This Train Is Being Held

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This Train Is Being Held Page 3

by Ismée Williams


  “This one is better.” I hand the left shoe to Chrissy just as the boy and his mother pass in front of us.

  Chrissy’s voice drops. “Tell me you saw the fine piece of ass that just walked by.” She makes the same noise she does whenever we go into the Brazilian bakery near her for brigadeiros. “Hmmmm, hmmmm. Well done, Mother Nature. I commend you.”

  “Chrissy!” I hiss.

  “Whatever. I saw you checking him out before.” Chrissy peeks inside the shoe box, then snaps a photo. Her nose scrunches as her thumbs tap her screen. “Sending this now.”

  “I’ll just buy this pair.” The sales lady spent all that time with me. It wouldn’t be fair to not give her the commission.

  “Isa? You ready?” Mom starts toward us from across the store, head bowed as she rummages through her purse.

  She runs smack into the dancer I’d thought was Chuck.

  “Ah!” The bags fall from her hand. Her new phone hits the floor with a crack.

  The boy’s eyes are super big. “I’m sorry, so sorry. You OK?” His mother is saying the same thing in Spanish.

  “Elisa? Are you all right?” Mrs. McCallum gets to Mom before we do. She picks up Mom’s phone. She smooths the ruffled sleeves of Mom’s silk blouse. “You’re fine, just fine,” she says. “It’s just a phone. You can have it fixed.”

  The glass face is shattered.

  Mom’s hands draw into fists.

  “You were looking at your screen, weren’t you?” Mom shouts at the boy.

  He’s holding a cell too.

  I choke in a breath. “Mom, he wasn’t—”

  She silences me with a single enraged finger.

  “You dancers are all the same,” she spits, advancing on him. “Self-centered, thinking only about your art and not watching where you’re going. What happens when you lose your youth and beauty? Are you even capable of thinking that far ahead?” Her cold eyes cut to mine.

  My whole body burns. Like I’m on stage but there’s no music and I’ve forgotten the steps.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” The poor guy is on his knees, putting my dance stuff back in the bags. Even though none of it was his fault. He offers my mom a small smile.

  “You think your charm will work on me?” Mom laughs, but it’s too loud and too bright. “Well, it won’t.” Mom grabs her phone from Mrs. McCallum, avoiding the fragments of glass on her cracked screen. “Isa, call us a car. I’ll be outside.” She whirls back to the boy. “And teach your grandmother English, for Christ’s sake. This is Manhattan. You’re not in the Caribbean anymore.” She snaps it at him in Spanish, her Cuban accent clipped and furious. I’ve never heard her speak anything other than English in New York. Unless Abuela is visiting. Or Mom’s on the phone with her family.

  As soon as Mom’s gone, Chrissy darts forward to help the boy. I’m right behind her.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I babble. In my head, I’m apologizing for all of it. For my mom running into him and blaming him for it. For the way she treated him, like he was beneath her, even though she doesn’t know anything about him and his mami, other than what they look like and that they speak Spanish but aren’t from the same island as her.

  “No worries,” he says, avoiding my eyes. Please, let him not go to the Academy.

  “Her mom,” Chrissy starts. “She has this problem.”

  Chrissy’s trying to make it better. She’s trying to give my mom an out. It’s true. The therapist told me impulsivity is part of the disorder. But there is no excuse for the way Mom thinks. Just one for the way she’s unable to conceal it.

  I shake my head to make Chrissy stop.

  Chrissy gives me a nod. “Here. Go.” She shoves the bags at me and kisses the air in my general direction.

  I take off after my mom, using my free hand to call an Uber. The stares of the entire store follow me.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 31

  ALEX

  “I like your costume.” Kiara nods at my uniform. She stands right up against me even though there are empty seats.

  I shrug. “Didn’t have anything else.”

  I almost said no to Bryan when he told me I needed a costume. Halloween is for pretending. This uniform? That’s the real me.

  Back at my place, Bryan was sweating. He scratched at the collar of his skin-tight suit. The pads of one of his pecs had shifted. He looked like he had una teta. “Por favor.” He got down on his knees. I had to go, he said—he’d promised Julissa. And I had to wear a costume.

  Brakes squeal. Kiara pitches forward.

  I take her arm. “Cuidado.”

  She grabs on to my waist. There’s more than just gracias in her smile.

  I step back. “Eh, Black Panther, we takin’ the L or the M?” I shout over the heads of a red-nosed clown and the Joker—we’re not the only ones celebrating. Danny adjusts his Kylo Ren mask so he can see me better. Bryan’s huddled into Julissa, talking real close. She’s the only girl not showing stomach. She’s dressed as Nakia. So everyone will know they’re back together.

  Black Panther lifts a cotton-stuffed shoulder. At least those pads are in the right place again. “The M?”

  I nod. This party better be worth it.

  “I love these.” Kiara touches the buttons of my shirt. “They’re the same as the Yankees’, ¿veldad?” Her hand travels down like she’s counting them. Behind her, Kylo Ren gives me a thumbs-up.

  A 3 train pulls in across the platform. We should change to the express. But Black Panther is busy trailing his nose down Nakia’s face. He kisses her jawline. Des . . . pa . . . cito. I almost holler it. But the train’s getting too full to dodge fists. Julissa giggles. She leans into Bryan. Guess we’re staying on the local.

  There’s a sharp clatter and the bark of a laugh. By the door, a tall dark-haired girl pulls up a shorter one. The blond must have tripped. She’s got a hand clapped to her mouth. They’ve both got on tall-ass heels. And their dresses. ¡Guay! If Papi were here, he’d be whistling. I’d have to pretend I didn’t know him.

  Some guy dressed as an old Luke Skywalker stands to give them his seat. The short blond waves him away. They must have been drinking or smoking. Their smiles are too big. The blond whispers to her friend. The friend’s gaze shifts to a guy sitting in the middle of the car. He’s got a pile of papers on his lap, a pencil in his mouth and another behind his ear. One hand holds up a sheet. He traces small u’s in the air. Is he some weird genius character from a movie I’ve never seen?

  The shorter girl smooths down the black sequins of her dress. She says something that might be, “Wish me luck.” She prowls toward the middle of the car.

  The friend shakes her head, hands clasped like she’s praying. Her smooth dark hair moves against her cheek. My heartbeat checks as if a batter’s slammed my pitch out of the park. I recognize those bright eyes and that look—part fear, part thrill. It’s the girl from the subway. The dancer. She’s wearing a wig.

  There’s a whoosh of paper.

  “Chrissy?” The weird academic guy stares at the blond. She’s holding the sheet that was in his hand above her head. One of his pencils rolls under the seats.

  She kisses him. She’s so short she barely needs to bend down. Her arm is still up in the air, her hand gripping the paper. Her friend presses a fist to her mouth, hiding her grin. She did that before. On the subway with me.

  The blond—Chrissy—pulls back. She gives the guy she kissed a little smile, like she’s shy now or something. Wait, do they not . . . ? Ayyyyy, lo besó, and he wasn’t even expecting it?

  The guy stands. His papers scatter across the train. He fixes his glasses. He sways a bit, then grabs on to the bar above him. His other hand takes the blond’s waist. He pulls her to him. He kisses her back. He’s bent over, but her feet still leave the ground.

  “Oh my.” One old lady nudges another. An Elvis and some guy in a banana suit pick up the crumpled pages. Elvis is smirking at the kissing couple.

  “That did not just happen.” Kiara’s arms c
ross in front of her. “Did that blanquita just accost that boy?” Her eyes flick to me. She licks her lips.

  “He seemed to like it,” I say.

  The pencil behind the guy’s ear slides free and hits the floor. It rolls toward me. I stop it with my foot, then bend to pick it up. When I stand, the dancer is staring at me. I show her the pencil and give her a small nod.

  “Excuse me, do you know her?” Kiara swings around. She’s standing way too close again.

  I slide the pencil into my palm. “No,” I say. It’s true. I don’t even know the girl’s name.

  Kiara examines my face. She pivots. “Oye, Julissa, you see that? These white girls are bugging, kissing strangers like it’s some game.”

  Julissa extricates herself from Black Panther’s arms. “¿Qué?”

  The doors open. A couple with blackened eyes and red slashes painted across their faces get on.

  The academic guy goes around collecting his papers. Chrissy leads him to her friend. The girls are like yin and yang, a blond with a black dress and a brunette in a silver one. The dancer glances at me. She looks away real fast. She nods at Chrissy, who’s talking. I wish I could hear what she’s saying. The girl smiles and nods again. She stops. Her face falls. She shakes her head, glances at me, and shakes her head again. The pink leaves her cheeks. She turns the color of the fallen papers.

  Chrissy puts a fist on her hips. She stomps the floor with her massive shoe. “Isa, you promised!”

  Isa. Her name is Isa.

  Isa’s fingers fold together. She nods and swallows. Her gaze meets mine. She steps forward.

  “Qué no. Coño, no.” The scream of wheels drowns Kiara’s voice.

  Isa’s walk is not a prowl. But it’s purposeful. Her eyes stay on me. There’s mostly thrill in them, just a little bit of fear. The train goes faster. The clanking rhythm matches the beating in my chest. Isa keeps coming. She doesn’t even wobble on those tall-ass heels of hers.

  She stops in front of me. Her pupils shift, looking into one of my eyes and then the other. Flecks of gold dot the light brown of her irises. An escaped wisp of blond crosses her temple. She doesn’t smell of alcohol. She smells like the flowers that grow in Mami’s hometown. Like plumeria and jasmine. I can’t help but breathe it in.

  “Hi, Chuck.” She smiles.

  I don’t have time to wonder about the name.

  She reaches for my face. She’s taller in the shoes. But not tall enough. I meet her halfway.

  Her lips are warm. And soft.

  I’m still holding the pencil. I slip it into my pocket. I take her elbow. My hand is behind her head. I crush her against me.

  Heat floods my chest.

  The doors are open. Passengers getting out bump us. I feel like I’ve been drinking.

  Isa’s breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, black eclipsing the gold. The fingers that were on my cheek are on my collar. She gives my chest a gentle pat. I want to grab her hand and keep it there.

  “Sorry about that.” She taps me once more. “Thanks for . . . being a sport.” She pulls away. The fringe of her skirt is clumped together, showing almost her entire thigh. I want to fix it for her. But I don’t know how.

  “Your costume . . .” She brings the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding another grin. “I like it.” Her chest rises as she inhales. Silver beads curve around her. Like water over pale sand. “You look good as a baseball player.”

  She walks to Chrissy. She teeters on her left heel twice, on her right heel three times. Chrissy jumps up and down. She’s clapping.

  A clawed hand grabs my neck. “Montro, what the hell was that?”

  Kylo Ren gives me a fist bump. “Qué heavy.”

  “Seriously, who was she?” Bryan keeps looking from me to Isa who’s laughing with her friends.

  I shrug. I dig my hands into my pockets. My fingers close around the pencil.

  Julissa takes a napkin from her bag. “Ven.” She motions for me to bend down. She wipes my mouth. Red lipstick stains the tissue. Julissa whacks my side. “You look like Alex Rodriguez. You play ball like Alex Rodriguez. Now you’re acting like him too, huh?”

  She puts an arm around Kiara. Kiara’s bottom jaw juts out. She pulls her jacket closed over her sports bra.

  I trace the edges of the pencil in my pocket. I don’t owe Kiara. All we’ve done is talk. I don’t have time for more than that. I glance back. Isa’s long leg, the slope of her shoulder, the tilt of her chin as she sneaks a look at me . . . I press my thumb into the sharp point of the lead until it breaks.

  Kiara glares at me.

  “Who was she supposed to be anyway? Madonna?” Julissa asks.

  “Madonna has blond hair.” Danny’s voice is muffled through his mask.

  “No.” Julissa holds up a finger. “Not all the time she didn’t. In the beginning, it was black I think.”

  There’s an express waiting for us at Seventy-Second.

  “¡Tu ’ta loco! You know that, right?” Bryan smacks my arm as we get out.

  I touch my mouth. I give a slow shake of my head and try not to grin. Our trains pull away.

  Isa’s silver dress winks through the window.

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24

  ALEX

  I carry a platter of roast pork back to the kitchen. The apartment smells of garlic and lime, crisped meat and baking. Brown grinds spill to the counter as I set the espresso maker on the stove. I clear rice and beans, fried yuca and mashed potatoes, turkey breast filled with olive and pimiento stuffing—Mami’s version of the American holiday dish. I don’t let Mami up from the table. She woke when it was dark to cook. She was still cooking when I came back from Papi’s mandatory workout, a six-mile run with push-ups and pull-ups and crunches.

  I leave her to talk with Sra. Hernandez, our neighbor whose family is all in DR. I store leftovers in old take-out containers, putting aside portions for Sra. Hernandez. Her arthritis makes it hard for her to cook. She made her tres leches cake anyway. It sits on the table, proud, next to Mami’s pasteles de guayaba. I bring out cafecitos, heavy with sugar, just how they like it. Mami pats my back. She demands un besito and tells me she loves me. She piles sweets on my plate and scoffs at my fake look of horror. She knows I’ve got Yaritza’s Thanksgiving dinner too. She’s already packed a bag for them—for Yaritza and Robi—with her famous pasteles. They’re one of the only things Yaritza doesn’t know how to make.

  Mami takes Sra. Hernandez back to her apartment. There’s no way the old woman can carry all the food by herself. Mami returns to a clean kitchen and a dining table folded against the wall. She finds me in the living room, by the built-in above the radiator that knocks and hisses. Her scrubs are a light green with ducks on them. Her ID is already around her neck. I wish she didn’t have to work. I wish she’d take the rest of the day to relax. She’s told me a thousand times she’s happy to go. She doesn’t say what I know she feels. That it’s better than an empty apartment.

  “¿Qué busques?” she asks.

  “Nada,” I answer. But I tug out The Geriatric Patient and Street Maps of New York to get to a smaller book. The cover is a faded blue, the color of a baby’s room. I show it to her, holding on to my unasked question.

  Mami rubs my back again. “Books are for everyone.”

  On the train, I take out Mami’s book by Pablo Neruda. I run my finger along the edge of the inside border. Unlike the cover, it’s the vibrant blue of a Caribbean sea. I read the inscription that starts, Para mi amor. I flip to the first page.

  I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,

  Silent, starving, I prowl through the streets.

  Neruda’s words are music and color. I read until voices fighting for attention interrupt me. I put the book in the bag with Mami’s pasteles.

  “Dímelo. Aver—where we meeting Caco?” A group of guys huddle at the other end of the car. Each wears a Yankees cap and a jersey. Two have red bandanas on the arms of their jackets. There’s not enough passengers for them to not no
tice me.

  “¿Qué lo que, chan?” One raises a hand to me. He goes by Pinchón. As they walk toward me, I shift back in my seat. There’s five, not four, of them. The fifth one, hiding under his cap, is Danny. I keep my face still as I nod at him. I make eyes like Papi’s, hard and disapproving.

  “Alex, right?” Pinchón slouches into the seat next to me. “What you doing here?” He holds up his fist. I can’t refuse him. We touch knuckles once, twice. Pinchón thumps his chest. I don’t.

  “Heading to see my papi’s family. ¿Y tú?” My gaze shifts to Danny.

  “We going out. Got us some things to tend to.” Pinchón leans back. He puts his hands behind his head. He tips the brim of his cap up. “You ate?”

  I nod.

  “Second Thanksgiving, huh? Qué suerte. Some of us don’t get even one. Ain’t that right, Dannylito?”

  It’s been just Danny and his abuela since his brother landed in jail three years ago. Danny took it hard. You’d think that would have taught Danny not to get mixed up in this ratrería.

  “What, your abuelita doesn’t do Thanksgiving no more?” I ask him.

  Danny’s hands are in his pockets. He’s still hiding under his cap. “Nah. She out at a friend’s.”

  Out? And she didn’t take him with her? I don’t believe that.

  “Men like us are not always welcome.” Pinchón tugs the bandana until the knot is under his arm. “We make them uncomfortable.”

  Papi is going to make Danny a whole lot of uncomfortable when he finds out about this.

  Pinchón grabs the edge of my bag. “Something smells good. What you got in here?”

  I don’t move. The pastelitos should be covering the book. “Mami made them. Can’t show up empty-handed, can I?”

  “Pues, no. Pero, you can share, right? Poor Danny here has got to be starving.”

  Danny’s hand comes out of his pocket. Startled eyes come out from under his hat. “No, I’m OK. I don’t need no—”

  Pinchón gives him a look. Danny puts his hand down.

  I lean all the way over the bag though it means I gotta take my eyes off them. I unwrap some pastries. I don’t take the package out.

 

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