“A gente tá indo pro quarto,” Flávia says to her mom. Turning to me, she says, “Come on, let’s go up to my bedroom.”

I nod and follow after her. From behind us, her mom calls, “Deixa a porta aberta!”

“Okay, mãe!” she calls back to her, rolling her eyes. “This way.”

We climb up the stairs, both of us dripping water everywhere. Flávia doesn’t seem to mind.

Her bedroom is a mess of clothes and books all over the floor and desks. What I’m really looking at though are her walls. They are a plain eggshell color, but I can barely see it because almost every inch has been covered with paintings, drawings, and a variety of other things.

“Are they all yours?” I ask.

“Um, most of them,” Flávia says. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks. She pushes the door behind us but doesn’t close it all the way. “They’re not great. They’re like … from a long time ago. These are the ones that aren’t mine.”

She points to a mishmash of pictures on the wall beside her bed. You can only peer closely at them if you climb on top of the bed. She crawls up, and looks at me with a raised eyebrow, as if asking why I’m not doing the same. So I do.

A moment later we’re both standing on top of the bed, the springs creaking noisily underneath us.

“This is by Degas,” Flávia says, pointing to a painting full of young ballerinas and soft colors. “And this is Frida Kahlo, obviously,” she says. It’s a self-portrait of Kahlo that I don’t think I’ve seen before. “And here.” She points to a painting full of colorful shapes—with a woman popping out of them. “This is by Sonia Delaunay. And this is one of my favorites.” She points to a painting crowded with faces. “It’s by Tarsila do Amaral.”

They’re all so different and amazing in their own way. I feel like every time I glance at each one, I see something new. Something I missed in my previous glance.

“We don’t really have a lot of art or paintings in our house. My mom isn’t a big fan. So I don’t know a lot of artists, really.”