“Here.” I give them each one. I’m lucky Mami made a double batch.
They’re licking their fingers, smacking their lips. “Dame un más.” Pinchón holds out his palm. I pass out another round. Danny shakes his head at me. I put the one intended for him in Pinchón’s hand. Pinchón swallows it whole. “Diache, but that be good.”
“Hey, ain’t you the player who hit all those home runs in the tournament game?” The big guy, the one I don’t recognize, wipes his hands on his pants and looks at me.
Danny nods. “We was playing against Lehman. We killed them 9 to 2.”
“Yeah you did.” Pinchón offers up his fist. Danny touches it with his own and smiles. Pinchón does the same to me. Again, I can’t refuse.
“We?” the big guy asks Danny.
“I used to be on the team.” Danny twists the sole of his sneaker into the rubber tiling. They’re not what he usually wears. They’re brand-new Nikes. Red and white.
Used to? What does he mean, used to? I keep my face still but my eyes . . . It’s like I’m training to be El Jefe.
“Alex here is one of the best in the Heights.” Pinchón slings an arm around me. “Ain’t that right, baby A-Rod? You doing us Dominicanos proud. Keep it up. Show them what we made of. ¡Dios, Patria y Libertad!”
They all repeat the phrase and fist-bump me.
“Hey, you want un regalito?” Pinchón lifts his jersey, shows me an envelope. “Just a taste. A freebie. On account of your talent.”
Danny steps back.
“Gracias. Pero no puedo.” I keep it cool. I rise to my full height, move to the center of the car so I don’t hit my head on the bar. I’m as tall as the big guy. But he doesn’t look like he works out. “This body be a temple. Even off season, I train. Got to stay on my game, ¿veldad?”
Pinchón grins and nods. “Man’s got a point. Tu ’ta roca.”
“And his papi would kill him if he found out.” Danny talks real fast.
They all look at him. I hold my smile steady.
“His papi don’t even let him get with the ladies, if you know what I mean. Gives him power. That’s why he’s a power pitcher AND a power hitter.”
OK, I know I said Papi was gonna give it to Danny when he found out. But he’s gonna have to get in line ’cause I’m going to have at him first.
Pinchón is snapping his fingers, like he’s trying to remember something. “‘Pérate, your papi, isn’t he the one who used to play—”
The door at the other end of the car shoots open. The grating of wheels against track rushes in. Six dudes in baggy jeans and denim jackets move toward us. Their bandanas are black and blue.
Pinchón is up. He strides toward them. The big guy is at his side. The rest fall in line. Two remove blades from their pockets. They tuck them against their backs.
“Vete,” Danny whispers. “Go.”
I don’t have a weapon. But I’m tall and I’m strong. If I go, they’ll be outnumbered. Danny will be outnumbered. And those guys might not notice that my AHH cap isn’t the Yankees.
I glance at my bag. I’d been thinking of bringing my new bat. But Papi said he had plenty. Coño, I should have brought it.
In the center of the car, Pinchón and the leader of the other group exchange words. Hisses rise from both sides.
“This isn’t your fight. Get outta here.” Danny’s still whispering.
I grit my teeth. “It isn’t yours either. What are you doing with them?”
“Just go. If you get caught, you’ll be booted from the team. You’ll be banned from playing high school ball. Your future—poof!” Danny fans his fingers in a mini-explosion.
“And what about your future?”
Danny shakes his head. “My future’s not in ball and you know it. El Jefe sure does.”
That’s not true. OK, maybe it is true. But that doesn’t mean he has to quit. It doesn’t mean he has to run with these locos.
Pinchón is sassing the other guy. Blades come out of the denim jackets. We’re pulling into a station.
“Go. Now.” Danny’s voice is desperate.
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Danny gives me a smile. The bump from his scar makes it look sad. “I’m not alone.”
The doors open. There’s a shout. A guy in denim lunges. Pinchón jumps back. The few other passengers on with us scramble out. The big guy with the red bandana knocks the knife from the denim guy’s hand. Another blue bandana jabs. The big guy hollers and grips his arm. He nails the blue bandana in the head. Blue bandana goes down. He doesn’t get up.
A lady holding grocery bags is getting on the train. She backs off and screams.
Everyone left standing is holding a knife. Except for me.
The doors are about to close. The lady on the platform is shrieking for help.
“Go!” Danny shouts it.
I grab my bag. I jump off.
The doors slam. The train pulls away.
I press my fist to my chest. I’m breathing like I’ve been stealing bases. Danny better be OK. He better not get hurt. Coño, what was he thinking?
The lady is running up the stairs to the station manager. She left her groceries on the platform.
Sirens wail in the distance. What should I do? If I go onto the street, they’ll see me. If I stay here, they’ll find me. That lady was white. I probably look just like those other guys to her. Even without my baseball cap and jersey, I look like them. And I was standing with them in the car.
Coño. What do I do?
“Chuck?”
I turn around.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24
ISA
I had a feeling he would be here. Every day since Halloween, a sense of anticipation has made me yank on my shoes and head out the door early so I can spend extra time on the platforms, on the trains, looking for him. But what are the chances of him being here today? At this time? Most everyone is still fighting over turkey with family.
He’s wearing a baseball cap. And that’s a jersey under his coat. He looks almost exactly like he did Halloween night. Bubbles of hope fill my chest. They pop and pop and pop as they hit against my too-eager heart.
Kissing him was hands down the wildest thing I’ve ever done. Chrissy’s the one who’s brave with guys. Ask the senior in coding to meet after class in the back of the computer lab? Sure. Tell the cute chess nerd playing in Washington Square Park a lie about meeting Kasparov? Why not. Kiss a stranger on the subway? Of course. It’s always been easy for her. Never for me. But Chuck was standing there, in my subway car . . . I figured maybe it was a sign.
And here he is again.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I can’t be dreaming, not if I can feel that.
Chuck is staring at me. His eyes are huge, like he can’t believe it either. He’s not smiling though. Does he not recognize me?
“Isa, right?”
I bite my lip so I don’t grin too big. “How do you know my name?”
“Your friend—Chrissy—she said it.” His voice is how I remember, soft and deep, like the rumble of a train when you’re up on the sidewalk. Chuck’s gaze shifts to the steps behind me. He’s still not smiling. Oh God. Is he angry with me? For what I did?
My face gets hot. I turn toward the uptown platform. What do I say to him? I’ve been this freaky girl stalking him and now I’ve cornered him in the subway where he has nowhere to go. If they made a movie about me, it would be called Freaky Stalker Girl. It would be a June release and I’d be played by some B-list actor. I pull up the hood of my coat so he can’t see my cheeks.
Three police officers jog down the steps of the uptown track. Their handcuffs and keys knock together, throwing echoes against the tiled walls. One of the officers’ radios spits static. Chuck yanks off his cap. He turns around to face the local track. Now we’re standing next to each other, pointed in opposite directions.
Think, Isa. Say something.
I burrow my hands into my puffer coat. “Just missed o
ne, huh?”
His face jerks toward me. “Sorry?”
“You just missed a train, right? You look like you were running. Are you in a hurry?”
“Ah . . . Yeah. Sort of.” His hand is crushing his hat.
“Where are you going?” I can’t believe I just asked him that. I am Freaky Stalker Girl.
“To my father’s house in Brooklyn. My second Thanksgiving. My parents are split up.”
“Two Thanksgivings? That’s cool.” Witty response, Isa.
A downtown local rolls into the station. Chuck closes his eyes and releases a sigh. He must really be late.
“Are you waiting for the express?” he asks.
I’m still facing the other tracks. “I can take either.”
“Me too.” He lifts a hand toward the local. “Why don’t we take this one?”
I must look like I’m freezing, bundled into my coat with only my nose and eyes sticking out. I like that he seems concerned about me. That he wants to take the train with me. A few of those hope bubbles float into my chest and settle into nooks, safe from the wild beating of my heart.
We move to the middle of the car. There are only a few other people in the row. Chuck sits beside me but leaves an empty seat between us. Is he doing that because he’s afraid I might jump him again? Or is he being polite and giving me space?
A crowd of students in blue-and-white football jackets bursts in. Chuck slides down to make room. His leg is almost up against mine. Two girls walk to Chuck’s other side. They smile at him and giggle to each other. Chuck doesn’t notice. He’s scanning the platform as we pull away. I push back my hood and give the girls a hard stare. When I lean back, Chuck is watching me. The gray jersey under his coat rises and falls and rises and falls again.
Does he have bubbles in there too?
“Listen, I’m sorry about that night,” I say. I don’t want him feeling nervous about sitting next to me. “What I did, that wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have, you know, touched you. Not without asking permission.” If I were a guy, I never could have gotten away with it—I shouldn’t have gotten away with it. With everything they’ve been teaching us in school about harassment and with what’s in the news, I might even have been arrested. Wow, is what I’m doing now harrassment? At least Kevin knew who Chrissy was. We didn’t know he did, but turns out he’d been watching her in Technique class for weeks, just as she had been watching his chamber performances.
“I would have said yes.”
My gaze focuses back on Chuck. “Excuse me?”
“If you had asked permission, I would have said yes.” His smile transforms his face. Sharp cheekbones. Straight, white teeth. Full lips. Square jaw. And those intense dark eyes and lashes. He’s not breathing heavy anymore.
My mouth goes dry.
“When are you getting off?” Chuck shifts back and his thigh touches mine.
“Um . . . Thirty-Fourth. I’m meeting my brother.” I want to lean into him, put my arm through his. I remind myself I don’t really know him. And he doesn’t know me. I don’t even know his real name.
“You have a brother?” He stretches out his legs. They’re super long. And that’s coming from somebody who also has long legs.
“Yup, he just got back from college yesterday. After brunch he went to see his ex-girlfriend. I made him promise to meet me so he can’t stay all day. He’s been kind of a stalker on her Instagram and Snapchat since they broke up.” Yikes. Does being a stalker run in my family? I almost pull my hood up again. Instead, I slide back in my seat so he can’t see my face.
Chuck’s shoulder shakes against mine. He’s trying not to laugh. “Stalker, huh? Why did they break up?” His grin makes the bubbles inside me multiply. I feel like I might float away. It’s more powerful than my instructors’ smiles. It’s even better than one of my mom’s, and those are pretty rare.
“They go to different colleges. You know. Long-distance.” I don’t mention how intense things got between them. How Merrit wanted to spend every moment with her. How he got angry if she did anything without him. “It wasn’t Merrit’s choice. He took it kind of hard.”
“Would your boyfriend go for a long-distance relationship?”
“My boyfriend?” I squeak. Now my cheeks are really flaming. “No—um.” I clear my throat to get out the rest of the squeaks. “No boyfriend. I don’t have time. Because of dance.” It sounds so lame. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. Who says that?
Chuck sighs. “Yeah. Same with me. Baseball.”
“Wow. You really do play, then?” Merrit wears sports stuff all the time even though he doesn’t compete. “Are you any good?” I slap my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I asked him that.
He lifts a shoulder. “My father thinks I am, which is what matters. He used to . . .” Chuck trails off. He’s staring at something at the end of the car. A police officer—one from Ninety-Sixth—marches through, examining everyone.
Chuck turns to me. He closes his mouth. His eyes are huge again. Like he’s scared.
I take his hand. I don’t even think about it.
“What position do you play?” I hold his gaze with mine. He almost looks away, toward the police officer who’s coming closer. I squeeze his fingers.
“Pitcher. Also shortstop.” He’s whispering.
“What team do you play on? Is it like a city league or something?”
He shakes his head. “School,” he says. “Alexander Hamilton High. It’s . . .” He pauses. The officer is in front of us. Chuck swallows.
“Oh, I know where that is. It’s up near Fort Tryon Park, right?”
Chuck doesn’t respond. He’s gripping my hand like he’s fallen off the subway platform and I’m the only thing keeping him from hitting the tracks.
“I love it up there. We’re members of the Met. We go to the Cloisters every Mother’s Day. My mom likes the unicorn tapestries. We always stop at this bakery up on 215th for guava pastries on the way home.” I’m speaking a little loudly, trying to keep him focused on me. The girls on the other side of Chuck are too, about their hotel and their dinner plans. I don’t know why he’s acting like this—maybe he had a bad experience. I just hope I can help.
The police officer moves past us.
Tension drains from my shoulders. “That is so cool you go to school up there.” I keep my words smooth and slow, like how I speak to Merrit or Mom when they get worked up. “So what are you? A junior?”
Chuck releases a breath. “Sophomore.”
“Oh! Me too.”
He runs a hand over his face. “You like guava pastries?” His whisper is hoarse.
“Love them. My dad sometimes makes a special trip up to the bakery around Christmastime.”
Chuck watches the police officer exit to the next car. He bends down. He takes his cap and a small book out of the bag. He pushes the bag toward me. “Here,” he says. “My mother made them.” His eyes are kind of shiny.
I look inside. There’s a huge foil packet, enough to fill an entire platter.
“I can’t take these,” I say. “Your mom didn’t make them for me. I’m guessing they’re for your dad? That’s awesome that they’re still on good terms.”
He shrugs. “They’re for my little brother and my stepmom. She and my mother get along just fine. My mother and my father, not so much.”
“I can’t take pastries from your little brother.”
“How about I give you some? Please. It would make my mother happy.”
“Your mom doesn’t know me.”
“If she did, she would want you to have some.” His smile makes my heart miss a step. God, he is so beautiful. He unwraps the foil, tears off a piece, and makes a smaller package. He holds it out to me.
There’s no use hiding my grin. “Thank you. Hey, what’s your real name? I’ve been calling you Chuck because of your sneakers.”
He laughs, looking down at his shoes. “Good thing we didn’t meet today.”
He’s wearing white Superstar
s with black stripes. “I don’t know, Adidas sounds pretty cool.”
“Well, my name does begin with A.”
“Adam?”
He shakes his head.
“Aaron?”
Another shake.
“Oh! I know!” I shoot up from my seat and clutch an imaginary microphone. “Alejandro, Alejandro . . .” I sway my hips a little. “Ale-Ale-jandro, Ale-Ale-jandro,” I croon in my best Lady Gaga.
He uses his hand to wipe off his grin. “You’re close. It’s just Alex.”
I plop back down, enjoying the jealous looks from the girls in the blue-and-white jackets. “Nice to meet you, Just Alex.” I put out my hand. He takes it, gives me a shake. Instead of letting go, he turns my palm down. He draws my hand toward him, stopping just before it reaches his mouth. He gives me a moment to pull away. I don’t. Of course I don’t. He touches my fingers to his lips.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Isa.” His breath is warm on my skin. Our knees brush. I want to slide my leg between his, climb into his lap, thread my hand through his thick, dark hair and . . .
He releases my fingers. He motions toward the window. “Your stop.”
Tiled pillars with the number THIRTY-FOUR whip by.
I don’t want to get off. I don’t want to leave Alex. But Merrit is waiting for me.
My throat tightens. When will I see Alex again? It took almost a month to find him. The fact that I found him at all is pretty amazing considering how many people ride the subway. I want to ask for his number. But what’s going to come of that? We both said we were too busy.
Time’s up. The doors open. I leap up and dash out. I don’t even say goodbye. As the train pulls away, I glance back. Our eyes meet through the window. He lifts his hand in farewell.
•••
I find Merrit where we said we’d meet. He’s gazing through the window of the Sunglass Hut, hands cupped around his eyes even though the store is all lit up.
I sneak behind him, then bend my knee into the back of his until his leg buckles.
“Hey!” he cries out. But he’s grinning. He reaches back with one hand and pulls me next to him, tucking me against his shoulder, his elbow crooked around my neck. I breathe in the leather of his jacket then burrow against him until I find the smell of freshly washed clothes. Magnolia-and-poppy-scented detergent always makes me think of Merrit. I remember the morning Merrit announced he couldn’t stand the regular Tide our cleaning lady used. He claimed it made him itchy, gave him rashes, though I was the one with eczema. Instead of taking us to school, Mom took us shopping. Dad was out of town or else he never would have let her. We went to different markets, piling boxes and bottles of detergent into the carts. At home, we did load after load of laundry. Mom put on Celia Cruz and was dancing around saying instead of a taste test it was a smell test. Merrit and I lay on our stomachs and played Rummikub, jumping up every time the dryer dinged. The Whole Foods brand was Merrit’s favorite. We’ve been using it ever since.
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