Alex recites the poem, whispering near my ear.
“Thank you.” I breathe him in.
His hand settles on the back of my head, just below my bun. “For what?” he asks.
“For finding me. For the poem. For this—” I lift onto my toes until my mouth meets his.
Alex kisses me until my hands are sliding under his shirt. He takes my wrists, puts my hands on his face. His smile blinds me. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs. “Creative, by the way. Getting to the poem.”
I grin back at him. The women are still talking, but they’re both watching us. I wave at them. They wave back. One of them gives me a thumbs-up. At the next stop, they shuffle off, the other giving two thumbs-up.
“I think they like you,” I say as Alex leads me to the now-vacant seats.
“And they didn’t even read my poetry.”
“Darn, I should have showed it to them. Speaking of which, did you submit to that online literary magazine I sent you?”
He runs a hand down his leg. His other hand clasps mine. He gives a noncommittal tilt of his head.
“Come on, you have to! Your work is amazing.” I’ve been telling him this all along. I’m not sure why he doesn’t believe me. Alex leans down and touches his lips to the tip of my nose.
“I know you think they’re good. It’s just . . . you’re biased.”
“I may be biased. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. If you’re not going to believe me, we need external validation.”
“How about we make a deal?” Alex tucks his arm around my waist. “I’ll submit to the magazine after you come to Brooklyn and the Heights. And after you show me Park Ave. I’ve always wanted to see a fancy Upper East Side apartment.” He gives me a playful wink.
Alex has invited me to meet his parents before. He’s hinted about meeting my family too. We’d be able to spend more time together if it overlapped with family time. But I don’t want him to see a room that doesn’t look like mine anymore, the pictures on my desk and the figurines on my bookshelf moved by the realtor for the people traipsing through. I don’t want him to see my dad stressed and rumpled. And I don’t want him to meet my mom at all. If he knows about everything that’s going on with my family—everything that’s wrong with it—it will become part of us. I want to protect what Alex and I have. I want to keep it separate. And I can’t meet Alex’s family if I’m not going to let him meet mine.
I keep my smile steady as the deep bass of a speaker takes over the car. Four guys in sweats skip down the aisle, asking passengers to pull their legs in and pick bags off the floor. The guys move together, shoulders and knees bouncing to the beat, until they form a straight line. Arms jut out, necks roll. They side-kick in unison. I recognize the routine from a Beyoncé video, but they’re dancing to Drake’s latest hip-hop track. One breaks off, runs and does a flip in the air, narrowly missing the bar. The crowd ooohs. Another dancer drops to the floor and windmills right in front of the doorway. The Leo Xiao fans holler. Drake stops rapping and the guys run through the car, caps out, collecting money.
“Is that a no?” Alex is leaning over, elbows on his knees. He’s watching me as I watch the guys rack up a good amount of change and bills. I open my wallet. All I have are some singles. I hope Alex doesn’t notice.
Alex’s thigh knocks mine. He wants me to look at him. I’m afraid if I do, he’ll see right through me. He’ll know everything at home is a mess. And I don’t want him to.
The song starts over. I stand and pull myself into a long stretch, hands to the ceiling, fingers glued together. I sway to the side. My arms swing, snap together. I turn, thrust my hips, pump my arms, just like Beyoncé does it. I’m better than those guys. I’ve been classically trained. My eyes stay on Alex. I ignore the rhythmic clapping that surrounds me. I ignore the guys beside me, doing the moves, copying my technique. My blood roars in my ears. Sweat drips down my chest, my back. I keep dancing. For Alex. For me.
I’m doubled over in front of him when the music stops. The car goes crazy. Alex pulls me up. He isn’t smiling. A few of the performers pat my back. I hear, “Damn, you good, girl.” And “Who said white girls can’t dance?” They do another round of collections as Alex leads me off the train onto the subway platform.
I’m still pumped from the music, from the dance. This is what I want to feel. This is how he makes me feel. At the gate, I kiss him hard. He doesn’t stop me. But he doesn’t kiss me back. Not the way I want him to.
I know I’ve hurt him. I know a little dance, a little fun, isn’t going to make it right.
“Will you come to see me? At my performance?” I give him the date. “I don’t have a big part, just a semisolo. But it’s famous ballet—a great story, you’d love it. My parents will be there, and you can meet them . . . if you want to, I mean—” Alex cuts me off. He kisses me, the way I want him to.
SUNDAY, APRIL 16
ALEX
I raise the glove to my chin. The leather smells warm, though the air’s cold. Red seams dig into my fingers. I huff out a breath. My knee comes up. I pivot and reach for the catcher as if I can grab his hat. The ball thumps into Bryan’s mitt. Papi nods at me. I smile before I can stop. The batter drops the bat and walks off the field.
Papi’s friend, the other coach, mutters something I can’t hear. He stays behind the chain-link fence. Papi asked him to bring his best hitters, the ones he’s considering for the travel team this summer. I’ve struck all four of them out. And the sun’s not even above us yet.
Papi waves me in. Bryan stands and stretches his legs. He keeps looking toward First Ave. He’s wondering if Danny’s gonna show. He’ll be an hour late if he does. Danny doesn’t have to come. But he does if he wants to stay on Papi’s team. Danny hasn’t been playing well for AHH. He’s missed too many practices. At least he’s been playing. At least he’s trying to stay part of one team.
I glance at First Ave too. Someone’s coming. But it’s not Danny. It’s another of Papi’s friends. He’s got three players with him.
Papi’s hand goes up for the new coach. He walks past me to meet them. Robi runs onto the field. He’s been practicing swings behind the fence this whole time. Robi drops into the dirt beside Bryan, legs as wide as he can get them. Bryan ribs him a little, then tosses him his glove. Robi sinks into a squat. He does the drills Bryan taught him. Robi’s always wanted to pitch. Papi won’t let him. This spring he started following Bryan around, learning all he could. He’s asked if I could pitch to him about a thousand times. I only ever do it when Papi’s not watching.
“Yefri! ¿Cómo tu ’ta?” Papi knocks the coach’s shoulder. Yefri introduces his players. Papi shakes their hands.
“Oye.” The other coach, the one still hanging on the fence, calls me. He shows me his fist, taps his chest with it, and nods.
I nod back.
Bryan’s watching. He turns so the coach can’t see him. He grins and sticks out his tongue. He’s probably swinging his eyebrows but I can’t tell because of the mask. He’s been in a good mood since he and Julissa patched it up.
Robi snatches the mask off Bryan and drops it on his own face.
“Throw me one!” He runs toward first.
Papi’s coming our way. He’s got an arm around Yefri. I shake my head at Robi.
“You heard from Danny?” Bryan creeps close.
I shake my head again.
“You think he’s with—”
“Not now.” I tilt my head toward Papi. He’s still chatting with Yefri about which positions to put us in. They can hear us.
I check my watch. I got to be on the train by four if I want to meet up with Isa. She’s been practicing nonstop since she was named understudy for one of the leads. She’s probably backstage right now, sewing ribbons on her shoes for her tech rehearsal. It’s crazy that dancers do that. They’ve got these rituals to prepare their shoes, kind of like what we do to our mitts. Isa’s eyes got this crazy glint when she told me about it. Like she’d just had a double espresso
. And an energy drink. They get like that whenever she talks about dance. Or her brother. I wonder if that’s what they look like when she talks about me.
“¡Ále!” Papi’s shout jabs me in the back. The players are fanning out to the field. “What you waiting for? Let’s go. Yefri will play right field.”
I turn toward the pitcher’s mound.
Papi’s yelling at Bryan about his mask. Robi is flying back from first, kicking up dust. He calls, “Papi! Papi! Papi! When Bryan hits, can I catch?”
Papi says something I don’t hear. Robi scuffs to the bench.
I raise my glove. I watch Papi’s hands, changing my grip to what he wants.
A white and blue car rolls by. It stops as I wind up to pitch. They can’t rattle me. Not when I’ve got my mitt and a ball in my hand. One of the cops nods as I strike the first batter out. They’re cruising for Saturday trouble. They won’t find any here. We just playing ball.
Out of seven hitters, only one makes contact. It’s a foul. Bryan straightens. He takes off his pads. He’s the last in the lineup. Papi takes Bryan’s mask and props it on his head. Robi barrels out from the bench. He jumps up and down. His hands pray against his chest. I jog to home.
“Come on, let him catch. It’s only gonna be three throws.” I give Bryan my wicked smile, but he’s looking at First Ave again, waiting for someone who’s not coming.
“Please! Please! Please!” Robi hops like a toy with too much battery.
Papi ignores him.
“Pedro! ¡Déjalo!” Yefri shouts from right field.
“Yeah. Let’s see your other boy play.” Papi’s friend, his players call him Mr. Jhonny, rattles the metal fence.
Papi hands the mask to Robi. He doesn’t look at him. I grab the pads. I get on my knees to strap Robi in. I make sure the mask fits good and tight.
“Remember what I told you?”
“Yup.” His braces shine in the sun. “Toes out. Chest up. And don’t forget to widen your feet.”
I tap the side of his head with my glove.
Papi comes up as I back away. “Just ’cause it’s your brother, I don’t want you easing off your pitches.”
“What about Bryan? He is my teammate. Hitting a homer would be good for his confidence, no?”
Papi sniffs. He doesn’t like humor. He takes his place behind Robi and I go back to mine. He wants me to throw a fastball. For the first time, I don’t do what he asks. I throw a changeup, and not just because it’ll be easier for Robi to catch. Bryan can’t hit them.
The ball cuts through the air. It drops into Robi’s glove. Robi jumps up and hurls it to me. Light flashes off his smile. He did it just fine. But Papi’s on him, telling him his chest was too low, his feet were too close.
A couple of moms with babies pass by. They’re frowning at Papi. The strollers pick up speed as they power walk away.
Why is Papi always so hard on Robi? He’s hard on Bryan, on Danny, on me. But never as hard as he is with Robi. I like that Papi saves time for me. He didn’t when I was little. It wasn’t until I hit my first ball past that dented orange garbage can beyond the outfield that things changed. I was nine. A full year younger than Robi is now. I keep wondering when Robi’s gonna hit his ball out of the park.
Papi strides toward me.
“What did I ask for?” His jaw is clenched.
“It was the wrong call,” I mutter.
“What you say?”
I drop the ball into my mitt. I palm it then drop it again. “Bryan didn’t hit it, did he?” It’s not like this is even a real game. We’re all trying out to be on the same team.
“When you here, I’m coach. You do what I tell you.” Papi storms back to Robi. Robi’s grinning, already in position.
Bryan taps the bat to the base. He swings it into position.
Papi’s fingers dance. He wants me to do the four-seam. Fine.
I draw my knee to my chest. I hinge forward. The ball shoots from my shoulder, from my arm, from my fingers. It cracks against the bat. The ball rockets upward. It’s in front of home plate.
“Go! Go!” Papi yells.
Bryan streaks for first.
Robi staggers off his knees. His mitt is out. He’s peering up. Sunlight and metal flicker from his teeth.
The ball plummets. It bounces off the pad at Robi’s shoulder.
Papi curses. He’s so loud, Bryan turns around.
Papi pushes Robi. It’s like a truck pushing over a paper stop sign. Robi hits the dirt with an oomph!
“¡Levántate!”
Robi gets up as Papi asks.
Papi’s hand is on Robi’s chest. He’s driving my brother backward. They crash against the fence.
I drop my glove. I run for home. I get there just as a man with a badge rounds the corner.
Papi’s yelling. His fists are out. He’s not going to hit Robi. He’s just angry. The police don’t know that. All they see is a brown man losing control.
“Papi! ¡Tranquilo!” I put myself in front of him. I take his shoulders with my hands. Bryan gets to Robi. He brings him to the other side of the fence.
“You know how to catch the ball! I teach you that! I no teach you to drop it!”
“He’s just learning.” My voice is low.
“You never did anything so stupid.” Papi spits into the dust. “Even when you were five.”
“Is there a problem here?” One cop is at my side. The other, a lady, is talking to Robi.
Papi’s chest is like a train engine without a brake. I shake my head. Papi better keep quiet.
“Good afternoon, officers.” Yefri arrives from right field. His chest is going pretty quick too. “How can we help?” He has no accent when he speaks. Unlike Papi.
The officers say other parents in the park have issued complaints. They want to take Papi to the precinct to ask him some questions.
Papi can’t go there. He’s not good in those situations. He’s not good with authority unless the authority is him.
“You baseball fans?” Yefri asks them.
Of course they are.
Yefri puts his hand on the back of Papi’s neck. Papi’s looking at the water. He squints against the glare. His mouth is like a line between bases.
“Well this here’s a former Yankee. He and Jeter were rookies together.”
I see it happen. The change Papi always talks about. When folks learn to know you as someone more than what their eyes tell them.
The creases on the officer’s brow relax. He smiles an openmouthed smile. “No way, man. What’s your name?”
Papi’s still gazing out at the harbor. “I only played one year.”
“Eighteen months and twenty-six days,” Yefri corrects. He doesn’t tell them how many games Papi played. He’s trying to inflate what Papi did. Yefri whips out his wallet. Papi’s rookie card is tucked behind his driver’s license. Papi’s got a few in his desk. I’ve never seen anyone else with one.
What would Isa think if she were here? Would she see why baseball is important for someone like me? That it makes folks see me as more than just another moreno?
“Wow. That’s cool, man.” The officer gives Papi a fist bump.
“You see, my friend here’s passionate about the game, ya know? Sometimes a little too passionate when he’s coaching his own kids.” Yefri’s smiling like he’s got tickets to give away.
The officer glances at me, at Bryan, and Robi. The other players know enough to stay away. “These are your kids, sir?”
Sir. The cop didn’t use that word before.
“The little one, and this one here.” Yefri pats my shoulder. “This one’s got a future. They call him Big Papichulo because of his hitting and because, well, look at him, he’s a handsome guy.”
That nickname makes me want to gag. But I smile at the cop like he’s my favorite teacher.
“And he can pitch too. Did you see him play?”
The officer nods. “His pitching isn’t bad. Can I see him hit?”
All ey
es turn to me. At least they’re off Papi.
What would the cop think if Isa were standing with me? If she were holding my hand? Would he still look at me the way he’s looking at me now? The way he did when he saw me pitch? Or would his look be different? Like the lion guy with the suit on the subway?
Yefri hands me the bat. Mr. Jhonny gets out his glove and takes the ball from me. Yefri signals him to throw a regular two-seamer. Something easy enough to hit. Mr. Jhonny nods, but he does something different. He throws me a slider. No matter.
I slam it like it’s the part of Papi I want to get rid of, the anger he holds inside.
José in left field turns and runs. He passes the dented orange trash can.
Papi’s not looking out at the water anymore. He’s looking at me.
•••
It’s after two when we get back. Yaritza meets us at the door.
“How’d it go?” Her eyebrows lift over her smiling eyes.
Robi walks up the steps and into her arms. He hides his face in her shirt. His shoulders shake like he’s cold. Yaritza glances at me. She doesn’t look at Papi who goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge. She purses her lips at the sharp snap of a can opening.
I pick up the glove Robi dropped on the stairs. “It smells delicious. Tamales?”
Yaritza’s smile comes back. But only to her mouth.
She takes my sleeve as I go by. “Did you ask him yet?”
I shake my head. Her eyes narrow as she strokes Robi’s hair. We’re both thinking the same thing: Later.
“I found one that would work. I pressed it for you,” she whispers.
I kiss her forehead. I kiss Robi’s hair.
After I shower, I set the table and help put the food out. Robi pokes at his meal. He eats enough to not draw attention.
When Papi’s belly is full, and Yaritza is sprinkling cinnamon on his café con leche, I ask if he has a suit I can borrow.
Papi puts down his cup. He looks at Yaritza. She turns her back and walks dishes to the sink. “What’s it for?” he asks.
“A dance performance,” I say. “Of a friend of mine.”
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