“I’m sorry.” Dad reaches a hand for hers.
She takes it and nods. “At least I don’t have to tell anyone about Merrit and Princeton.” Her half-hearted attempt at laughter dissolves and then she’s scrubbing at her eyes and holding a hand to her mouth. Dad rises from the floor and folds her in his arms. He whispers, “I’m sorry,” and “It’ll be OK,” again and again.
I stare at the article I’m holding and pretend to read as Mom’s sobs die. She steps away from Dad, dabbing her face with her sleeve. She looks at me, as if only just remembering why she walked into my room. “Who were you talking about a minute ago?”
Dad answers before I have to. “Oh, just a new friend of Isabelle’s.”
I exhale slowly. Dad’s a fan of minimizing the truth to keep the peace. I learned the strategy from him.
Mom’s frown takes over. “Well, now’s not a good time to bring anyone around. Not when our family is going through so much.”
Dad glances at me. Is that apology in his eyes?
“Of course, Mom.” Not that it matters anymore. Not when Alex won’t even answer my messages.
After Mom and Dad leave, I pull a shoe box out from under my bed. It was from my first pointe shoes. I decorated it with metallic markers and glitter glue years ago, coloring in the long swirls of ribbon that circled all six sides. I lift off the cover. I pass my fingers through squares of paper that have been folded and unfolded so many times their corners are curved. Most are yellow. Some are white. Two were written on pink sheets. And right on top is the envelope from the other day.
I close my eyes and dig down deep. I pull out the winner and spread it flat. I trace the creases and read. I touch the spots where my tears made the ink run. I press my thumb over the A that’s signed at the end.
I fold it up. I put it back. I slide the box deep under the bed so no one sitting on the floor will see it.
That box gets its own pile. The “stay with me always” pile.
•••
The bass coming from Merrit’s room shakes the walls. I feel it in my feet as I walk barefoot down the hall. I rap on the door. I rap again. When I pound, the music lowers.
“What?!” Merrit yells.
“It’s me,” I say back. The music quiets more.
“What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
“Why? Do you want to have your eardrums blown?”
I chuckle, despite myself. Things can be in shards and Merrit will find a way to make me laugh.
“No. No eardrum shattering. I thought maybe you wanted some help.”
A few seconds tick by. My hands start to sweat. I don’t know if he’s going to let me in or not.
The door cracks. Merrit leans out. He grabs the frame with his hand. His other arm holds the door against his chest, preventing it from opening wider. He’s trying to block me from seeing inside. But the bare mattress, the tumble of sheets, and blankets on the floor, covered with books and papers, a sneaker, a broken lamp, and the familiar red rectangular shape of his chess clock is enough for me to know it’s bad.
“Why do I need help?” Merrit cocks his head. He doesn’t brush away the hair that falls into his eyes. Like Dad, he hasn’t shaved; but on him the result is different. Uneven wisps of blond fuzz mingle with patches of blotchy skin. It’s like someone affixed tape to Merrit’s neck and jaw and ripped it off, only the tape was missing large chunks of stickiness.
“Um, packing?” I say.
“I’m almost done.”
“Really?”
“It’s easy to pack when you’re not taking anything with you.” A clump of greasy hair parts and a light blue eye looks out at me.
“You’re not taking anything?” I put a hand on my waist.
He straightens and lifts a finger, like he’s about to recite in front of an audience. “Four outfits: three everyday, one special occasion. Four pairs of underwear. Four pairs of socks, matching of course.” He glances down the hall and puts a hand to his mouth. “Because you know how Mom gets.” He rams his shoulders back again. “A pair of sneakers, a pair of occasion shoes”—Merrit’s eyebrows jump at that—“a pair of boots for the winter. Oh, and one hat.”
He’s speaking like himself. Which is good. It’s really good.
“Only clothes then?” I ask. “What about your computer?”
He closes his eyes as if my question requires great patience. “I consider that an extension of my personal body. It doesn’t need to be packed. It goes where I go. Along with my phone, of course. My watch. And . . . yes, that’s it.”
I almost ask him about the aviator sunglasses we bought together after Thanksgiving. But I don’t want him to think about Samantha. “How about toiletries?” I glance at his hair. “Shampoo?” His teeth aren’t looking that great either. “Toothbrush?”
He reaches out with one arm and pulls me into a hug. The other still grips the door. “That’s what I have you for. I can borrow yours.”
I breathe through my mouth. He doesn’t smell like magnolia and poppy detergent right now. “God, Merrit.” I try to pull away. “When was the last time you showered?”
He holds me tighter. He tries to push my face into his armpit. He’s joking, or at least I think he is, but I can’t stop the panicked thud of my heart.
I shriek and pull free.
He retreats into his room. The door is now only wide enough to fit his face. It’s squishing his cheeks together. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Come back on the day we’re moving. Maybe I’ll shower then.” He goes to slam the door.
“Wait!” I shout.
The door is an inch from closing. It widens half an inch. I’m both surprised and grateful he listened to me.
“What about your school books?” I ask. “Don’t you still have final papers to write?”
He gives me six more inches. His nose and mouth pop out and he regards me with open irritation. “I’m not going back. Not after the way they treated me. And by they, I don’t only mean the president, and the dean of the School of Engineering. I mean my so-called friends and colleagues, Larry the Louse and Derek the Dick, who sold me out and took my only umbrella when the proverbial shit hit the fan. I mean, they were right, I was the mastermind behind reMAKE, and I did accomplish virtually all the programming on my own. But they were the marketers. They introduced the app to the lacrosse team and the basketball team and the swim team. They were the ones who highlighted that you could secretly record anybody, then change what that person said to whatever you wanted. And even though I know which jocks posted that video of Dean Winters making those inappropriate sexual remarks about her students, because I traced it back to their phones, the school didn’t want to hear it. They didn’t want to have to suspend their star players. But someone like me? I’m expendable.”
Merrit’s cheeks are flushed. There’s spittle on his lips.
I’m afraid to say anything. I’m afraid to move. Mom told me Merrit needed a break. I figured it was the stress of finals. Mom didn’t say anything about getting kicked out or about an app where you can control what people say and do.
Merrit blinks when I blink. The fevered glaze clears from his eyes.
“Um—so it’s like an app to make fake video? Like that Obama clip Jordan Peele posted online?” I ask very quietly.
My brother draws an exaggerated breath. “It was intended for self-help, to allow you to create the best, most highly polished version of yourself. For when your social media interactions really matter. Like say, you’re trying to get back together with someone. Or maybe you want to put a video of yourself and all your attributes on LinkedIn. But yes, reMAKE has that same capability.”
Music is still on in his room. But it’s background noise. Like the rattle and hum of the subway when you’re inside it.
Merrit watches me, his brow still gathered in anger. I nod and drop my gaze, trying to process all that he’s told me.
He says more softly, “I’m not saying I won’t go back to college. Just
not that one. In light of our current familial fiscal crisis, this might not be the worst thing.” His door shuts with a click.
I catch tears on my fingertips before they hit my cheeks. The pound of Merrit’s music ratchets up. I stumble toward Mom and Dad’s room, my hand leaving a damp trail across the bamboo frond wallpaper.
Dad’s coming out just as I reach the door. I smile really big, pretending nothing is wrong. Dad and I, we’re the ones who have to stay positive. No matter what.
Dad shakes his head. “She’s sleeping.”
He sees my smile wobble. We both know what that can mean.
“She’s taking her pills. I counted them,” he says. “She’s doing what she’s supposed to.”
“And Merrit?” I look up and beat my lashes like the wings of butterflies. No tears will get through.
Dad sighs. “He’s got an appointment this week.”
“Good.” I press my lips together so Dad doesn’t see them tremble.
Dad touches my head. He goes into the kitchen.
I sink onto my heels, curling into a ball. Bamboo ribbing digs into my shoulders. The familiar sensation gives me the strength to make it to my room. I collapse on my bed. I hang over the side. I pull out the pointe shoe box and one of Alex’s poems.
FRIDAY, MAY 5
ALEX
I lean against the kitchen counter. Empty bottles of Corona Light fill a recycling bag at my feet. Romeo Santos blasts from speakers in Julissa’s room. Julissa’s older sister, Ramona, is in there with her boyfriend. Bryan and Julissa are in the living room, acting like they’re the ones alone. No matter that fifteen City College friends of Ramona’s are standing around talking about World Cup contenders and Kwame Anthony Appiah’s latest book. I don’t care for soccer, but a philosopher who writes about race and identity sounds chévere. I couldn’t be around Julissa and Bryan anymore though. Isa is all I see.
I take out my phone. I’m about to open Instagram when who comes into the kitchen? Danny.
“¡Dimelo, chan! Missed you at yesterday’s game.” I pull Danny into a hug and pat his back. He hasn’t been to practice in two weeks.
Danny ducks his head. He goes to the sink. He grabs a slice of lime. Instead of a beer, he fishes a Coke out of the ice. “Coronas, eh?” He takes a long drink of soda.
“Cinco de Mayo,” I respond. A tonic and lime cools my hand. Beer and me, we don’t get along. I don’t get along with anything that interferes with my game. Papi said girls could interfere too but being with Isa only ever made my pitches faster, my swings stronger. But now? Thinking about her and not talking to her? Not even writing poems for her? That’s what’s messing with me.
“So where you been?” I ask him. It’s good Danny’s not drinking beer. I’ve got worries enough.
Danny takes another slug of cola. “Around.” He lets out a burp that lasts a good three seconds. Bryan would be hooting and slapping his back. Me? I stab Danny’s ribs with my elbow.
“Oye, owww!” He pretends what I did hurts then gives me a grin that fades too quick.
“Seriously. You gonna tell me where you been?” I ask again.
Danny gives me a look. “Don’t got to tell what you already know.” He lifts the can to his mouth. “Where’s Isa?”
My throat dries like a heat wave. Romeo Santos’s words reach us. Bella y sensual, sobrenatural.
I slide my cell back in my pocket. I want a drink of my tonic. I don’t let myself take one. Why is Danny asking about her?
“Thought maybe she’d be here. With you,” Danny says. “Don’t tell me Isa’s at dance school at ten on a Friday.”
I study my glass. Pinhole-size bubbles skid to the top. They gather round the wedge of green like they’re attacking it. “Don’t know,” I answer.
Danny puts the Coke on the counter. “You think she’s too good for this? For us?”
I give him a hard stare. His questions are fingers digging into a bruise he doesn’t know about.
Danny keeps talking. “’Cause I think she’d like it here. With you. With us.”
How does Danny know when I’m not even sure?
I down my drink. I chew the flesh off the lime, spit the peel in the trash. “I don’t know where she is.” I spit that too. “I haven’t seen her or talked to her or . . .”
Danny jabs my arm in warning. Kiara joins us in the kitchen. “Hey, Danny. ¿Cómo tu ’ta?” She tosses her smile to him then hurls a glare at me. Neither of us says anything.
She grabs a soda and heads back out.
Danny takes another Coke. He pours tonic in my glass then points to the window next to the stove. I follow him out onto the fire escape.
We look up at a night splashed with peach-colored light, at buildings of brick winking. Danny pops open the can. He gurgles down soda. In the distance a siren cries out and is answered by another.
“It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen her.” I don’t know why I start talking, but I do. I search for stars or the moon even. I can’t see anything over the city glare. “I met her parents, at her dance performance.”
Danny faces me.
“Her mom, man.” I take a slow sip. “She wouldn’t even shake my hand.”
Danny finishes his drink. He reaches through the window, puts the can on the counter. “Oye, pana, I met her too. Esa mamá es una tigresa. I was hanging near Sixty-Sixth Street and Isa walked by. She and I, we was just talking—” He looks real quick at me and then away. “We was talking about you. Until her mamá showed up, that is.” He draws a finger across his neck like someone’s dying.
Danny and Isa met up? Danny met her mother? How come Isa never told me?
Danny puts a hand on my shoulder. “That mai’s a piece of work. Ask me, Isa seemed kind of embarrassed. Would make sense if she never said anything to you.” He bumps my foot with his clean red Nike. “Not everyone’s tight with their mami like you. Anyway, you with Isa because of her mamá? Or because of her?”
“¿Todo bien?” Julissa’s head pokes through the window. Behind her, Bryan’s scarfing down chips. He’s bragging about ball to Kiara.
Julissa scrambles onto the fire escape. She rests a hand on my other shoulder. “You OK?”
“Qué sí,” I tell her. I don’t want to talk about this with her.
“Sure?” she asks again.
“Yeah. Thanks for having us.”
She watches me real close. “You know you could have brought her, right? Your girl? Kiara’ll get over it.”
I stare into my cup. I clear my throat. “Gracias.”
“Next time, OK?” She climbs back inside and into Bryan’s arms. All three of them leave the kitchen.
I breathe the cool outside air. I swallow my drink, bubbles and all. I think of Mami’s words and Danny’s words and Julissa’s. I think of Isa until my worries go away.
I take out my phone. I reread Isa’s messages. In the faint glow of my screen, Danny smiles.
MONDAY, MAY 8
ISA
My legs and arms ache. Even my upper back is sore. The Academy does not fool around with these evening elective classes. As we were heading out into the rain, Chrissy reminded me I’ve already been accepted—I’ve got nothing else to prove. I’ll start full time once I finish at Deerwood. Merci, Monsieur Thibault. Except, I do have something to prove. I’ve got to prove they didn’t make a mistake. And when I dance hard, there’s no room to pay attention to anything else. Not massive moving boxes. Not brothers blasting music. Not even unanswered Instagram messages.
I reach for the shiny subway rail and rise up on my toes. I slide my foot behind me to stretch my Achilles. An argument between a man and a woman at the other end of the car filters through my earbuds. I turn up the volume, just like I do at home.
A hand takes my shoulder. My instincts kick in. I whirl, swinging my bag with me. There’s a soft oomph as the buckle of my backpack meets flesh. I skitter away to the middle of the car, my pulse hammering in my throat. I look to make sure I’m not being followed
.
Alex stands where I stood. His eyes squint. A hand covers his nose and mouth. His other lifts in a silent hello.
The pounding inside me spikes. Alex?
Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away as I rush back. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”
“I didn’t mean to surprise you.” He doesn’t take his hand from his face. “I called your name.”
I motion toward the earphones hanging from my pocket. “I didn’t hear you!” My insides feel like jello. My head feels like a balloon escaped from a child’s hand. Alex is here. I let out a little laugh because if I don’t, I might actually cry. My relief at seeing him overwhelms me. “I can’t believe I hit you.”
Alex tilts his head at me, like he doesn’t know why I’m laughing either. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces. For some reason, this makes me double over.
“Sorry,” I gasp between breaths. “This shouldn’t be funny. Did I . . . ? Is your nose bleeding?” I paw through my bag for a tissue. “Can I see?”
His nose is fine. But his bottom lip is swollen and split, like the skin of a too-ripe peach.
“Oh.” I inhale through my teeth and offer him the tissue. I drag my gaze from his face, to his arm lingering close to mine. I want to ask if everything is OK with him and his family. I want to ask why I haven’t heard from him. But I’m afraid to speak. I’m afraid of how he’d respond.
He waves the tissue away. “I’ve had worse.”
“Sorry,” I say again.
He shakes his head. “Stop saying sorry. I’m the one who’s here to say that.”
The drumming in my chest quiets.
He touches his tongue to his broken lip. “I’ve been looking for you. I miss you. I wanted to tell you that in person. I didn’t want you to read it on your phone.”
I grab onto the bar and sink against it.
He waits for me to say something. He waits for me to tell him I miss him too. A tear almost gets loose, along with words my heart is trying to push out. I hold on to them. Seeing Alex—my reaction to seeing him—is scaring me.
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