“See those glasses in the middle case? Second row?” he asks me.
“The horn-rimmed ones in purple?”
“Yup. Those. I’ve always thought I’d rock the rhinestone look.” Merrit’s arm tightens around my neck, just enough so I don’t squirm away while he tickles my side. “I meant the aviators. Third ones from the left.”
We go inside so Merrit can try them on. I have to admit, they look pretty good on him.
He bends to the mirror. His smile makes me smile.
“Can I get them for you?” I take out my wallet with my allowance money.
“You mean, can Dad get them for me?” His smirk is playful.
“Har, har.” It’s what Dad says when Merrit rides him.
Merrit wears the glasses out onto the street, even though it’s dark. “Samantha has a pair like this.”
I don’t know what to say. We pass a window display of a little boy asleep under a plaid quilt, stockings hung over a fire beside a tree with gold and red ornaments. Letters made of ice spell the word Believe in a winter wonderland set just beyond the boy’s room. “How’d it go?” I finally ask. “At her house?”
He shrugs. He shakes out chin-length strands of sandy hair, the same color as the sleeping boy’s. “She said to say hi to you.” We walk another block before he adds, “She has a new boyfriend.”
Alarm burrows into my gut.
“I’m sorry,” I say. What I think is, Please be OK.
We make it a few more paces before he stops.
“You know, it’s not like I thought we were going to get married, at least the sane part of my brain didn’t. I knew she’d move on. She’s too gorgeous and perfect and brilliant not to. It’s just that . . . the guy . . . His name is Connor. Connor Rhee. He’s Korean, like her.”
He takes off the glasses. His eyes don’t settle on me. They dart through the crowd. “You think maybe if I were Korean, we’d still be together?”
Inside, I wince and think, You’re kidding, right? Outside, I don’t let my expression change. I want to tell him that his possessive behavior was probably the reason she broke it off and that it has nothing to do with what they look like or where their parents came from. I don’t. I can’t hurt him. Instead I say, “I think it probably isn’t about that.”
He lets out a sigh. He takes back my arm and starts walking again.
We stop in front of a Salvation Army. It’s filled with funky old furniture, hats men used to wear in the fifties, and racks and racks of army-olive and camo clothes.
Merrit gestures to the window. “Come on. I need a purple jumpsuit to match my new shades.” The teasing in his voice soothes the ache in my chest. He’s not going to get wrapped up in Samantha. He’s not going to let it strangle him again. I squeeze his arm and follow him in.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16
ALEX
“You sure she’s gonna be there?” Bryan scratches at his neck.
“Por Dios! Yes!” Kiara presses her face into her sleeve. Even on her toes, she can barely reach the bar.
Bryan takes his cap off. He ducks to Kiara’s level. “What exactly did she say?”
Kiara’s head tips back. “¡Qué no!” She palms his face just as the train brakes. Bryan grabs hold of a guy’s jacket before he hits the floor. Bryan lifts a hand in apology to the guy while Kiara rips it up, laughing.
I haven’t seen Bryan much since the season ended. He’s been with Julissa and I’ve been training extra. Papi got me a job at the Baseball Institute. He wants me in top shape for summer travel ball. I can use the BI facilities whenever I want, long as there’s no class or party booked. Every day after school, if I’m not going to Papi’s, I’m going there. It’s the Saturday before Christmas and I already worked two birthdays, one for a bunch of six-year-olds. I planned to stay home after, work on a paper, and see Mami since I’m going to Papi’s tomorrow. Then Bryan texts me Julissa’s cousin’s having a party. I told him I’d had enough of parties for the day. Figured he deserved it for disappearing on me all these weeks. Said I’d go only if Danny was coming too. Bryan and I, we need to talk with Danny about the company he’s been keeping. Bryan texted sure, he’d take care of it. So here I am. But there’s no Danny. There’s no Julissa either. She sent Kiara instead.
Bryan’s glaring at Kiara. “I don’t get it. Why’d she go ahead without me?”
Kiara rolls her eyes. “No puedo.” She twists to me. “Tell me a story, something interesting, so I don’t have to listen to your annoying friend.” Her voice is low, like there’s a secret between us.
I shift back. Only, I hit against a backpack. Kiara watches me without blinking. What am I going to tell her? That a first-grader at the party dropped his cake and started howling? That the new setting on the pitching machine is bien chévere? Nothing interesting has happened to me since . . . since Thanksgiving. And I’m not telling her about that. I’m also not telling her about the Neruda book I got from the library even though it’s chévere too.
Bryan tugs Kiara’s jacket. “Julissa told you I treat her well, right?” His forehead is scrunched. He wouldn’t be so worried if he hadn’t done something.
I knock him on the shoulder. “Loco, what did you do?”
“¡Nada!” He flings out his arms. His mouth opens and closes like a fish trying to breathe air. Bryan totally did something. He wouldn’t be denying it so hard if he hadn’t.
Bryan glances at Kiara. “She see me with Franny the other day? ’Cause you know, we was only talking.” The train screeches like keys over a car door.
“¡Eso!” I turn my face so Bryan doesn’t see me laughing. That boy knows better. Bryan’s had eyes for Julissa since the sixth grade. For him, it’s always been Julissa. But whenever they break up, which is a couple times a year, she runs to some other guy. I told Bryan to relax. She probably does it to make him jealous. She always goes back to him. But Bryan thinks he’s got to go out and show everyone he don’t care that Julissa’s not with him. He only ends up making it worse.
“‘Pérate.” Kiara holds up a finger. “You spoke to that bitch?”
“Julissa doesn’t know, ¿veldad?” Bryan goes to grab Kiara’s hand, only she won’t let him.
People are piling on the train. I look away to hide another chuckle. That’s when I see her. At the other end of the subway car, beyond a row of seats crammed with folks, is Isa. My heartbeat catches like a flooded engine. She’s crowded against the door like I am, back to the window, long hair pulled up off her neck. She must have just gotten on. If she turns her head, she’ll see me.
My hand passes over my coat pocket that hides Neruda’s words. Would she know I think of her when I read those poems? Would she see it on my face?
People are gathered round her. That girl Chrissy is talking with her whole body, her hair an angry flare of red. She’s got one hand on Isa and one on the guy with tiny glasses. Guess the glasses weren’t part of a costume. An Asian girl with a green ski hat sticks her head close to Chrissy’s, arguing back. A girl with streaks of purple in her hair grips Ski Hat Girl’s coat. Isa lifts a hand to her mouth. Her face lights up with laughter. I wish I were closer. I wish I could hear what she said.
They all start laughing. Chrissy doubles over. The girl with the ski hat turns to the one with the dyed purple hair and kisses her. Isa’s wiping at her eyes. The doors open. She flattens herself against the pole to make room for folks to exit. But still, she’s pushed out onto the platform.
I’ve been resisting the shoves from people getting off. Now I give in to them. I step out onto the platform too.
Isa sees me even though there’s another subway door spewing people between us. The leftover smile from her laugh freezes. Then it bursts wide open.
The door close signal clangs, though there’s still a lot of people getting on. There’s no time for me to make my way to her. We push back through our own doors. I find my spot next to the rail.
Isa’s watching me. She tilts her head, like she’s trying to say hi. Chrissy g
rabs her hand.
I want Isa to come over. I want her to say hi for real.
“You know she’s going to dump your ass once she finds out, right?” Kiara takes my arm. “Can you believe what your friend here went and did?”
I lift a shoulder. I’m not getting into this. Isa’s talking to Chrissy but her gaze lifts to mine. Her lips spread into another mega smile. I must be a mirror because I smile too.
I could go to her. I don’t care that it’s crowded. But why hasn’t Isa come to me? She could wave. Do something more to acknowledge me. A chill blots out the heat in my chest. Maybe she doesn’t want to. Not in front of her friends. Not when I have my friends. Not when it isn’t part of some game.
“Don’t you think so?” Kiara yanks my sleeve.
“Huh?”
“Bryan needs to fess up and tell Julissa. You agree with me or not?”
How am I supposed to know?
Bryan peers at me from under his cap.
“What you looking at over there anyway?” Kiara tries to see around me.
I block her view.
“Sure,” I say to Bryan. “Tell her. You don’t tell her, it’s like you’re hiding something.” It’s true. Secrets aren’t good between two people. To have a relationship, you have to have trust. That’s what Mami says. It’s part of why she and Papi broke up.
Kiara lifts her arm in an I told you so way.
The doors bang open. Isa and her friends get off. I wait to see if she looks back. She doesn’t.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 28
ISA
I was supposed to be home for dinner by now. My phone’s dead, so I can’t even text Mom. She’s probably sitting in the kitchen thinking I got hit by a bus or a bike messenger, or that the chicken salad I ate for lunch gave me food poisoning. She’ll get so worked up she’ll insist on taking me to and from dance for the next several weeks. Dad should be home, thankfully. He’s good at talking her off her mental ledges.
I tuck my phone in my bag. Even if I could call, I’d never tell Mom I’m on a train that’s stuck between stations. She still thinks I’m taking taxis. I’ll tell her Chrissy made me stay late to teach her the new floor routine since she went with Kevin for crepes on Monday and skipped Technique, which is true.
The woman next to me is playing Candy Crush, her finger tapping nonstop at her screen. The shopping bags next to her crinkle every time she hits them with her elbow.
“Excuse me, could I borrow your phone? Mine died and I want to let my mom know I’m fine.”
She shows me her screen. No bars. “Sorry, darling.” She adjusts her reading glasses before going back to her game.
By the door, a mom with a baby strapped to her chest scrolls through her phone. I leap up to ask her but stop halfway. Sitting across from the mom, a few seats down, is Alex. He’s staring at the floor. I didn’t see him before because of the lady and her bags.
I touch my hair, smoothing flyaways that escaped my bun. My lips are chapped. I should have reapplied gloss before leaving the Academy. I don’t know why I care. Nothing’s going to happen between us. But that’s OK. Maybe we can just be friends who occasionally run into each other on the subway.
People look up, no doubt confused why I’m standing in the middle of the aisle. Alex doesn’t. He tracks a line in the linoleum, back and forth, like he’s Superman trying to cut the flooring in half with his laser vision.
I sit beside him. “Hi.”
Dark brown eyes meet mine. My pulse skitters into my throat.
Alex looks away. “Hi.”
I rub my bottom lip. “So . . . The train is stuck, huh?”
Alex leans back. He draws his arms to his chest. A few long seconds pass. “Just so I understand, so I know what to expect, are you only going to talk to me when we’re alone?” His voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want to upset the silence of the car.
I don’t understand. “Uh . . . We’re not alone.” I gesture to the other passengers. “And also, what are you talking about?”
“Alone like not with friends. Not with people whose opinions you care about.”
I go to wet my lips but stop myself because Mom is right and that only makes them more chapped. He must mean the time before the holidays when we saw each other in that super crowded train. Does he think I didn’t want to go say hi to him? Because I did. I wanted to so badly.
“You were with someone else.” I don’t mean to sound angry. I’m not angry.
He shrugs. “Yeah. My friends.”
Friends? “She had her arm around you.”
One dark eyebrow rises as if to say, And?
I look down at the red bag by his feet. It says BB INSTITUTE in block letters. “You told me you were too busy for a girlfriend. I figured that was a line. I figured she was your girlfriend.” I mean, who wouldn’t? She was all over him.
Alex uncrosses his arms. “Nah. It’s not like that. Kiara and I, we just hang out.” He sits up fast. “We hang out with other people. Not alone.”
He’s kidding himself if he thinks that’s all she wants. She was looking at him like she’d crossed a desert and he was a pool of cool water she wanted to slip into.
Alex touches the brim of his cap. “Anyway, Kiara’s not my type.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, only I can’t do only one so they both go up.
“And what I told you was truth. I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
What he said should make me happy. The part about that girl, Kiara, does at least. Before I can stop, my mouth is shooting out the words, “What is your type? I mean, if you had time.”
What’s wrong with me? When I do that, when I talk or act without thinking, it makes me think of my mom.
Alex looks at me—thankfully not like my behavior is weird. He looks at me the way someone would look at a painting. He studies me so long my cheeks start to feel like marshmallows in a campfire. I swear they crisp and are about to catch fire when he says, “I don’t know. Haven’t figured that out yet.” He rubs a hand over his knee.
“How about you?” he asks. “What’s your type?”
I grin before I answer. “Oh, I know exactly what my type is. But I’m not going to tell you.” Payback for the marshmallow cheeks. I scoot forward to his bag. “What’s in here? More guava pastries?” Embarassingly, my stomach grumbles. Please let him not have heard that.
His eyes are on me, my face, my body, following my every move. Without looking away, he pulls the bag to his lap.
“Just my mitt.” He shows it to me. “Why? You hungry?”
I shrug and make air fill my chest, hoping it’ll calm the crazy hammering inside. I’m not going to tell him I’m so starved I could eat his BB Institute bag with the mitt in it.
He digs in his jacket. “Sorry, it’s all I have.” He offers me a protein bar. But I don’t want to take his only food. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here.
Alex rips open the wrapper and hands me the bar.
“You’ll split it with me?” Before he can answer, I spray my hands with sanitizer then break the bar in half.
He glances at the small bottle attached to my pack. “What, my hands don’t deserve to be clean?”
The way he says it, like he’s truly offended, makes me laugh. “Sorry. It’s lavender scented. I didn’t think—”
He holds out his hand. “I’m cool with that.”
I unclip the bottle and squirt the sanitizer. A whole mountain of it comes out.
“Oops, sorry. Here.” I swallow the rest of my laughter and slide my palm into his to absorb some. I suck in a breath. His skin is warm under the cool gel. Very warm. The deep curve of his hand is slick. It’s so large both my fists could fit inside it. He has calluses at the base of his thumb and below his ring finger. I hover over them, tracing their shape. I slip to the outside of his hand and his broad knuckles flex, almost involuntarily. I circle up to his wrist, to the pound of his pulse. It matches the thrumming in my ears.
Alex’s lips are fixed i
n a half smile. He’s staring at our hands.
I don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. It’s like when I kissed him. It just feels right. No, not right. Better.
The baby across from us lets out a squawk. The mother coos, and the little one settles down.
I draw my fingers away. “There. All dry.”
I place his half of the bar in his palm. His eyes flick up. His half smile becomes a full one.
The bar is delicious, crunchy, like a Rice Krispies Treat dipped in peanut butter with chunks of chocolate shoved inside it. I could eat about ten of these for dinner. Shoot—I almost forgot . . .
“Hey, I’m sorry to ask this, but can I use your phone? I really need to text my mom, but mine ran out of battery. I’m so late and all she needs is another reason to hate ballet.”
He hands me his cell. I shove the rest of the bar in my mouth.
“Thank you.” I fire off a text and give it back.
“Your mother, she hates ballet?”
“Well . . . it’s more that she hates it for me. She wants me to be this independent, modern woman. So cooking, cleaning, dancing—things traditionally done by women—she doesn’t want me to do.”
“A lot of famous chefs are men,” he points out.
“A chef runs an entire restaurant. My mom might be OK with that. But she never even taught me to cook. She didn’t want me anywhere near the kitchen.”
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