“Okay, listen. Your band was good and you’re really good, Art. You are. I mean that. I’m impressed. You have talent and you clearly worked hard too. I’ve seen you play with some of your other bands too—”

“What. You did? When?”

“Okay, I saw a lot of your bands, most of them, I think, but forget I said that.” She waved her arms, erasing my further attempts at interruption. “Don’t think about that part now. Détente, remember?” Mercy raised her glass and took a sip. “Hey, Art, focus, okay? I know you, and you’ll hear and get stuck on the worst possible implications of my idea, so I want to be clear. As clear as …” She trailed off.

“Crystal,” I said.

“No. As clear as, um, invisible wallpaper. Wait, wasn’t that the name of one your bands?” She knee-slapped at her own joke. “Sorry. I’m serious. Okay, know going into this best idea that I am not suggesting you give up music. Don’t give up playing or making music. That. Is. Not. What. I. Am. Say. Ing …”

“Okay, Christ, just get to it. I wanna drink and watch the movie from between my fingers.”

“Listen. My best idea ever. Are you listening? If the playing-in-bands thing doesn’t work out the way you want it to, try another creative outlet. Like—and here it comes—writing a vampire novel.” She pointed at the screen as the teen watched his neighbor (Chris Sarandon) go all fangy on a woman, and then she pointed at us. “Boom. It’s perfect. You could use and embellish what you thought you saw on the sleepover night and weave it in with the Mercy Brown lore I told you. It practically writes itself, man! But look at you. You’re not feeling it. I can tell.” (I pretended to have passed out, mouth open and drooling.) “All right, fine. I don’t think it would be as good, wouldn’t speak as much to who you are as an artist—”

I came out of my fake blackout and said, “I prefer Art-iste.”

“But you could always go in a more commercial direction. Nothing wrong with making money, especially when you don’t have much. I’m no publishing expert but think about what’s selling now, right? Sparkly vampires and postapocalyptic young adult fiction. So put two and two together, write a trilogy of postapocalyptic vampire books. Boom again. How hard could it be?”

There’s no way I said that. Even if I thought it.

“Christ, you do think my music sucks. Which, fine, probably, but does my music suck that badly?”

“Aha! I knew you’d take my idea that way. I fucking knew it. Didn’t I tell you?” She buried her face in a throw pillow and yelled.

I said, “Let me pretend to take your idea seriously for a nanosecond. A vampire novel, really?”