Papi’s eyes slide closed. He sips his coffee and grins. “A dance performance, eh? ¿Con una jévon?”
Isa isn’t just a pretty girl. I don’t want to tell him how much more she is until they meet her.
Yaritza slaps Papi’s arm with the dish towel. “Déjale. The boy needs proper clothes. His old ones don’t fit. Look at him, he grew un centimetro while we were eating.”
“Es como su papá. Big and strong. Takes after me in other ways too, eh?” He winks.
“Está guapérrimo. Súper handsome. How they say—you’ll have to be beating them off with the sticks?” Yaritza beams at me as she scrubs a plate.
“What do you mean, beating them away?” Papi drawls. “The way to deal with flies is to give them a taste of the honey.”
Yaritza swats him again with the towel. Papi grabs hold of the end and pulls her toward him. She falls into his lap, giggling. Papi makes wolf noises as he kisses her neck. Robi brings his plate to the counter and leaves. I want to go after him. But I need that suit.
“Remember, only a taste.” Papi tickles Yaritza. Her shrieks make him smile. “You need to save up for lo más importante, your games. Te lo prometo. They will be falling over themselves to get to you. Like this one here was.” He kisses Yaritza again. “You’ll get your reward. You’ll see.”
I shift in my seat. When his hand goes under her blouse, I look out the window. A father plays catch with a little girl in the yard next door. Her ponytail swings as she throws. I wonder if she and Robi are friends. I’ve never asked him about his friends. I never see any around.
Yaritza whispers in Papi’s ear. Papi pulls her upright. He stands, one hand around her waist, the other massaging her back. They move to go upstairs.
“You know that’s not why I do it, right? That’s not why I play ball.”
Papi stops and looks at me. Yaritza slips out of his grasp. He spanks her bottom as she scurries up the steps.
“Of course not. You play because you love it.”
The stairs groan as he follows her up.
I go to check on Robi. He’s curled on his bed, asleep, a manga under his hand. Ace of Diamond is written below the Japanese characters. I slip it out without waking him. I flip through animations about a boy who’s a gifted pitcher. Papi’s scrawl is on the inside cover. For Alex. It’s dated the year I was in fifth grade. I don’t remember getting it.
Robi’s clock, a baseball player holding a bat and a glove, shows the glove near four, the bat at ten. I go to get my bag. I’ll have to come back before Saturday to get the suit. I also have to tell Papi I won’t be able to spend the night next weekend. I’ll be with Isa.
A garment bag hangs on the front door. Below it is a bag with foil-wrapped tamales, enough for me to share with Bryan and Mami when I get home.
Yaritza is the best.
SATURDAY, APRIL 22
ISA
“He really is the hottest pianist. Don’t you agree?” Chrissy peers through the curtain. “Remember that guy we had last year? The one who looked like he had measles on his face? I mean, come on. Ever heard of a dermatologist?”
I give her a distracted smile. “Yes, Kevin’s skin is much better than that other pianist’s.” I’m running through the steps of my duet for about the fortieth time since finishing my makeup and trying to ignore what this performance means. Mr. Jeffries, Dad’s connection on the Board of the Academy, said my acceptance would almost certainly be honored. But Monsieur Thibault, one of the directors, gets to make the final call and he’ll be watching today. And then there’s Alex. And my parents. I edge closer to Chrissy and glance through the curtains. None of them have arrived yet. I press my hand to my burbling stomach and pat my lips together to make sure my lipstick is still smooth.
“Don’t do that. You’re going to make it clump. Your face is perfect. Don’t touch anything, not even an eyelash,” Chrissy says.
Now I have an itch on my eye. I blink to make it go away.
Chrissy lets go of the curtain and glances at the backstage clock. She smooths out her skirt. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. About me and Kevin.” Her voice has dropped. She doesn’t meet my eye.
“What? All’s not paradise in the land of Chrissy and Kevin?” It’s a thing Chrissy started. How in the land of Chrissy and Kevin there are no missed notes or false steps and everyone’s breath smells of cinnamon Tic Tacs.
“No, everything’s good.” Chrissy fiddles with a piece of tulle. “Well, actually, maybe too good. We’re, you know, at that point where we’re ready to take it to the next level.”
I do not know this girl who beats around the bush instead of saying exactly what she means, especially not in this department. I put a hand on my hip. I fake whisper, “You mean S-E-X?” I’d assumed she and Kevin were having sex already. Chrissy’s the one who taught me all there is to know, including using double protection—she’s been on the pill since she was twelve when her gynecologist prescribed it for massive period pains. I’ve only ever had time for two things besides dance: family and school. Chrissy’s two things have always been boys and more boys. I never wanted to be like Chrissy. I never thought I was missing out. Until now. Until Alex.
Chrissy motions me off the stage. More dancers pass us, rolling their heads and stretching their arms as they walk. Chrissy draws me to the pulleys in the back that control the skrims. Bert, the props manager, isn’t in his chair.
“OK, spill it,” I say. “Don’t tell me you’re not attracted to Kevin. I see the way you look at him.”
Chrissy’s peeking around, maybe to see if we’re alone. “That’s just it. Have you ever seen me look at another guy the same way?”
“No.” It’s the truth. The longest Chrissy was with a guy before Kevin was a week. “So, what’s the problem?”
Chrissy shakes her head. She picks at her fingernail. “It’s just. He doesn’t know about my party past. He thinks I’m a virgin.” She says the word like it’s a swear.
I try not to laugh. Chrissy grabs my arm. Her nails dig into my skin.
“It’s not funny,” she says.
“Sorry, you’re right. So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know! What do you think I should do?”
“Has he asked you? Have you told him you’re a”—I look around for Bert—“a virgin?”
“No. It’s like the idea that I’m not never crossed his mind. At first I was offended. Did he think me a novice based on my kissing? But then he was like”—her voice gets all gruff—“‘I can’t believe someone with such little experience knows how to handle—’”
Bert walks by.
Chrissy’s words become a hiss. “Certain anatomic parts that sound like peanuts.”
I press my lips together so I don’t laugh.
“I just never corrected him,” Chrissy continues.
“Ten minutes, ladies,” Bert calls to us.
Chrissy pulls me toward the front of the stage.
“So don’t tell him,” I say. “Kevin clearly has some cute little maiden perception of you in his head. Why take that away from him?”
Chrissy faces me. “You sure? You don’t think I should just tell him?”
“You can, but it might backfire. Not that your sexual history is something to be ashamed of, because it’s not. You know I support you and you’re my hero—” I take a breath. “But . . . do you think Kevin will want to hear about all of that?”
Chrissy’s hands circle her tiny waist. “No, I think hearing about it will hurt. That’s why I haven’t told him.”
I shrug. “So, listen to your gut.”
Mia, the senior who’s playing Giselle, whisks by, holding her voluminous skirts off the floor. “Are you ready to jump in? Should I twist my ankle or anything?” She makes a face like someone bonked her on the head. We’ve spent a lot of time together these past weeks. She even stayed late two nights to help me with some of the more difficult transitions. Just in case.
I blow her a kiss. “Merde
!” I call out. Mia taught me that. It’s what all the French ballerinas say instead of “Break a leg.”
“OK,” Chrissy breathes. “I won’t tell him.” She leans forward to sneak another glimpse at the audience. “Oh, there’s my mom. I don’t know why she insists the balcony has the best view. You’re so far away. Where are your parents sitting?”
“Center orchestra.” I don’t tell Chrissy about this morning’s breakfast argument over apartment bids. Or that I left for the theater without anyone even noticing.
“I don’t see your parents,” Chrissy says. “But I do see Thibault.”
I grab the edge of the curtain from her. The man who will decide my dance and academic fate for the next two years strides down the aisle.
“Don’t worry,” Chrissy says. “You’ll make it in. I can’t wait to be able to pester you during precalculus and pointe.”
I don’t answer her.
Alex is behind Mr. Thibault.
The fluttering in my stomach rises to my throat. I’ve never seen Alex in a suit before. I almost tear through the curtain, run across the stage, and leap off it. Alex would catch me. I know he would.
He’s holding tulips, red with a blush of yellow at the tips, and reading the ticket I left for him at will call. Why didn’t the ushers seat him? Two women, both in Chanel jackets, follow him down the aisle. They ask Alex something. Whatever he says makes them laugh. They point him to row G. As they walk to their seats, they turn to check him out again. I don’t know why it makes me jealous—they could be friends of my mom’s—but it does.
Alex waits for an older couple to stand. He dips his head, apologizing for having to slide by them. Alex is supposed to sit next to Dad. His seat is in the direct middle of the theater. The best spot in the house.
I told Dad last night that a friend might be coming. He assumed Alex is from Deerwood. I didn’t correct him. I didn’t tell him that Alex is more than a friend either, but I think he knows. Dad understands me that way. I didn’t tell Mom anything. Dad guessed that too. He agreed she’d probably get worked up and ask a million questions. He knows I don’t bring friends, other than Chrissy, home. I think he feels bad about it.
I’m banking on Mom being late, so they won’t have a chance to talk much with Alex before the show. Alex is supposed to find me at intermission and afterward Alex and I are going out with Chrissy and Kevin, so there won’t be time for a scene. Just a quick introduction. Still, I don’t know how Mom will react. I never do. But the run-in with Danny showed me how bad it could be.
“Wait a minute, that’s your man, isn’t it?” Chrissy leans next to me. She lets out a low whistle. “My, but doesn’t he clean up nicely. Even Monsieur Thibault is a fan.”
I nod. My heart’s thumping too fast for me to speak. Monsieur Thibault smooths down his goatee as he admires Alex. It all makes me want to go out there and throw my arms around Alex to show everyone he’s taken. I don’t even care if my parents are watching.
“How are things going in Isa and Alex land?” Chrissy’s looking at me sideways. With her lips so red, her grin is like a superhero’s.
“Good,” I gush. “Very good.” Alex is the one thing that’s all good in my life right now. “His mom’s making dinner for us next Saturday. And then he’s taking me to Brooklyn on Sunday to meet his dad and stepmom and brother.” Provided my family doesn’t scare him away.
“Ooh. That sounds nice. Kevin and I will be in the Catskills at his parents’ house next weekend. His parents won’t be there, of course.” She arches an eyebrow, then smiles as I glance back at Alex. She takes my hand. “I’m looking forward to tonight. Thank you for arranging for your dearest friend to spend more time with this boy who’s stolen your heart.”
SATURDAY, APRIL 22
ALEX
Coño, these seats are tiny. My knees are halfway up my chest. This would be a good stretch if I were a catcher. Next time I see Bryan, I’ll tell him I know where he can go before the game. He’d love this place. Everybody looks so fine. He’d likely make a fool of himself panting after some of these ladies. Not that he’d make a move. He is so lost over Julissa. He was complaining about all the weeks we’ll be away this summer traveling to upstate New York, New Jersey, Ohio, Pennsylvania, even Georgia, all in that big Chevy van Papi bought a few years back. I haven’t told Isa about travel ball. I don’t want to think about all that time apart.
I rest Isa’s flowers below my seat. The sleeves of my jacket ride up. I tug them down. Being bigger than Papi should make me smile. But everyone who looks at me has got to know this suit isn’t mine.
There are still empty seats on either side of me. Two have to be for Isa’s parents. Isa apologized she wouldn’t be there to introduce us. I told her not to worry. I know how to introduce myself. I open the program. Prints from my fingers mark the glossy cover. OK, maybe I am a little nervous. Maybe I wish I’d met her parents earlier, when Isa was with me. I flip through advertisements for watches and cars and cruises until I find the part that lists the cast. I find Isa’s name. She would like to thank her family for their support, her mom, her dad, and Merrit. She also thanks A, for everything. I shut the program. I straighten my tie and make sure my coat is covering my shirt, covering my heart that’s beating mad fast. Isa’s parents are going to read that. They’re going to know I’m A.
A man and a woman come into my row. The woman is tiny with dark hair piled on top of her head. She could pass for Cuban, but Isa said her mom was blond. The man is blond, tall and good-looking. The only things that keep him from looking like a Viking are his glasses and suit. A suit that doesn’t pull tight across his shoulders. A suit that looks like it was made just for him.
I wipe my hand on my pant leg and stand. I watch their faces, but they’re not looking at me.
“Hello,” I say. The man gives me a curt nod. The woman looks at me then looks away. She doesn’t say anything either. I sit back down when they sit. They don’t speak, to each other or to me. They can’t be Isa’s parents, right?
I clear my throat and lean forward. “You know anyone dancing in the show?”
The woman doesn’t look up. The man puts a hand to his mouth like talking to me has to be a secret.
“Our neighbor’s daughter, Cecilia, is a Wilis.”
I don’t know what that means but they’re not Mr. and Mrs. Warren. Isa’s parents must be on my other side.
A family passes in front of us, the boy grumbling as he takes his seat. The mother hushes him and says she expects him to behave. He’s got braces, just like Robi. Only none of them look like they could be part of my family. They could be descended from Vikings too.
I look down at my program to see what a Wilis is. I don’t want to think about Robi asleep on his bed, tears staining his cheeks. I don’t think about the phone call with Papi, the one where I thought he was going to apologize but instead he told me I’m easy to coach because I take direction and have natural talent. Robi, he said, is stubborn. Robi doesn’t listen. And he’s just not good enough. He told me my little brother is trying to be something he’s not, something he’s never going to be.
I reread the first two lines of the synopsis. Some great lord, who’s already engaged to another lord’s daughter, falls in love with a peasant, Giselle. The lord disguises himself so he and Giselle can be together. In the Middle Ages people didn’t marry between classes. Even now, giving up all your riches to be with someone you love would be impressive.
A chime rings. The lights dim halfway. People hurry to their seats. My pulse pounds in my palm where it grips the empty armrest beside me. Two of those people have to be Mr. and Mrs. Warren. I make myself read the rest of the first act. The disguised lord is outed by another peasant and is forced to admit he’s a fraud and is promised to another. In a fit of grief, the beautiful Giselle dances until she dies. The heroine of this supposed romantic ballet dies. In the first act. At least in Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare doesn’t kill off the lovers until the end.
“You must
be Alex.” A man sinks down next to me. He holds out his hand. His smile is a smaller version of Isa’s.
I go to stand but the lights disappear. “Hello. Nice to meet you.” I shake Isa’s father’s hand while sitting down. It’s difficult seeing as I can barely move.
“I’m Clifton. Glad to meet you,” he says in a low voice.
The woman beside him has yellow-gold hair. She’s frowning but still, I see Isa in the shape of her face, the high cheekbones and small chin. I want to introduce myself to her. Only she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the stage.
“Mrs. Warren?”
She turns. The curve of her mouth deepens to a full-on grimace. She stares at my extended hand. Her forehead wrinkles and she shrinks back, as if I’m offering her something unclean, like a dirty tissue.
The music starts up.
Mr. Warren leans forward, putting himself between us. “It was so nice of you to come watch Isa.” He’s so quiet I can barely hear him.
My stomach clenches. Did Isa’s mother really just not want to shake my hand? I pull at my jacket. I straighten my shoulders. Fabric creaks. Coño. Did it just rip?
A phone lights up Mrs. Warren’s face. She stares at her screen, then stands. She pushes past the other people in the row.
“Elisa?” Mr. Warren calls after her. Isa’s mother strides out of the auditorium.
Isa’s father’s cell vibrates. He juggles it out of his pocket. As he reads, he gets this pained look. Like he’s sliding a mitt over open blisters.
“I’m so sorry, we have to go. I hope to see you again.” He follows his wife out before I can say anything. Their empty seats look like black holes. Sweat pools in my palms. The inside of my mouth is dust and sand. I can’t even swallow. The people behind me must be wondering what I did to scare Isa’s parents away.
The curtain rises. The huts have real hay for roofs. A donkey and two sheep are tied up beside them. Behind a tree, the lord—his name is Albrecht—changes out of red pants and a navy hunting jacket into the dull brown clothes of the other peasants. The assistant takes the lord’s sword and his fancy clothes and hides them under some hay. Albrecht walks out and joins a village dance. He pairs himself with Giselle. It’s a complete joke. Even in the clothes, you can tell he doesn’t belong. The way he moves, the way he smiles. He’s as different from the peasants as the donkey that’s chewing hay from the roof of one of the huts. Giselle doesn’t see it. They kiss and she leaps the length of half the stage. She twists, her head and arms extending back to him. How can she think they could ever be together? They can’t be something they’re not.
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