”

  “Not helping, River.”

  River jabbed lightly at their notebook. “Start here. Simple technique for vanishing points.” I went over a couple of their pages. Their writing perfectly fit in their specific sections, and once every couple of graphs, a quick color study on the side of the page. The same technique they used in their paintings. An overlay of colors and strokes that left me breathless. The whole sketchbook was a work of art. When I looked up at River, they were staring at me. “I get bored at class too. Sue me.”

  “You are way too talented for this,” I said, pointing to the classroom.

  “I can say the same thing about your music,” River said with a smile on their face. “I... see sounds. Mr. Allen’s voice is a blob of light yellow. Your friend with the Tuba is orange static. Hence the…” they took out their headphones, “Noise dampeners.”

  “You can sounds?”

  “I can’t see if there’s too much noise,” River responded. I tried my best to not let my mouth drop. Of all the conditions I’ve heard before, seeing sounds was among the coolest ones. Although these trombones will make them see splashes of puke green with mud brown, and mustard, all mixed in, probably. River winced, staring at my phone, as they said, “Your phone’s vibrating.”

  Mom had texted me: “Ah, I have to go, dinner’s in an hour and if I’m late, Mom’s going to lose her shit.”

  River laughed. “Keep the notebook. You know where to find me.”

  All the way home, I tried to imagine how it would be to experience sounds like River: going around seeing ghostly swatches of color in things their brain was supposed to filter out but didn’t. While I usually listened to music on my way home, I paid attention to my surroundings, to hear how many sounds I would hear in a day. The hum of traffic as cars passed by on their way home from work. A honk or two when said commuters passed a yellow light, or a pedestrian crossed in front of them. The distant laughter of the pedestrians who, like me, walked back home to have dinner with their families. The cell phone conversations. The music coming out of stores. The rhythm of my neighborhood. Where I heard music, River saw noise.

  At home, the smell of filled the air and the chaos almost rivaled the trombones in my head. Lucía, my eight-year-old sister, described new characters for her imaginary world set in a place with unicorns and elves. Dad asked me about a Hector Lavoe song he was practicing in his timbales (steel drums for our non-Spanish crowd) while Mom barked out dishes to be put on the dining table. Maria, my quiet middle sister, occasionally chimed in about how our bodies digest food.

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  The gorgeous sounds of the Vazquez’s. I wondered how River would experience this - our loud, slightly mismatched Puerto Rican family. I imagined what River saw, how the colors would blend in, overlap with each other. Or maybe all they saw was noise. We were a loud bunch, after all.

  Once I retired to my room, I took another look at River’s notebook. Following their vanishing points technique, which was easier than Mr. Allen’s, I got that part right. Yet, my buildings looked off, and even my sticks figures looked out of place. They were a mix of a Dr. Seuss scene without the colorful charm or logic. The trombones in my head were driving me crazy.

  Alex would know what to do because he always did with schoolwork. While I made sure he enjoyed our music, he made sure I passed my classes. So I took my things and, as quiet as I could, headed out.

  We lived a couple of blocks from each other. His bedroom was on the second floor, but his window had a fire escape, which I used to climb in. His light was on tonight, which meant I was welcome. I could use the main door, but Adela, his mom, went to bed early, and I knew better than to wake her up in the middle of her beauty sleep.

  “It’s been a while. You should start knocking,” Alex whispered as he close his math textbook. “You okay, firecracker?” he asked as I collapsed on his floor.

  I pointed at his textbook. “How do you do it? I can’t even draw three lines without messing up, and I still have math homework to do and figure out what we’re playing next Friday...”

  “I can help with math. I told you Art was a bad idea.”

  Alex offered me a hand and pulled me off the floor and into the second chair on his desk, the one I claimed back in elementary school, the first night I climbed up his fire escape. We spend the next two hours going over math homework, which calmed the trombones down and a flurry, staccato piano tune, not too different from Mozart’s Turkish March, took its place.

  It was almost midnight when I went back home to Mom in our living room, reading recipes from Grandma’s old recipe book. “Alex’s?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good night, mamita. Que duermas bien,” she said, turning off the living room light and following me up the stairs.

  With a kiss, I closed the door to my room. “Buenas noches, ma.”

  She waited for me every night. Even if I tried to be quiet, our walls were paper thin, and Mom could not sleep until all three daughters were in the safety of our home. Most nights, I was the last one in, and I knew I’d be the only one awake for a couple of extra hours. At night, it was just me and the radio station, the perfect time to scribble down notes on my notebook. Notes that might become songs. Notes that helped calmed the chaos in my mind. It was my journal, in my language.

  The next day, during recess, I found River in the middle of a small circle of friends, their hand movements quick and confident as they signed something that made everyone laugh. I didn’t know what they were saying, but I caught myself smiling without even understanding the joke. River’s friends responded with just as much energy, their hands flying in response, laughter all around. Not wanting to interrupt their banter, I kept my distance, but when I was about to walk away, River glance up and saw me. I froze, but River smiled and signed: . I attempted to do the same.

  “You speak ASL?” I said, as River caught up with me. I was sure they were reading my lips instead of listening.

  “Yeah, it’s more comfortable in crowded places,” they explained. “Did it help?” They pointed at their notebook in my hands.

  I sighed. “There’s some improvement, barely.”

  River grabbed their notebook back. “You can’t fail Art, Julia. Come on. I’ll text you my address.”

  River went back to their friends, and I went to find Alex. Everyone had their strengths and weaknesses in our community. We helped each other out. It was my favorite part about the haven my parents taught me about. Find your tribe. Figure out where you fit and made sure no one stayed behind. After all, we are one and everyone is trying to find where they belong.