Isa’s hips roll under my palm. She steps back. She pulls me with her.
“You can dance bachata, right?” Her voice is teasing. I need a few seconds, but I catch her rhythm. Her hips do another crazy roll. Not just side to side either. Por Dios. Behind me, Bryan—or maybe Danny—lets out a whistle.
Isa grins up at me. She takes my hand and slides it up to her waist. “I should take off my sweatshirt, so you can really see my moves. But I don’t think your boys could handle that.” My arm is holding up the bottom of her sweater, showing off her lower half. I let go of her waist and grab hold of her hand.
Isa makes a fake pout. “You’re no fun.”
I clear my throat and cover it up with a chuckle. “You’re right. Bryan and Danny can’t handle this.” I let go of her hand and gesture at her hips that are rolling like hurricane waves. She takes the opportunity to spin. Bryan and Danny have backed up to give us space. We have the floor to ourselves.
Isa laughs as she comes around to me.
I catch her outstretched fingers.
“OK, maybe you’re a little bit of fun,” she whispers.
I move us out of the doorway before we hit Seventy-Second Street. A few people get on. They barely look at us as they find a seat.
“You’re not bad.” Isa’s mouth is right under my ear. “But you need to practice. You’re light on the dips.” She throws her head back. She swings it around to my shoulder. She presses right up to my chest, letting my moves move her. My hands go back down to her hips.
The song ends. Her head is still on my shoulder. She laces her fingers in my hand. She lifts it up and away from us then does another spin.
Danny claps. Bryan’s still holding his phone. Hold up—was he just videoing that?
Isa extends a pointed foot. She bows, one hand still in mine, the other raised over her head. Her smile is so big her cheeks crowd her eyes. “Cuidado,” she says. “Wouldn’t want Kiara to get ahold of that.” She tips her head at Bryan’s cell.
Did she just tell me to be careful in Spanish?
The train brakes hard into Sixty-Sixth Street.
Isa takes her coat and bag from Danny. “Gracias. And just so you know, mi mamá es Cubana. I understood everything you said.”
Danny’s scar flushes bloodred.
Bryan flings his hands in the air. “How is this blondie a Cubana?” Bryan gives me a what-the-hell-just-happened look.
My heart crawls back to my chest. I don’t think it’s beating at all. Isa heard everything? Her mother is Cuban? Coño.
The doors open. Isa waves and steps out.
On the platform, she looks at Bryan. “Oh, and thanks for the offer, but I’m like him.” She points at me. “I don’t have time for anyone special. So unless you’re going to come and take classes with me . . .” She points to the ballet shoe on her sweater. “You’ll be waiting years before I move on from even my first novio.”
If I were her, I’d be umpire-made-the-wrong-call mad. I’d be throwing down my cap and kicking dirt on the base. But Isa’s still smiling as she backs away. I give Bryan and Danny a look that says I’m coming for them later. I grab the door as it’s closing.
“Isa!”
She looks over her shoulder.
“You’re not angry?” I ask her.
She runs back to where I’m stuck between the two halves of the subway door.
She brings her nose right up to mine. The gold flecks in her irises twist and twirl, just like her dancing.
“Not at you. You made it up to me with that dance.” She kisses my cheek. My skin, where her lips were, burns. “Hasta luego, jodontón.” She whirls and runs through the turnstile.
I can’t let her leave. She’s smiling. But she can’t not be upset.
“You better cover for me,” I shout. Danny and Bryan are crowded around Bryan’s screen, grinning like fools. “And don’t you dare share that video.” I don’t care anymore what they think about me and Isa. I don’t care who knows. But I’m not letting others watch that clip—watch Isa dance—the way those two are.
I catch up to Isa on the subway steps.
“I’m sorry. For what went on back there.”
“Listen, I have a lot of cousins back in Miami. I’m used to that sort of talk—not that it makes it OK. At least you weren’t talking like that.” She gives me a smirk. “Anyway, I heard what they said about you not being interested in Kiara. So not all of it was bad.”
I look down at my feet. I don’t want to show her my smile.
“But I meant what I said about not showing her the video.” Isa’s boots are soundless on the stairs. “Kiara definitely wants more from you than just friendship.”
We’re almost at the top, at the street. I want to ask Isa what she wants from me. But her answer won’t matter. She just told Bryan what she told me before. She has no time for anyone.
“Can I walk you to practice?” I can’t help asking.
“Sure. But we call it class. Don’t you have to practice?”
“They can start without me.”
“That’s right, you’re the awesome star player who’s going to get all the girls.” She throws out her hands like she’s holding down an enormous balloon.
I deserved that. My silence makes her laugh.
“You’re cute when you’re shy,” she says.
I refuse to look up from the sidewalk. My heart is ticking like mad.
We stop for the light. “So, your mother’s Cuban?”
“Yup. Hard to believe, right? My dad’s from Indiana. But you know, my mom’s blond. Her great-grandparents came from northern Spain.”
The light changes and we cross.
“How’d they meet?” I want to keep her talking. I want to hear her voice.
“In college. Mom couldn’t wait to get out of Miami. Of course she fell in love with the most Nordic-looking guy she could find and never let go.”
“Your father’s a Viking?”
My heart trips at her laugh.
“No. Dad’s family’s from Scotland and England. Total WASP. He’s like the opposite of a Latino, except he can sort of dance. I think Mom wanted someone as different from my abuelo as she could find.”
I glance up from slate-gray stone.
Isa takes a deep breath and lets it go. “Yeah, my mom hated her dad. He left her and my abuela a bunch of times. She blames him for them not having money when she was growing up. They could have gotten out of Cuba earlier, but my abuelo was in the middle of another affair. He didn’t want to leave his mistress.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. That must suck. To lose everything and blame your papi for it. We’ve stopped in front of a poster for Peter and the Wolf, the symphony.
Isa shrugs. “It’s OK. But it explains a lot about my mom. Don’t ever tell her I said any of that, though.”
The look she gives me, like she’s delighted we’re sharing this secret, sends a jolt into my gut. She touches my arm and I almost take her waist. I don’t need Prince Royce. I could dance with her right here on the street.
“Hey . . .” She hestitates, glancing away. “I’m not like my mom. I don’t put people in boxes based on where they came from or who their family is. I mean, my friend Chrissy’s dad has had affairs and he’s from Georgia.”
I don’t like to put people in boxes either. Only, that’s what Bryan and Danny just did to Isa. They assumed she didn’t speak Spanish because she’s white and blond. And I let them do it.
It’s my turn to cup my hand to my mouth. “I hate tostones. You Cubans cook platanos much better with those thin chips.”
“Oh, I know, right? Tostones are so dry. But you know what I hate?” She widens her eyes again. “Flan.”
“Flan? You kidding? That stuff’s great.”
She presses a hand to her forehead. “I know. A lot of people love it. My abuela used to make it for our neighbors. They’d come knocking as soon as the doorman told them she was in town. But I hate the consistency, you know? Anything pudding-like
is just—yuck!”
I start walking again, even though I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t want her to be late for class.
“Yeah, well other than the tostones, I’m kind of a poster for a Dominicano. I’m really good at baseball. I love my mother. I love bachata.”
“But I don’t know. Mr. Alex Ros doesn’t sound very Dominican to me.” She extends her hand toward the fountain we’re passing, as if asking the pigeons to weigh in.
“My last name isn’t Ros. It’s Rosario.”
“Oh! I just thought, because your Instagram said ARos . . .” She laughs at herself. It makes me want to dance with her even more. “But yeah, Rosario, that could be Dominican.” She double-winks at me. She runs over and jumps up on the ledge around the fountain. I follow but stay on the ground. In case she needs help to balance.
She twirls on the ledge, keeping herself in a perfect line. She stops and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. She’s taller than me now.
My heart thumps a rhythm that’s not the bachata. The bachata’s too slow. My heart is merenguing against my ribs.
“You so could not fit into a box, Mr. Alex Rosario. You’re different. From everyone I know.” She glances at the building as a girl, also in tights, runs through a door.
“Shoot! I’ve got to go.” She hops down. She skips toward an entire wall of glass doors. She never bothered to close her coat. It flies out behind her like a cape.
I stay where I am, next to the fountain that’s been drained for the season. I want to follow her. But I know I can’t. She’s like a bird, swooping with joy and life. I want to write about it. I take out my phone and snap a pic.
All that I do, with baseball, with Papi, is so folks see beyond what their eyes tell them when they look at me. Isa did that all on her own. She doesn’t even care about my ball playing.
Isa yanks open a door. She waves at me with her entire arm. “See you on the subway!” She disappears inside.
I sit on the ledge as if it’s a bench. I’m already late for practice.
I pull up Instagram. I comment on Isa’s first post, the one she put up almost a year ago. I comment on her second and her third posts too.
I type in a private message. A few lines. Something I’ve been working on. I read them over. They’re rough. They’re not my best. I stand, press Cancel instead of Send. I pocket my phone and head back to the subway.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 4
ALEX
I lunge to my left, holding the thirty-pound disc to my chest.
“Más por abajo.” Papi grunts the command. “Bring your butt to your heel.”
I come back to standing. I drive down to the right.
“Again.” Papi leans against the tower of weights as he watches me. His muscled back is reflected in the mirror.
“Otro,” he tells me. I’m on set three of four. The door opens. Robi comes down and sits on the steps. He was at the dining table, cutting hearts out of red construction paper when I came. In elementary school, I had to bring valentines for the class too. Only, I got mine from a box. I was going to tell Robi how cool it was he was making them. How his friends and teachers were going to be impressed. Papi closed a hand on my shoulder, steered me toward the basement before I could. He yelled out to Yaritza, asked why his son was playing with paper hearts when he could be watching his papi’s old games.
Robi slides a valentine from behind his back. Loopy black letters spell out my name on white lace. I give Robi a nod. I try to smile but I’m gritting my teeth. I sink as low as I can. Papi rolls a medicine ball under his foot.
“Good.” Papi opens the small refrigerator and tosses me a protein drink. I take the towel Robi holds out and wipe sweat from my face.
“Looking good.” Robi always talks to me with a smile.
“Thanks.” I drape my towel over his head and ruffle his hair. I pick up my valentine. Robi’s drawn a picture of what could be a papi and an hijo holding hands. Only, the bigger figure’s wearing a jersey with a thirty-three on it. That’s my number, not Papi’s. “This is great. I love it.” I tip my drink to him, offering him some.
“Toma.” Papi tosses the medicine ball at me. I catch it, but just barely. The drink would have spilled over Yaritza’s carpet if Robi hadn’t taken it. My valentine drifts like a leaf in October. It settles on the bottom step.
“La jaqueta.” Papi shoves open the door before I can shrug my jacket on. I slide Robi’s card into my bag. Mami’s going to want it on the refrigerator.
“Can I come too?”
Papi’s already outside, walking toward Sunset Park. He doesn’t hear Robi.
“Go get your coat.” I’m rewarded with a mile-wide grin.
Doesn’t matter that it’s thirty degrees. As long as there’s no snow or ice, Papi will run me through drills. And Robi will try to join.
Papi’s waiting by the streetlight half a block away. I jog past him, my sneakers crunching grass that’s winter-brown. I squat, the medicine ball hanging between my knees. Cold air scrapes my throat. It ice-picks my chest from the inside. I clench my jaw, shoot up, and hurl the ball as far as I can. I sprint to it, pick it up, and do it again.
“Más rápido.”
I do as Papi says. My legs burn. I didn’t think I could go any faster. But Papi was right. If I push myself, I can.
Robi kicks around a rock. He stays on the other side of the walkway. Papi’s yelled at him for getting too close before. I don’t want Robi getting hit by the basketball-size weight. I don’t like him getting yelled at either.
Papi takes the medicine ball from me when I finish ten reps. He hands me a water bottle.
Robi’s hanging from a tree branch. His legs swing in the air. He sees me get down on the ground. He drops and sprints so he’s behind Papi. He gets into push-up position too. Papi’s marked off ten yards with a red ribbon.
“Go!” His stopwatch clicks.
I spring up and pump my legs until I’m past that ribbon. Papi frowns at the timer. I’ve got thirty seconds before the next one. I pace. I remember Papi’s words. I shut my mouth and force air through my nose, warming it before it hits my lungs.
On the other side of the green, Robi mirrors me, hands on hips, stomping down dead stalks of weeds.
At Papi’s nod, I get into position.
Robi does too.
Click.
“¡Pa’rriba! Knees to chest! Knees to chest!” Papi chants.
I barrel toward the ribbon. I pull my legs as high as they’ll go.
“¡Eso!” Papi’s not frowning anymore.
It’s hard to smile when you’re catching your breath.
Robi’s skipping sideways, arms pumping the sky. If I had my phone, I’d take a photo.
When Papi takes two gloves from his bag and a ball from his pocket, Robi bounds over to us.
“Can I throw too?” It’s impossible not to hear his hope.
“Más tarde.” It’s what Papi always says.
“But I want a chance to throw with Alex.” Robi shouldn’t whine. It just makes Papi dig in.
“I said later. ¡Vete pa’lla!” Papi points to a rock under a tree.
Robi hangs his head. A drop hangs from the tip of his nose. Instead of wiping it away, Robi snorts it back in.
“Come on, we can do a few tosses all together. There’s time, right?”
They both look at me, surprised I’ve spoken. Robi’s eyes light up. Thunder gathers in Papi’s.
“Time?” Papi says. “We have just four months until travel team starts. When you here, I train you. Es todo. ¿Me escuchas? This is not a game. This is your life.”
When we get back inside, Yaritza’s waiting. Mami called. She wants me home for dinner.
“Qué no.” Papi smacks the wood banister. “You said you’d spend the night. We still have game strategy to review. Y mañana tienes que practicar más.”
I haven’t seen Mami all week. When I get home, she’s already at work. She was supposed to work a double shift tonight, which is why
I agreed to stay. But now . . .
“This is most important.” Papi shows me the baseball in his fist. “This is what makes you more. What do people see when they look at you, eh? Un moreno walking the streets.”
He stomps toward the display case in the living room. Behind him, Robi’s eyes are twin full moons. Papi swipes the key from the top ledge. He wrestles the glass open. With two hands, he takes out his cap, the one he wore when he played for the Yankees. He comes back to me, slips it on my head. I want to tell him to stop. My hair is a mess of sweat and dirt.
He pulls me to the mirror. “Now what do people see?”
I tip my chin up. The cap fits me. It fits me perfect.
“A baseball player.” I know what to say. I’ve said it before.
“Eso.” Papi grips my shoulders. “People don’t see color when you’re wearing this. And you, you’re better than I was.” He tugs the brim over my eyes. “This will be yours one day.”
In the mirror, Papi’s smiling at me. It makes everything worth it.
Behind us, Robi’s looking at the floor.
“Pero, mañana it will be en los teens. You said, less than twenty-five is too cold.” Yaritza sidles up to him. She knocks her hip against his.
“And why do we have the room with the weights and equipment?” Papi jabs his hand toward the floor.
“So you can look good.” She squeezes his thighs. “And all this doesn’t turn to fat.”
Papi’s hands find her butt. “Ah, sí? I look good, eh?”
Robi clomps up the stairs. He doesn’t give me a smile. I don’t know if it’s because I won’t be spending the night or because of what Papi said.
Yaritza’s whispering to Papi. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. She leans into him. She drags her hands down his arms.
“He’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you, Ále?” Yaritza looks over her shoulder at me. She waves me to the kitchen where I find a foil packet of what smells like tortas.
Papi’s eyes are still closed. They’re swaying together, dancing to music I can’t hear.
“Gracias.” I plant a quick kiss on Yaritza’s cheek. “Nine o’clock good for tomorrow?” I sling my bag onto my back. On the weekends, it takes a good hour and a half to get here.
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