“Eight,” Papi calls out as I shut the door.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 14
ISA
“Gods be damned, my trap is killing me.” Chrissy’s whispering through her teeth. She extends over her leg, reaching for her pointed toe, an exact mirror of me and the five other girls at the barre. Madame Toussane, our Adagio teacher, claps her hands, stopping the piano. Chrissy rubs her shoulder as we reposition ourselves for the final combination. Madame Toussane nods at Mr. Richards, the pianist, and the music starts. She snaps her fingers to the beat, calling out the steps.
There are two sharp claps and the music stops. “Non. That is incorrect. Isabelle, venez ici. To the center.”
I bow my head and step away from the barre. Did I do something wrong?
“Now, everybody watch. Isabelle, please, again.” Madame Toussane glances at Mr. Richards and notes fill the room. She chants the moves.
“Plié, tendu. Plié, développé. Plié, now the grand rond de jambe . . .”
I stretch my leg as I lift it in front of me. I imagine it growing longer from my hip to my heel and toe as I swing it slowly, ever so slowly, behind me.
“Front, second, now écarté, écarté, écarté . . . then to arabesque. Yes! Excellent! Now let’s see it with some movement across the floor. Isabelle, please.” Her praise is like air to a balloon inside my chest. I feel pumped up and light on my feet. She gives me new steps. I take my place in the corner. I sink into a deep plié, one foot pointed behind me, my arm reaching up as if to the branches of a tree dripping fruit. Music begins. I drag my foot forward, lift the leg into développé, transfer onto it for the pirouette, arms forward, chest out, then slow into the grand ronde de jambe, ending in arabesque with another deep plié. My hand reaches now not for the tree but directly in front of me, toward the door of the room. I imagine Alex there, watching me.
“Beautiful. Well done. We will all work on that next class. Dismissed!” Madame Toussane gives a final clap.
“You are so getting a lead part for the spring performance.” Chrissy prods me with her elbow as we walk to the locker room. I duck under the arm of a dancer whose leg is being lifted by a young man in dance shorts and a T-shirt. He’s helping her stretch, but the way they’re facing each other, her foot in his hand, her ankle above his shoulder, their pelvises inches apart, seems awfully intimate. I think of Alex doing that for me and my cheeks flame.
“We’ll see,” I say to Chrissy. I don’t like to hope for things that might not happen.
Chrissy scoffs. “Madame Toussane hardly ever compliments anyone. And she loves you. Excellente, Mademoiselle Isabelle. You are the most perfect dancer who has ever graced my classroom! Come, let me have you dance for the entire school!” Chrissy’s French accent makes me laugh. It comes out with a tinge of southern twang. She’s not making fun of me. Or being jealous. She just likes to make me laugh.
“Meet you downstairs?” She grabs her bag and runs to find Kevin. Like she does each day after class. She’s so lucky Kevin is in the same building as her every single day.
Ten minutes later, Chrissy comes down the marble steps. Her arms cradle pink roses tied with a satin ribbon, but there’s no Kevin. I’d forgotten it was Valentine’s Day. I scheduled an e-card for Merrit a few days ago, but he hasn’t responded. I give Chrissy a supersad face. “Did you lock Kevin in the janitor’s closet? Sorry, I meant to tell him about your thing against flowers.” Chrissy hates them. She’s always thought giving something that’s going to die is a stupid way of showing affection.
Chrissy shrugs a shoulder. “Perhaps my antifloral attacks were too vicious. I’ve never gotten roses before.” She buries her nose in the petals, then sighs. “Kevin’s stuck in rehearsal for another hour. Guess it’s just you and me, chica!” She flings her arm around me then grimaces in pain. She rubs her neck as we push out into the frosty air. When we get down to the subway, I massage her shoulders.
“Thank you . . .” Her growl is eclipsed by the screeching of our train pulling in. “You. Are. The. Best. Man, Coppélia is the worst variation ever. My body’s not meant to be stiff like a doll. I’m meant to be pliable and loose, in the arms of a lover.” She wags her eyebrows and I laugh as we get on.
“How’s it going with Kevin, by the way?” I think of Alex again. Ever since Alex walked me to class and uploaded a picture of me to his Instagram—you can’t tell it’s me because it’s just my back, my coat sailing behind me—he’s posted almost every day. The photos feel like they’re for me: shoes, all types, not just ballet shoes. Anything to do with dance. And then there are some that are just plain beautiful. The sun hitting the George Washington Bridge. An old lady on a park bench, her smile wide as she feeds the pigeons. I can’t wait to see what he posts today.
Chrissy swings herself around the pole, like she’s in a Broadway musical. “Kevin is perrrr-fect.” Chrissy purrs like a cat. I try to keep a straight face.
“Well, he can pick up where I left off.” I gesture to her shoulders. “His fingers have to be pretty strong from all that keyboard banging.”
“You have no idea,” she replies, looking up at me from under lowered lids. “He’s got the best hands. Long and slender, and quite, quite agile.” Chrissy leans in. “Do you know he can span eleven keys? That’s only one less than Rachmaninov, who had possibly the biggest hands of any composer.” Chrissy shouts over the train’s rattling. “And since you mentioned banging, I should tell you, we’re not going there yet. This time, I’m taking it slow. I’m enjoying myself. Kissing can be really fun. I mean, really, really fun. Did you know all the things your tongue is capable of?” A woman in an orange puffer coat and bright purple snow boots peers over the top of her New York Post at us. “Kevin’s got the tongue of a bassoonist,” Chrissy continues, oblivious to the woman’s gaze. She should know—she met one at camp last summer. I never met any of the other guys Chrissy hung out with before Kevin. They weren’t really boyfriends.
“This is me, chica.” Chrissy kisses my cheek as the doors slide open at Seventy-Ninth. “I’m meeting Glenda for dinner. Well, Kevin and I are both meeting her, but Kevin’s coming after apps. You know how hungry my momster gets.”
“Wait, you’re introducing Kevin to your mom? For Valentine’s Day?” Chrissy’s never done that before. Ever.
Her face flushes. She backs out to the platform and shrugs. “Yeah. Guess I am. I really like him, Isa. I hope I don’t screw it up.”
“See you tomorrow,” I call. “Use a heating pad on your neck. In case the wonder hands don’t do the trick!” The newspaper beside me rustles. Snow boot lady pretends she wasn’t listening but she’s smiling.
“Attention, passengers, this train is being held in the station due to a red signal. We should be moving shortly.”
I check my phone. Still no message from Merrit. But Alex posted a pic of an open subway door. In the background, a sticker that reads KEEP CALM AND DANCE ON is slapped to the wall, below the tiled numbers SEVENTY-NINE. I stand and move to the open door. There, on the other side of a row of benches, is the same sticker. Is Alex here?
I scoot out onto the platform and slip into the next car.
Alex is at the other end. He’s leaning over, writing, his baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. Adrenaline bursts across my palms and dives into my fingers.
Every day on the train I close my eyes and dream about our walk. And our dance. Sometimes I see his friends’ faces as I tell them my mom’s Cuban. I try not to think about what they said. It’s exactly why Mom hates ballet. Sometimes I rehearse words I’ll never say to her. That there are plenty of people who don’t judge only on appearance, even when appearance matters. Alex has never made assumptions about me because of ballet or the way I look, even if his friends did.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
I make my way to him as the train lurches forward. The tingling is in my belly now. He’s sitting in a two-seater against the wall. He’s so intent on his notebook, he doesn’t look
up. Even though it’s cold out, his jacket’s open. His pants and his gray jersey—with the letters AHH embroidered in blue—are splattered with dirt. I tap his sneaker—not Chucks, but Adidas.
His eyes dart to me and widen. The edges of his mouth lift. “Hi.”
I show him my screen with his post. “I was in the next car.”
“Really?” His smile makes me smile even more.
“Coming from practice?”
He gestures at his clothes. “What gave it away?” His hand slides over the paper and he scoots toward the wall, pushing his bag under him.
I sit, turning to face him.
“You coming from practice too?” he asks.
“Yup! Well, class—not practice.”
He chuckles at the faux-fierce look I give him.
I sit back and pretend to wedge my shoulders next to his. He moves to give me room. I don’t need any—I was just being funny. I lean all the way into him as we brake into the next station. I throw my weight into it then bring up my foot and push against the bar until he laughs. The feel of him along my entire side sends a rush of heat through me. He frees his arm. His wide hand settles on my shoulder neither pushing nor pulling me away. It just rests there. I stop and lie against him. I want to tip my head onto him like I did when we danced. I wish I could. I wish we both had more time. I’ve never missed having a boyfriend. But seeing him, feeling him, makes me realize I miss him.
I give Alex space as the doors open. He doesn’t take his hand away.
A small man with silver hair peeking out from a frayed cowboy hat gets on. His fingers whirl over the keys of an accordion as soon as the doors close. A fast-paced tune heaves out of the machine as the man compresses and unfolds it. I glance at Alex. We smile at each other. The music isn’t bad. I tap my foot, knocking my knee against him.
The old man moves toward us. His weathered face squints as he starts to sing. Alex presses his lips together. He takes his hand back to cover his mouth and turns to the wall. The man’s singing is awful. Alex shakes with laughter he won’t let out. Luckily, the poor man’s singing with his eyes closed. I don’t understand all the words because of his accent. I tap my fingers on Alex’s leg, marking the beat. It makes him go still.
The song finishes. The little man takes his hat and flips it over. He murmurs gracias to the few who give him money. I take a twenty from my bag.
“You’re not serious?” Alex’s eyes are wet from trying not to laugh. “You know he’s scamming you, right?”
“How do you know? We have no idea what’s going on in his life. Maybe his wife died of cancer and the hospital is suing him for bills he can’t pay. Maybe he lost his apartment. He can’t get a job because he’s too old and he doesn’t speak English.”
Alex sighs. “Most people who ask for money are either druggies or alcoholics. You’re just enabling him, preventing him from seeking the help he needs.”
“That little grandpa is not an alcoholic.”
Alex’s eyebrow rise. “He was slurring his words.”
Hmm. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t understand him.
The man shuffles over, holding out his hat. There’s not a single bill, only a few scattered coins. “Please, please,” he says. “Anything, anything.” His eyes, almost swallowed by the folds of his face, shift from Alex to me. He smiles wider, revealing dark gaps where teeth should be. I drop the bill in.
“Ay, gracias. Dios te bendiga.” He backs away.
“De nada,” I reply. “Un placer.”
Alex watches me, his head cocked to the side.
“My mom wants me to take taxis. I prefer the subway. She’d ask questions if I gave her the money back. And I feel funny keeping it.”
Alex’s hand rests on his leg. A bit of paper from the notebook peeks out from under his thumb. “Is that the real reason?” Alex doesn’t look away.
I shrug. “It makes me feel good. To help. Even if he does need more help, like doctor help or AA help, at least he won’t be hungry tonight.”
Alex nods. “OK. I can understand that.” His fingers curl over the paper. It disappears into his fist.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“What’s what?”
I laugh. “Under your hand. What were you writing when I so rudely interrupted you?”
“Nothing.” He folds the paper and tucks it into his coat pocket. The notebook disappears into his bag. “And you didn’t interrupt me.”
“I see.” I remove a few pins from my bun. My scalp aches. “You stole some kid’s parakeet and now you’re crafting the ransom note.” I drop the pins in my palm. Alex’s mouth is fixed in that uneven smile. “That’s not it? Oh, I know.” I lift my arms again and remove the rest of the pins. “You’re creating a hit list for all your rival baseball players.” Alex lets out a soft chuckle. I unwrap my hair and let the ponytail fall down my back. “Perhaps it’s your abuelita’s recipe for asopao. Don’t want to share the Dominican secret with a Cuban, even a half-Cuban, huh?”
“My abuelita is dead. Both of them are.”
I drop my hands and face him. “I’m so sor—”
He cracks a grin. “They’re not dead. One’s in Santiago, the other’s in Santo Domingo. I couldn’t resist.”
I go to swat him. He grabs my wrist. He slides the piece of paper under my fingers.
He doesn’t say anything as I unfold it, as I read the words scrawled onto a ripped piece of yellow lined notepaper. Some are scratched out and written over. Some I can barely decipher. But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s a poem. About me. He wrote a poem about me.
Your feet rap a rhythm
of beauty and power and rhyme,
faster than the gallop of train beneath us.
I struggle to follow.
You slow.
You pour your hip into the cup of my hand
showing me my thirst.
What takes my breath isn’t your body.
It’s your eyes.
They stayed with me
though I could barely keep up.
Though the floor lurches and sways,
though you continue to move to the beat
of “no me culpes a mí,”
the calm earth of your eyes tells me
it doesn’t matter what my hands, what my feet can’t do
as long as I’m with you.
“What do you think?” His voice is quiet.
I read it six times. I want to read it six hundred more.
I finally look up at him. “I . . . It’s . . .” I don’t have any words that can match his.
He gives me a stiff smile. He reaches for the paper. “I know it’s not very good.”
I take his hand, wrap my fingers through his. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Can I keep it?”
His eyes, soft and brown, blink at me. “It’s for you.”
“Will you sign it?”
He blinks again.
I offer the paper. He lifts his pen. He signs A at the bottom.
“How did you learn to write like this?”
He looks away. “I don’t know. I just picked up the pen and started.”
“One day one of your pieces will be up there.” I motion to the MTA poem framed behind the glass.
He scowls at his shoe. “Nah. I’m no poet. I’m a ballplayer.”
“Why can’t you be both?”
He’s silent, considering.
“Hey, I know neither of us has time what with my class and rehearsal schedule and with your baseball, but do you think you could message me when you’re riding this train? If we happen to be heading in the same direction . . . ?”
“I’ll let you know my schedule,” he says. “But I’m on varsity. Our away games are mostly in the Bronx.” He doesn’t have to tell me that means he won’t be riding this line. It was stupid of me to suggest. Stupid of me to dream.
He takes my hand back. “But I’ll still be going to Brooklyn on the weekends.”
My fingers brush against the poem in my p
ocket. It’s like a nugget of hope.
Alex rises when I do. He walks me to the door. We stand there for a few seconds, me on the platform, him still in the subway, our hands bridging the gap. He doesn’t let me go until the light above us turns red and the bell rings out.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 14
ISA
“Good rehearsal today, Miss Isabelle?” Gerry holds the lobby door open for me. The thick rings on his fingers shimmer in the light from our awning. I’ve always been fascinated by those rings. On my sixth birthday, Gerry let me try the one with the amber stone. It fit over two of my fingers together. Even then I had to make a fist so it wouldn’t fall off.
“Always,” I reply.
“Toes no bothering you?” Gerry is convinced my pointe shoes are going to give me bunions.
“Not yet!” I sing it to him.
His laugh is a deep rumble. “Is good you’re home. Your mother, she could use your smile.”
I feel my grin deflate. My hand closes around Alex’s poem, tucked safely in my pocket. Even if Mom is in one of her moods, I have this.
Gerry walks me to the elevator, reaches inside and hits the button for my floor. “Good night, princesa.” He tips his hat. The elevator closes with a quiet thump.
Voices reach me as soon as I open the door. Strange. Mom and Dad are usually at the other end of the apartment, in the eat-in kitchen or the library. Even Dad’s office is all the way in the back.
I kick off my shoes and hang my coat. I’m halfway down the hall when I realize the vase of two dozen long-stemmed red roses that Dad always gives Mom on Valentine’s Day isn’t on the entryway table.
A crash of glass makes me jump. I run for the kitchen. Mom’s shrill voice mirrors the smashing of crystal.
“What are we going to do? What are we going to tell people?”
“We’ll figure it out. Let’s just take it one step at a time.” Dad’s words are calm but strained.
I lean against the wall, my heart pounding. My parents never argue openly. Sure, Mom yells. But her outbursts have nothing to do with Dad.
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