I give our fellow passenger a nod. As if to say, “Hey. You cool, I’m cool.”
He nods back.
My eyes are watering. ¡Guay! Maybe we’re cool but that be a powerful smell. It’s like dead fish and dead mice are having a zombie party.
Isa’s eyes are teary too. Her lip shivers. Is she cold?
“How?” she says. She draws a breath through her mouth. “How do you write this?”
I’m afraid to ask. But I need to. “You like it?”
“Look at me.” She rattles the paper at her face. “You made me cry.” Her lip shivers again.
“Here.” I draw her hand around my back. My arms close around her shoulders. She’s going to feel the thudding in my chest. But I don’t know what else to do.
Her nose rubs against my hoodie. She sighs, and I dip my face to her hair. She’s like a breeze off the ocean. “You smell good,” I breathe. “I can barely smell the stanky feet.”
She laughs against me.
“Come on.” I tow her to the door. Push us through to another car.
She’s still leaning against me. I can’t see her face. But I hear her smile.
“Read me the poem?” She passes the note into my hand. I don’t take it. I recite from memory.
I LOVE
The oiled leather of my glove
baking in my full-sun window,
The untouched pages of a new book,
The tip of a freshly shaved pencil
you hand to me,
My madrastra’s cooking,
Papi’s rare not-frown,
Your hair,
wet or dry or in between.
Cool cotton sheets
on legs sore from sprinting and sliding,
Snow drifting
onto eyelids and uncovered cheeks,
Shavings of coco-flavored ice
on outstretched tongues,
Your hand melting in mine
on an ever-moving train.
Arms tighten around me. Fists bury into my sides. “Can you do it in Spanish?”
I can.
She tilts her face up. Her smile hits me like a ninety-five-mile-per-hour ball to the chest. I was downed by one last year. At a game against JFK High. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hear what Coach and Papi were shouting at me. It wasn’t until they brought that heart-shocking machine next to me that I gasped and pushed the paddles away. This time, I wouldn’t push them away. I need that machine. Because it aches too much.
Isa’s hand slides off me. My heart shifts into a panic step. I don’t want her to take it away.
She doesn’t. She touches my face. She draws a line from my cheek to my jaw to my chin.
There’s no way she can’t feel my heart. It’s fighting its way out to her.
“Alex,” she whispers. Her fingers slide to the back of my neck.
Her hands are cool. But her lips, on mine, are warm and wet. She makes a small noise. I can’t help myself. I reach under her. I lift her to an empty seat. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, my head. She makes another noise, and I almost lose it. I grab her to me. Her leg is around my waist. Holy God.
The side door opens. The homeless guy shuffles in. “Get a room! Get a room! Get a room!” he shouts at us.
Isa pulls away. She keeps her forehead pressed to mine. She’s laughing.
The train doors open.
“Hold on.” I pick Isa up.
“My bag!” she cries.
I snag it from the seat. She still clutches my note in her hand.
I don’t put her down until we’re on the platform.
“Kiss me,” she says.
I do.
People stream by us. We’re like rocks in a river. Isa pulls me toward the wall. Behind a column that says SIXTY-SIX. Coño. That homeless saved us. We would have missed her stop.
Isa’s hands are on my back. At the waistline of my pants. I bring her fingers to my chest. They slide to my face. I can’t breathe. I don’t need air. All I need is her. The roar of the passing express is distant. I don’t want to stop. But she’s going to be late.
“Your class is at eleven?”
“Yes,” she gasps.
“You need to go.”
“No!” Her lips find mine.
I kiss her then pull back. “It’s 10:55.”
“Can’t be. We met at ten.” She sinks against me, ear to my shirt. Like she’s listening to a secret.
I show her my watch. Her eyes get round. She bites her lip. It’s red and swollen.
The train ride is fifteen minutes, tops.
“No way!” She hides her smile.
I kiss her again. I fight my body and release her. I step back. “Go!”
She doesn’t move. “When will I see you again?”
“Tomorrow.” I blurt it. I’ll leave for Brooklyn later or come home earlier. I’ll figure something to tell Papi. “You have class?”
“Nope.” She beams. “Just breakfast plans with Chrissy.” She comes toward me again. I hold her at arm’s length. “You’re going to be late.” I won’t be able to let her go a second time.
“Hasta mañana,” she says. She turns and runs. She stops at the gate. “Thank you!” She removes the poem from her pocket and presses it to her lips. Then she’s gone.
FRIDAY, MARCH 10
ISA
I push open the door of the Capezio store and take off down Amsterdam, a bag with brand-new pointe shoes inside slapping against my hip. The air is cool on my face. I burst through the crosswalk at Sixty-Eighth just before the light changes. The weather gods have been kind these past few days, sending rain to wash away snow piles that looked like slushies covered in Oreo cookie crumble, and then sun to dry it all out. The weekend should be good too, which means Alex is going to get to play. I’m wearing my Chuck Taylors today because of him, though mine are tie-dyed pink and army green. I can’t wait for him to see them. I can’t wait to see him.
It’s been seven days since he showed me where he’s been hiding his poems. Six days since we last kissed, when I rode with him from Lincoln Center all the way to Riverdale and then he rode back with me down to Ninety-Sixth Street. Kiss doesn’t seem like the right word though. A kiss shouldn’t be enough to turn my insides into warmed honey. It shouldn’t be enough to scramble my thoughts so all that’s left is wanting more. But with Alex it is.
I only ride the fifth car from the front now, so I can search underneath the two-person seats for a small fold of paper. This afternoon, I found one. The poem is about his mami—about her noticing a difference in him. He describes her clever smile, her knowing eyes. Passing a gentle hand over his head, she asks when she’s going to meet the girl responsible. Soon, he answers. Soon.
I swing my arms for speed, then fling out my hands and sail into a grand jeté right on Amsterdam Avenue. I clear two full squares of sidewalk. An old woman with a walker pulls up short as I land beside her.
“Sorry!” I don’t stop. I can’t. Alex will be coming back uptown when I’m done with class. I feel like Stravinsky’s firebird in the “Infernal Dance,” like I have no choice but to keep moving, even though I know in the end I’ll die.
A bunch of guys in baseball caps circle a lamppost. They stop talking as I soar past. One separates from the others. His lip, split by a scar, lifts in a smile.
I smile back, my face warming. He’s Alex’s friend—Danny, I know his name from one of Alex’s posts. I land in perfect fifth position. I twist around, my arms still moving to the music inside me.
“Danny, right?”
He nods, but steps back. One of the other guys punches his shoulder. Danny shoves him. He says something low in Spanish. I catch Alex’s name and the threat to leave him alone—no, to leave me alone.
“Want to walk me to class?” I ask between breaths. “It’s just a few blocks.”
Danny’s eyes grow big. One guy whistles. Another hoots. They can think whatever they want. I’d just like to get to know Alex’s friend.
&nb
sp; Danny glances to the boy leaning against the light, hands buried in his jean pockets. At his shrug and smirk, Danny tugs his cap down, buries his own hands in his pockets, and ambles toward me. I wait until the end of the block before asking how he is.
“Good?” His answer is a question. “You remember me?”
I don’t know why he’s surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He winces. “Sorry. For before. On the train.” The scar on his lip darkens.
I shrug, showing him I’ve gotten past it. “Thanks.” I don’t tell him Alex already apologized plenty. “Great day, huh?” I change the subject just as he asks, “You seen Alex recently?”
“Yup.” My hand strays to my coat, to where I’ve tucked the latest poem. I face Danny, walking backward, deciding I don’t care if he sees my blush.
“You really like him.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod, unable to suppress my grin.
Danny nods back. He doesn’t look away. “You’re not going to hurt him?”
I laugh so loudly, Danny’s friends from down the block turn around. “How would I do that?”
Danny shifts. The brim of his cap tilts down. He must be looking at my fist in my pocket, closed around Alex’s words. “You’re not just using him because of baseball?”
I mash my lips together and shake my head. I don’t even know what that means. Would Alex be able to get me tickets to the Yankees or something? I don’t ask because it doesn’t matter. It’s cute, what Danny’s doing. It makes me like him—and Alex—even more. That they’re watching out for each other.
I glance back at Danny’s friends. A couple of the guys have broken off, and are walking in the same direction we are, on the other side of the avenue.
“Can I tell you a secret? If you promise not to tell Alex?”
Danny stares at me, saucer eyes blinking again.
I lean toward him. “I don’t really like baseball. But I do like your friend. A lot. That last bit you can tell him.” Danny grins. We turn on Sixty-Fifth and walk up the steps to the Library for the Performing Arts. “Hey, how come you’re not in Brooklyn this afternoon training with Alex? Don’t you guys usually go together?”
Danny stops abruptly. His face disappears under his hat as he examines the ground. He shrugs, glancing back to where his friends are waiting at the corner. “Yeah, I told those guys I’d hang with them.”
“Isabelle?”
My breath turns to tacks in my throat. My mom stands above us, right beside the reflecting pool. She’s clutching her leather bag against her jacket. A silk scarf flutters around her neck.
“Mom! What are you doing here?”
She taps the toe of her boot. Her narrowed eyes are pinned on Danny. “The Dean of Faculty invited me for coffee. I had some questions about the academic curriculum.”
My heart beats like a thief who’s been caught. Mom went to speak with Mr. Fairchild? Alone?
She comes down another step. “He invited me to observe one of your classes.” The idea of Mom sitting in on a class makes me dizzy. Her sharp gaze swings to Danny. She draws her bag closer. She glares at Danny as if he’s a monster, a murderer, an alien. She doesn’t introduce herself or ask me to introduce her. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.
Tears prick my eyes. I fight them back and glance at Danny, offering him a silent apology. I’ve got to get Mom away before she embarrasses me more.
Danny gives me a faint nod. He lifts his fingers in a salute and backs off the steps. “If you see Alex before I do, tell him hi from me.” He says it so quietly, I’m not sure Mom heard him.
Mom’s heels stamp onto stone as she makes her way down to me. If lightning bolts could come from eyeballs, they’d be shooting down every single person around us. “Who was that?”
“No one. Just a friend,” I answer.
“Is he a dancer too?”
“No. Just someone I met.” I almost make the mistake of adding “on the subway.”
She’s glaring at Danny and the guys who are slapping his back and the top of his head. One of them yanks off Danny’s cap and races away. Danny, laughing, takes off after him.
“You can’t be friends with him. I don’t want you talking to him or spending time with him again.”
I swing back to my mom. “What?!”
“You know what he is, right?”
I stare at her, wondering what word she could possibly be thinking. A cheater, like her papi? If she says it, I’ll scream.
“Those bandanas. They’re all wearing them.” Mom tracks the flash of red tied around Danny’s arm. They’re almost at the corner.
I frown at the implication. She thinks Danny’s in some gang? Because of how he dresses and how he looks? A white-hot fire sears my chest.
“Boys like that are dangerous. Do you hear me? You’re forbidden from seeing him again.”
I nod. To let her know I heard her. I’m not agreeing to her ridiculous demand.
“Good,” she says.
I stop breathing. Suddenly I’m terrified she heard what Danny said about Alex. I don’t want to have to lie about him; I hadn’t thought that far. But I don’t see an alternative after this.
Mom digs in her bag for her cell. She squints at her screen. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting a broker back home.”
“Broker?” The word comes out as a croak. “We’re selling the apartment?” I lean on the railing, clutching it so I don’t fall. You’d think I’d be used to Mom’s emotional whiplash by now.
“Yes,” she sighs. “Your father doesn’t think we need to, but—don’t get me started. I’ll see you later.” She air-kisses my cheek as if we’re girlfriends instead of mother and daughter. As if we were talking about shopping instead of leaving our home. As if we weren’t just talking about innocent boys and racial profiling.
She clops down the steps. “Oh, and I meant what I said. I don’t want you near that boy or anyone like him.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. Which is good. I can’t say anything. I feel like a hand’s closing around my throat. I sink down on the steps and take out Alex’s poem. I lay the paper flat on my thigh and smooth out the creases. I read it until my tears dry. Until all I can do is smile.
SATURDAY, APRIL 8
ISA
I wait in my regular spot, under the ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL sign, right where the fifth car will stop. My stomach feels like Mother Ginger’s skirt from The Nutcracker, squirming with children ready to leap out and dance. I bend to touch my toes, stretching the backs of my legs. The digital readout says 3 MIN. Three more minutes to wonder. I never know if the train I’ll get will have one of Alex’s poems.
He’s been writing a lot, he says. It helps him focus for his games. I love finding the secret notes meant just for me. Whenever Alex gets on the 1 train, either to or from Brooklyn, he leaves me a poem. If there’s already one there, if I haven’t found it yet, he gets off and waits for the next train. The other week he sent me a DM showing him in front of three different cars. He wanted to know if I’d stopped taking the subway. I told him about our rehearsals for the spring performance. Chrissy, Kevin, and I have been riding home together, and I’m not about to look for Alex’s poems when they’re with me. I’ve been spending time with Mom too, looking at apartments. But Alex doesn’t need to know that.
The shriek of steel announces a train. I count the cars that pass, just to be sure.
Students crowd the entrance. They’re singing “You Don’t Know Me,” Leo Xiao’s hit single. They’re probably going to Leo’s free concert in South Street Seaport, the one Alex suggested we meet at since he only has a Sunday game this weekend. But I have rehearsal.
“Excuse me. Pardon me.” My heart is doing its own sautés as I push into the car. I make my way to the bench by the MTA poem poster. Two ladies, one with white hair, one with magenta, are having a full-body conversation. They’re Dominican—I can tell by their accents. They don’t look like they’re getting up anytime soon.
I have a plan for this. I take out my tiny notebook, along with the fancy pen Dad brought me back from a business trip years ago. I pretend to write. I drop the pen. It rolls under their seat.
“Oh, oops! I’m so sorry. Lo siento. May I?”
It’s an odd request and the women regard me with weak smiles. One moves her shopping bag, and I squat and peer behind their legs. The pen is way back there. The other woman’s leg is blocking where the note would be.
I straighten and ask, in Spanish, if they wouldn’t mind standing for a moment at the next stop. They give each other a look but nod and then go on complaining about their hairdressers.
At Eighty-Sixth Street, the women rise. I duck under the bench, murmuring apologies. I snatch my pen and feel behind the hard border of plastic below the seat. My heart pitter-patters as my fingers press against tape. I rip off the note, tuck it into my palm.
“Thank you!” I show the ladies the pen and wedge myself into the corner, where fewer people can see me. I unfold the note, careful not to tear the paper.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
I crumple the poem to my chest, stifling a gasp.
Alex is in front of me, lips lifted in that half smile. His eyes dance with amusement.
I thought he had practice this morning. I want to ask how he got here and why he didn’t text he was coming. Something inside me shifts. The stress of Dad always in the apartment on his computer, of furniture being appraised and marked for sale, of our car being sold—it all just goes away, like it no longer belongs to me, like it was never there in the first place.
Alex steps closer, and tugs the paper from my fingers. I don’t wait for him to take my hand. I press against him, foot to foot, knee to knee, cheek to his chest. He smells like fresh air and pine-scented soap. I forget about yesterday’s rehearsal, when I stumbled out of the fouetté en tournant and almost fell. I forget about the shouting coming from Mom and Dad’s room as I left this morning.
This Train Is Being Held Page 10