Mom swears in Spanish. Another bad sign. Merrit’s face smiles down at me from our family portrait from five years ago, his mouth full of braces. He’d seen a new psychiatrist right before the photo shoot. Later that night, I overheard Mom crying in the master bedroom. Dad was saying over and over it wasn’t her fault. By then at least, I knew Mom was different. I’d never heard the words bipolar disorder, though. In the portrait, our smiles look carefree and happy. I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking up at my brilliant, bigger-than-life big brother. I hope this doesn’t have to do with Merrit. I hope he’s OK.
I backtrack down the hall to the door. I open it, slam it shut, then cry out, “Hello! I’m home!” I hum as I make my way to the kitchen. “I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?”
Dad is leaning against the stove. His glasses are on the counter next to a huge package of unwrapped flowers. Mom’s watching him from where she stands on the other side of the island, clutching a glass. It’s not her usual sparkling water. Her dad had an alcohol problem, something she brings up every year to make sure Merrit and I never forget it. But next to her is an open bottle of wine. Remnants of a broken goblet sparkle in the sink.
“Sorry, we haven’t gotten around to thinking about dinner.” Dad rubs his eyes.
“Want me to call for sushi?” I keep my tone light. Pretending everything is OK is the modus operandi in our household. “Oh, that’s right.” I slap my hand to my forehead. “The dead fish won’t hear me. I’ll just run out and pick some up.” Dad jokes are a good technique too, though Dad’s much better at them than I am.
Mom turns to the window. She takes a long sip as she gazes at the Empire State Building. It’s lit up blue and green tonight.
“That’s a good idea, honey. Here.” Dad hands me his credit card.
Mom whips around. She slams the glass down. Drops of wine splatter like blood across the granite. “What are you doing?!”
I drop Dad’s card.
“We need to have dinner,” Dad says quietly. Why isn’t he joking with her, making her laugh like he usually does?
“Sushi is expensive. We’ll make do with whatever is in the refrigerator.” She slides by me, picking up the platinum card and chucking it back at Dad. She drags out cheese and grapes and hard salami. Leftovers from her book club.
I take small breaths. Mom gets like this when she’s stressed, all crazy frugal even though we don’t need to be. It’s like a flashback from her childhood. Dad always stops her. He wraps her in his arms, puts on the Buena Vista Social Club, and makes her dance with him. He starts out dancing badly, to make her laugh. Sometimes she cries. But he always promises he’ll take care of her and that she’ll never have to live like that again.
Tonight Dad just takes out some plates. He reaches for a tumbler and gets down a bottle of scotch. I’ve only ever seen that bottle when their friends the Rosens come over after a show.
I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. “Is it Merrit?”
Last I talked to Merrit, he mentioned a new app he was developing. The campus sports teams were loving it. It was spreading “faster than an STI.” He’d been talking so fast, I couldn’t help but be nervous—I know all the signs of a manic episode now. But Merrit promised he’d been sleeping and taking his meds. So I assumed he was just excited. What if I was wrong?
Dad puts down the scotch. “Merrit’s fine.” His hand comes out for emphasis.
I relax my fist, loosening the nails digging into my palm. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad, then.
I get out three placemats and arrange them on the banquet. Mom shakes her head.
“I’m not eating. It’s just you and your father.”
“Elisa,” Dad starts.
“You think I can eat at a time like this?” Her accent thickens, hardening her words.
Dad looks down at the polished stone floor. I’m thoroughly confused. Mom turns back to me. “How’s your school going? Any homework tonight?”
“It’s all fine, Mom. I have a paper due tomorrow on Franny and Zooey, but I already have a draft.”
“Bring me your laptop. I’ll read your paper while you eat.”
“Why?” She doesn’t usually go over my work.
“This has nothing to do with Isabelle,” Dad interrupts.
The look Mom gives him is so vicious it makes me step back. “It has everything to do with Isabelle. It’s even more important now that she gets good grades.”
I’m used to Mom being overly dramatic. But she’s starting to freak me out. “Dad? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, sweetie, everything’s going to be fine.”
“How can you say that to her? God, and with that smile on your face?” Mom marches over for her glass of wine. She grabs it but doesn’t take a drink. “Your father lost his job. He was fired.” Lost his job? But he’s not a trader. Dad’s the chief risk officer. His job is secure.
“I just don’t understand why you signed off on a deal you knew wasn’t sound.” Mom glares at him.
“Elisa.” Dad sighs. “The MD made it clear he only wanted my approval.”
She waves an arm. “Do you have proof? An email? Something to demonstrate you’re not accountable?” Dad doesn’t answer. “You don’t, do you? They would never be so foolish as to put something like that in writing.”
Dad comes over to the table and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. I can get another job.”
Mom makes a mild shrieking sound. “Why would you tell her that? It was a multibillion-dollar screw-up, Isabelle. And now the SEC is investigating.” She starts muttering in Spanish. “You don’t know what will happen. You don’t.” She’s gripping the glass so hard the tips of her fingers are white.
Dad reaches for Mom. She doesn’t step away. He rubs her arm, his voice dropping to a soothing drone. “There are plenty of other banks in the city. I’ll find work at one of them.”
Mom takes a long drink of wine. “You just told me you might be blacklisted.”
Dad glances at me. He ducks down to find Mom’s eyes. “That would be a worst-case scenario,” he whispers. “We’ll have to make adjustments. You’re right. We don’t need to eat sushi every week. At least not from Takai.” He tries for a smile, and Mom leans into him. His nickname for Mom’s favorite sushi place is the word expensive in Japanese.
“We can sell the Hamptons house. We hardly ever go out east anymore anyway.”
Mom’s mouth opens.
“And there are other ways we can cut back,” Dad murmurs. “Isabelle’s been begging to attend the Manhattan Ballet Academy full time since she was twelve. It’s a specialized city school. Free tuition.”
Mom’s finger slices the air. “No. We are not sacrificing her education. Deerwood has one of the best college acceptance lists in the city. Merrit graduated from there. And their STEM curriculum is excellent, not to mention the special mentorship program they have for women who want to go into medicine.”
Dad sees me chewing my lip. He knows I don’t want to be a doctor, that I hate the sight of blood. He sighs. “What do you think, Isabelle? If the Academy will honor your acceptance from last summer, would you like to go there?”
I give the faintest of nods. Dad knows I would kill to be able to dance full time. But I don’t want to get my hopes up. They might not accept me. I’m older than most candidates for transfer. Mom is looking at me like I’m holding a knife and I’m about to stab her.
“Mom, there’s this one dancer, Mia, who got into Columbia early decision from the Academy. She wants to be an OB doctor.”
Mom’s lips pinch. She doesn’t believe me.
“David Jeffries is on the board there,” Dad says. “I can ask him who the right person to call would be. This is a good idea, Elisa. The savings would be significant.”
Mom doesn’t say no. She doesn’t shout and stomp her foot. That means there’s a chance.
“Come on, we can talk more about this later. For now, let’s sit and eat toget
her. I’ve been craving”—Dad squints at the plastic container—“almond cilantro hummus all day.” He wheels Mom into the seat of honor, directly north of the Manhattan skyline. Dad sits next to her, tapping the cushion of the bench on his other side. I slide in.
“It will work out. It always does,” Dad says. It’s our mantra, his and mine. I say it to myself as we eat, as I clean up, as I head back to my room.
When I’m on my bed, I take out Alex’s poem. I read it over and over until it blocks out Dad’s promise, until it’s all I see, all I think about. Before I turn out the lights, I open Instagram. Alex’s account is right up top. He’s posted a photo of our two hands. It’s blurry—the train must have been moving—but still, I make out the curve of his fingers under mine.
FRIDAY, MARCH 3
ALEX
I don’t know whether to sit or stand. If I sit, Isa might not see me. If I stand, I’ll pace. I don’t want her to see that. I’m not in my usual spot in the middle of the train because I want to see her as soon as she comes down.
I unzip my jacket. There’s dirty snow and brain-freeze wind on the streets. Down here there’s only tracks of muddy slush. Two little kids take the stairs, lowering one foot at a time. Behind, a mami clutches a metal cart filled with groceries. It clangs on each step.
I push off the post.
“Can I help you?” I motion to the cart. The woman jumps, like a pigeon scared by a bear.
“No, no is OK. We OK. Thank you, thank you.” The mami bows her head and shoulders to me again and again. The cart smacks onto the next stair. A carton of eggs wobbles on top. The mami’s eyes dart from me to her kids, like she thinks I might do something to them. I’ve been keeping my eye on them. They’re too small to be on the platform by themselves.
“Alex!”
Isa’s running down the steps. She doesn’t stop until she’s in front of me. “Alex.” She grabs my hands with both of hers. She looks at me like I’m hidden treasure she’s finally found.
I try not to smile too big. “You’re breathing hard,” I say. Her face is flushed.
“Oh.” Her light-brown eyes bug. She rises onto her toes then drops to her heels. “I was so excited to see your message. I can’t believe it’s been two whole weeks and we’re finally making this work! I couldn’t wait to see you.” She whispers the last part.
I’m glad for my sweatshirt. An extra layer to hide the pounding inside me. It’s been two weeks and three days. But who’s counting?
Her fingers squeeze mine. “How are you? Are you ready for your first game? It’s in two Saturdays, right?”
I hide my surprise. “You been checking up on me?”
She ducks her head. “Your team’s schedule is online. You’re playing Morris. Are they a good team? Will you still play if there’s snow?”
“We’ll see about the weather. And yes, Morris is good.” I don’t tell her that AHH is better, that last year we crushed them 11–4 and then 10–5. I don’t want to talk about ball. “How’s your rehearsing?” Isa’s hair is in a bun again. Tiny flecks of pink light up in it as she moves.
“I’ve got big news.” She goes on her toes again. It brings her eyes about level with my nose. I bend my knees to see her better. “I might go to the Manhattan Academy of Ballet full time!” She’s jigging up and down. Like she’s on a trampoline, about to launch into the air.
“Wow!” I tell her. “That’s great!”
“I’m still waiting to hear if they’ll accept last year’s audition. I’d start over the summer. I had to promise Mom it doesn’t mean I’m going professional. I told her I’m still considering medical school.”
“A doctor, huh?” I fix the collar of her jacket. She must have thrown it on fast. “You’d look good in a white coat. A stethoscope hanging here.” I trace a line down the side of her neck. Her skin, where I touch her, colors. I tug at my hoodie. Coño, I’m glad I’m wearing it.
Her eyes look straight at mine. “Yeah, well. I’m actually kind of scared of blood.”
“Maybe you should tell your mother that.”
She leans close. Her breath smells like fruit, like orange and mango. “That guy over there?” She’s whispering again. “The one staring at us? He looks like one of the lion statues in front of my building. With his jowls and frown.” Laughter trickles out of her.
I go to turn but she stops me.
“Wait. Don’t make it obvious!”
I give her a look that tells her I know how to do this. I push back my hood and search the ceiling for the next train’s estimated arrival. The family with the cart and the two little boys watches us. The mami smiles at me and bobs her head. Sure, now that she sees me with Isa, I deserve a smile.
Farther down the platform is a white man with droopy cheeks. Jowls Isa called them. Yeah, I can see why she thinks he looks like a lion. It’s his attitude. I know guys like him. Guys who look at me and decide they’re more important than me, ’cause I’m nothing.
I face the man. He looks through me. He adjusts his tie. He turns to the approaching train.
It’s because we’re standing together, Isa and I. I’m still holding her hand. He doesn’t like it.
The heat in my blood goes from simmer to boil. I get that feeling again, that no matter what I do, I can’t win. I exhale, nice and slow, like I’m preparing to take the mound. What Lion-man and that mami think of me doesn’t matter. They’re like a heckling crowd, trying to shake me. I won’t let them.
“Come on.” I tug Isa with me, down past the man with the necktie and loafers, toward the middle of the platform.
“What?” she asks.
“You’ll see.”
The train rushes past. Wind hits the back of my arm, my neck. A wisp of Isa’s hair flutters onto her cheek. She presses against me. Words swirl in my head. My hand itches for a pen and a piece of paper.
I count the cars as they roll by. “This one,” I say as the doors open.
“It looks empty.” Her bright gaze slides to mine. “Is that why you want it?”
The sly curve of her mouth punches heat into my gut. I try to keep my expression cool. “No, no, it’s just . . .” I go to wipe the sweat that’s coming on my forehead but stop myself. “I’ll show you.”
She follows me in.
Ofrescome. I nearly gag at the smell.
Isa turns to me, her eyes bugging again. She slaps a hand to her mouth. Her fingers cover her nose. I’m not sure if she’s trying not to laugh or not to breathe.
The car’s not empty. There’s a homeless person at one end. Ratty blankets cover his shoulders. Ratty sneakers, tongues hanging out like desert dogs’, sit beside him. He’s got a piece of cardboard under his feet. They’re bare and red.
I drag Isa into the next car.
Laughter pours out of her as soon as the door shuts.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know he was in there.”
Her hand seizes my arm. “I’m not laughing at him.” She points at my face. “I’ve never”—she snorts—“I’ve never seen you look so surprised. I thought . . .” She covers her mouth as she hiccups. “It’s just, you’re always so calm, so in control. I like that you can be caught off guard.” She tips against me.
“What are you talking about? I get surprised.” She thinks I’m calm and in control? That’s good though, right?
Her lashes are damp. They’re clumping together. “Yeah? When?”
“Well.” I think for a moment. “Halloween. When you . . .” I nod at her. “You know.”
She stops laughing. She wets her lips. Her eyes drop to my mouth.
I can’t help it. I wet my lips too. Inside, my heart taps a merengue beat.
“You didn’t look surprised.” Her voice is softer. “You didn’t feel surprised either. It almost felt like . . .” She traces her smile with a pink fingernail.
“Like what?”
Her gaze swings back to me. “Like you knew I was coming.”
I close my mouth. I remind myself to swallow.
“So why did you bring me into that car?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter. Just . . . I was going to show you something.”
“Show me what?”
The other day, on the train, I almost didn’t show her what I’d written. I’ve never been more nervous. A bottom-of-the-ninth playoff game with bases loaded, us up one run and me on the mound, has nothing on that afternoon. I felt naked, watching Isa read. She smiled. And what she said? Her words were like robes of fur and velvet, making me feel like a king. Making me feel like I could do anything. Be anyone. Not just what everyone expects.
Isa bumps me with her arm. She’s waiting for an answer.
I shrug. “Something I wrote.”
Her mouth makes a small O shape. “But how?” she asks.
I tell her how I spoke with a conductor who was from La Vega. How he confirmed how long it takes to run the whole line, how many trips a day a train can make. There’s still luck involved. Some trains get switched out on the weekend. I tried to account for that by planting extras.
Cool fingers burrow into my fist. “Come on,” she says. She tries to pull me to the door.
I don’t budge. “No. I don’t want you going in there again.”
“Listen.” She’s smiling at me. “I don’t care about that. I’ve smelled worse.”
“You have? Like in dance school? Dancer feet, they smell like that?”
She ignores my joke and bounces on her toes. “I want to see what you wrote.” Her fingers tap against my palm. “Please? Show me?”
I take her arm. I draw an exaggerated breath. I wait for her to do the same. I yank open the first door, and the second. I rush us inside. The poem I left for Isa is at the other end, tucked under the seat beside the framed poem by Enrico García, a thirty-eight-year-old Nuyorican with a wavy website.
Isa’s eyes glow. She doesn’t look away from me.
I reach down and feel along the edge of the two-person bench. I untape the folded note. I hand it to Isa. I try to pull her out, to get her into the next car.
“Wait.” She snaps it open. The paper covers her face as she reads.
I look away. The homeless guy is checking us out. He has reason to be suspicious. Bryan and I once saw some dudes with blue bandanas beating up a homeless person. We were only in seventh grade. There was nothing we could do. And I was too afraid of the cop outside the station to tell him what was going down beside the tracks. I should have told him though. I think about that homeless person sometimes.
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