“Wait”—he lifts a hand—“you don’t know how to cook?” His eyes widen like I told him I was born on an alien planet and have five heads and a crocodile mouth. It makes me laugh again.
I lean over and whisper, “Actually, I kind of taught myself. Online cooking shows.”
He lets out a huff that must be his version of a chuckle. “So why do you dance? If your mother doesn’t want you to?”
I’ve been asked before why I dance. No one’s ever asked the despite-my-mom part. I don’t advertise that. Parents are supposed to be supportive of their kids.
I shrug. “I love the discipline. I love that if you work hard, if you do what they tell you, you’ll improve and your teachers will be pleased. It’s predictable. Also, I love that I can lose myself in dance. How everything except my body and the music just melts away. I can be flying across the stage, grand jeté to pirouette to grand jeté, my heart pounding, my muscles screaming at me that they can’t possibly do one more leap. And then I don’t do one more—I do five more, perfectly executed, and my teachers give me a smile. Yeah. It’s pretty incredible.”
Alex is smiling like he was in the audience in my mind just now. “You like being on stage.”
He’s right. I like being seen, being recognized for my hard work. I rise and, using the bar for support, lift my leg into a slow développé. A few heads turn to watch me. And, I can’t lie, I like it. “My mom says I shouldn’t want to be defined by what I look like,” I tell him, coming back down into deep plié.
Alex’s eyes are everywhere but on me—the floor, the ceiling, the other passengers. “Maybe you should tell your mother you want to run the ballet. Maybe then she’d be happy for you.”
“The artistic director. I’d love to do that. Usually only former male principal dancers get the job though.”
Alex shakes his head like possibly my mom is right about ballet. I don’t want him to think that. I want him on my side.
“Maybe I’ll tell my mom I want to be the first solo female artistic director of the New York City Ballet.” I say this even though I know I could never confront her. Just thinking about it makes me tired.
“What is it that you like about baseball?” I ask at the same time he says, “You’re sure you don’t want all of this?” He holds up his untouched half of the protein bar.
“We had a deal.” I wave at him to start eating. “Why baseball?” I ask again.
Alex takes a bite. He chews slowly. “I’m good at it. My friends play.” He tucks the wrapper from the bar into his pocket.
“Your dad likes that you play, right? The one who lives in Brooklyn?”
His brow lifts like he’s surprised I remembered. “Yeah.” He picks up the mitt. “You into baseball?”
He’s redirecting. I’m familiar with the move, especially when parents come up.
“No, not really.” I’m embarrassed to tell him this. I mean, I’ve been to a few Yankees games. But that’s about it.
He bends the mitt, working the leather. He looks like he’s about to say something else but he doesn’t. The hair at the base of his neck is wet. The collar of his shirt is damp. He must be coming from practice. I’m sweaty too. I realize I’m staring at him. I’m not sure if he knows because he’s smiling down at his mitt, like the glove is whispering jokes to him. I pull my gaze away to a poem on the wall. They’re all over the subway cars, a citywide attempt at making culture accessible to the everyday New Yorker. I squint, trying to make out the words.
“‘Windswept.’” Alex reads the title for me. He reads the first sentence. Then the next. And the next. Only, he’s not reading it. His eyes are on mine as the words tumble out of him. He recites the entire poem.
“You know that by heart?”
He shrugs. His knee swings back and forth.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
His leg stops moving. “You like poems?”
“Yeah. It’s like music. Or art. Or dance.”
His mouth looks like it’s about to smile. His lips remind me of our kiss.
I lean back, tucking a foot under me. “Hey, you want to play a game?” I’ve got to stop staring at him. When I do, it feels like we’re the only two people on the train.
He coughs then clears his throat. “What kind of game?”
“Just something to pass the time. I make up a story about someone around us and you have to guess who I’m talking about.”
“OK.” He puts the mitt away. He turns to face me. It’s hard to think when he’s looking at me like that.
“My cats don’t like it when I leave them in the apartment alone. It’s not like I’m gone that long—only the four or five hours it takes to hit my favorite stores. I can’t help myself. The word sale is like a drug to me. But I bring them treats, so they don’t stay angry for long.”
Alex is giving me his you’re-an-alien look again. Maybe it’s because of the Boston accent I used.
He scans the car. He tilts his head toward the woman with all the bags. “Her.”
“Yup.”
“You really think she’s a cat lady?” He studies the woman. “She looks more like a dog lady to me.”
“Your turn,” I say through my laughter.
His gaze sweeps away from me. “I’m tall, but I hate basketball. I’m into golf. I grab every chance to take my convertible out of the city to my club where my golf friends and I stand around in V-necks and drink martinis.”
I’m covering my mouth, trying not to lose it. He sounded like a British guy who swallowed a frog. “Wow . . . That’s—um—pretty good for a first-timer.”
“Any guesses?” His long fingers stretch across his thigh.
I search the car for someone tall.
“It’s not me, by the way.” That half smile is waiting.
“It’s that really tall guy at the other end with the red jacket.”
“Nope. Too old.”
There’s only one other guy who’s younger. “Navy coat, brown loafers.”
“Yeah. You know him?”
I shake my head no. The guy has thick dirty-blond hair, a scarf around his neck, and is wearing the same type of watch Merrit got for Christmas.
“I thought maybe you went to the same school.” Alex pulls a sports drink from his bag.
“How do you know which school I go to?”
“I don’t. But I bet it’s on the Upper East Side. And I bet that guy goes to school on the Upper East Side too.”
“Well,” I point out, “most of the schools are on the Upper East Side. That’s not hard to guess.”
Our train inches forward, just as an announcement comes on with a full dose of static. The conductor apologizes for the delay and says something about track work.
I watch Alex’s face. Is he glad we’re not stuck any longer? Or does he wish, like me, we had more time? We pull into Eighty-Sixth Street. The next stop is mine.
Alex smiles down at his cell. “You on Instagram?” He says it quietly.
“Yup, of course.”
“I bet your account is all fancy.”
The way he says it makes me want to nudge him. I don’t. I don’t trust myself to touch him and be able to stop. “Why would you say that?”
“Because of your fancy Upper East Side private school.”
“I never told you I went to private school.”
He lets out another chuckle-huff at my expression. “You said most schools in the city are on the Upper East Side. Most private schools are. There are publics schools all over the city.”
I’m taken aback—he’s right, of course. How stupid of me. I trace a run in my tights, not knowing what to say.
“I bet you live in a fancy apartment in some sweet building on Park Avenue too.”
I cover my face with my hands.
“Wait, you live on Park Ave? For real?” There’s a note of mild panic in his voice.
I nod, still hiding behind my hands.
“Hey.” His fingers take mine. He pulls them
away from my face. “I’m only joking. I wish I lived on Park Ave.” He keeps my hand in his. There’s that warmth again, only now it’s filling my chest. “It’s pretty over there. I bet there are good views. What floor are you on?”
“Fourteenth.” I don’t tell him it’s the highest one. “My Instagram isn’t fancy though.” I want to change the subject. “I pretty much only post about dance.”
“Show me?” His eyes gleam as he leans into the light.
My heartbeat startles. If Alex can find me on Instagram, he can contact me.
“Phone’s dead, remember? Give me yours.”
I open the app on Alex’s phone and type in my handle: @BalletBelleIsa, and press Request. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t post a lot.”
“You probably have more than five.” He shows me his: @ARos0133.
“Wow.” He wasn’t kidding—there are five total posts on his page. All baseball-related.
The train breaks with a sharp screech. It’s my stop. “Thanks,” I tell him. “For letting me use your phone. And for the snack.”
“Hey, there’s a good taco truck right on Ninety-Sixth and Broadway. If you’re still hungry. If you like Mexican.”
“I love Mexican.” I wait, wondering—no, hoping—he’ll suggest getting tacos together. But he doesn’t.
The doors slide open.
“Bye, Isa.”
I’m almost out but I turn back around. “Goodbye, Alex.”
Later, when I’m tucked in bed, my phone charged, I open my Instagram. I accept his request. Tomorrow, I’ll post a selfie in front of the taco truck, a secret message just for him.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 21
ALEX
“Diablo, bro, habla con ella. Just talk to her already.” Bryan’s standing over me. He won’t sit until I give him what he wants.
I rotate the ball in my hand. I don’t say anything.
Danny’s sitting five seats over. His thumbs attack his phone. He’s the one I need to talk to. He’s the one missing practice. Sure, he’s coming with us to Papi’s to take advantage of this crazy fifty-degree January day. But Papi’s not the coach of the high school team. Papi can’t save him from being cut. Instead, I’m stuck with Bryan and his telenovela love life.
“Kiara’ll listen to you.” Bryan ducks, trying to see under my brim.
I look down. Cap hiding works. So what if Kiara will listen to me? I’m not getting involved. Already got enough hate for siding with Kiara about Bryan fessing up to Julissa.
Bryan sneaker-taps me. “Come on. You owe me. I’m dying here.”
I sit up. I lean all the way back. “No te debo nada. You grown. You made your own mess.”
His mouth opens. His hands fly up as if I accused him of being a Mets fan. Bryan does that move so much I bet he does it in his dreams.
“Alex.” He says it the way Mami and Papi and everyone who wasn’t born here say it: Ále. “Friends gotta help each other.”
Danny’s phone is still out. His thumbs have gone quiet.
I stand. Bryan gives me room. “Ven, we gotta talk to him. Come on.”
“Now?” Bryan takes in the passengers around us.
“You want my help?” I say. “Danny comes first. We put this off long enough.”
Bryan’s eyes get big. He nods five times. “So you’ll talk to Kiara?”
I stop and turn back around. “What did I just say?”
“Yala, OK. Pero, dime—does El Jefe know? About Danny?”
I’d thought about telling Papi. Only, Papi’s big on tough love. He might kick Danny out of our training sessions. Might make me promise never to talk to Danny again. That’s not what Danny needs.
“Qué no,” I say.
Bryan nods. He rubs at his chin with his sleeve. “Oye, Danny, we need to talk.” He goes right over to him. “Those tigueres you been hangin’ with? You gotta cut them loose. They up to no good.”
If Bryan weren’t so close, I’d hurl the baseball I’m holding at him. He’s not playing it cool. It’s like he just shared our pitch signs with the other team.
Danny looks up from his phone. He flattens his mouth, to hide the scar. It’s something he does when he’s nervous.
“To ’ta frio,” I tell Danny. “It’s just . . . we been missing you.”
Danny’s staring at those shiny red Nikes on his feet. “Well, I been around. Ain’t going nowhere else.”
“Well, your nowhere should be the weight room Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” Bryan grabs Danny’s bicep. “Else you gonna lose all this, flaquito.”
“Oh, I been lifting,” Danny says. “No te preocupes.”
Bryan’s hands do their thing. “With who?”
The doors open.
Bryan’s stopped looking at Danny. He’s not looking at me either. He’s looking at whoever’s standing behind me.
“Alex?”
Not Ále. Alex.
My stomach bottoms out.
I always take the same car now, fifth one from the front. I pretend it’s the best car, least crowded, closest to where I’m going. Even when I have to walk half a platform to get on and off. I pretend not to hope.
I can’t pretend away this feeling.
“Hi! I was wondering when I was going to run into you again.” Isa’s smile is pure light. Her bun is a crown of gold on her head. Her coat’s open, because it’s so warm. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with a ballet shoe on it, tights, and leg warmers. That’s it.
Bryan’s mouth is open.
“Hi,” I say back to her. I keep my eyes on her pinked cheeks. I don’t look at her thighs or the curves of her calves. I blow out a breath. That sweatshirt is from her Instagram feed. All her posts, except the one in front of the food truck, have ballet shoes in them.
“Eyy, why is this Barbie talking to you?” Bryan’s words are whispers through his teeth. He’s looking at Isa like she’s the last taco Yaritza will ever make. I shift until my arm, my shoulder, my back, are in front of him.
“Are you heading to dance?” I sound different when I talk to her. It’s not just my voice, which I keep low and calm. I talk to Isa like I talk to my teachers. My coaches. The parents at the Baseball Institute. I don’t care if my boys notice.
“Yup.” Her teeth glow behind glossed lips. If she heard what Bryan said, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t seem to notice his staring. Or Danny’s.
“Coño, do you see those legs? What I wouldn’t do to have those beauties wrapped around me at night, eh? I mean, Julissa is fine and all. But this one . . .” Bryan shakes his head in surrender.
I close and open my fist. Bryan deserves a toletazo upside the head. He’s speaking Spanish, gracias a Dios. Still, what he’s saying, the way he’s looking at her . . . I ignore him. It’s not worth turning away from Isa.
I should have done more than just “like” her posts. I should have sent her a message. Or at least commented on one of the pics. I was afraid my words would come out all wrong. They don’t sound like how I feel, like how she makes me feel. Neruda’s words are close, but they’re not right either. Because they’re not mine.
“And you thought I was the one holding out.” Danny hoots. “La reconoces, ¿veldad? She’s the girl from Halloween. The one who kissed him.”
Isa’s watching me. Her mouth still has that smile—the one that makes me feel like I’ve done something worthy of a trophy without even picking up a bat or a ball.
“Hey, Don Juan, why you haven’t shared this?” Bryan thumps my shoulder. He continues in Spanish. “No wonder you’re not into Kiara. ¡Guay! A dancer! Does El Jefe know you got yourself such a fine woman? He’d bend the rules for this one.” Bryan makes kissing sounds.
I grit my teeth. Isa’s eyebrows lift.
Bryan’s breath is hot on my neck. “This is what it’s for. All the work, the training. You become a star, this be your prize. Show this princesa how Dominicanos dance. You get her hooked, ¿me escuchas? Give her my number when you move on. Te lo juro, she’s gonna be the first of man
y.”
I want to slam him into the wall. Instead, I shrug him off me. I give Isa a tight smile so she knows everything’s fine. I’ve got to pretend this isn’t a big deal. That Isa’s not a big deal. Otherwise, they’ll never let it rest. “Tranquilo, montros. Just don’t say anything to Kiara. Hear me?” I’m talking in Spanish too. They howl. They call me a jodontón. A stud.
Sure. Let them think I care what Kiara’ll say to this. As long as they don’t think I care about Isa. As long as they stop staring at her.
Bryan called Isa a princess. She’s more than that. So much more that at night I lie awake and think of what I’d do to fit her into my life. It’s stupid, all the imagining. Even if Isa had time, why would she spend it with me?
Isa’s waiting for my eyes. Her lips close, making her smile different. She reaches for the rail next to me as we skid into a stop. She puts one foot between both of mine and leans in.
“You think you can dance better than me?”
So she understood some of what Bryan said. She probably takes Spanish in that fancy school of hers.
Isa slides her long leg between my knees. I draw a sharp breath. She’s so close, I smell her tropical flower smell. My heart revs and catches, and revs and catches. Her golden-grass hair glints warm under cool LED light. Is it her shampoo that smells so good? Perfume? God help me if it’s just her.
Isa’s eyes look like they’ve got glitter in them too. Like she knows I’m doing everything I can to distract myself from how close she is. She glances at Bryan’s phone. “Got any Prince Royce?” She takes my hands. My heart speeds up and out from under me. She presses my fingers to her hip, the others to her shoulder.
Bryan and Danny are mouth-open silent. Isa glances at Bryan again. He fumbles with his phone.
“Oh, wait.” She takes off her coat. She hands it and her bag to Danny.
I must look like Bryan with my hands up in the air. I don’t care. My heart is long gone. It’s up in the front car, racing us to the next station.
Isa places my hands back where she wants them.
“Culpa al Corazón” comes on. It sounds tinny through the cell speakers. We hear it well enough.
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