We pull into Eighty-Sixth Street and the doors open.
Alex stares out onto the empty platform. “Do you hate me? For not answering your messages?”
“No. I don’t hate you.” Hatred and anger make me sad. I don’t do sad. It’s better to convince yourself you feel nothing.
Alex runs a hand over his head. He takes hold of the back of his neck as the train pulls out of the station. “Listen, I’m sorry. For how I left.”
My eyes are getting damp. He starts to say something about my parents but I stop him.
“That night at the ballet—my parents—none of it was about you. Really. They had to leave to get my brother. He was sort of freaking out. Finals and all.”
Alex watches me, like he senses the tiny lie in there. “How’s he doing? Your brother?”
“Fine. He’s fine.” I answer too quickly. I don’t want to talk about Merrit.
Alex nods. He frowns at his shoes. “Your parents—your mother—she didn’t say anything about me? Afterward?”
“No. She hasn’t mentioned you.”
“Your mother didn’t mention me,” Alex repeats.
“Dad said he enjoyed meeting you. He wished he could have talked with you more.”
Alex lets out a long breath. A line appears between his brows. “Even though I wasn’t what he was expecting?”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t know about my skin color.”
I grit my teeth. “Alex. That doesn’t matter to me. Obviously.” Did he think, all those times I was with him, when I was kissing him, that I was acting? That I really wasn’t into him at all?
“I’m not talking about whether it matters to you. I’m talking about your parents. You didn’t tell them before. Don’t you think that would have been important? So that this face and this body wouldn’t be what broke it to them?” He’s pointing at himself. His words are quiet. He doesn’t sound angry. But his other hand is clenched in a fist, like he might use it to punch something.
I turn and walk to the end of the car. I clutch my bag to my chest. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it wasn’t fair to him that I didn’t tell my parents, or at least Dad. But Dad’s not like that—I didn’t think it would matter. As for Mom, I was never going to tell her about Alex anyway. I know how she’d react. And I can’t tell Alex any of that. I can’t tell him that he’s right about her.
I drop onto a bench, hugging my knees to my chest. The past weeks have been torture. I’ve been dreaming of this, of Alex coming back to me, since the moment he left. But maybe this is a mistake. I can’t feel his wide arms around me—I can’t see his intense, almost hungry gaze—if he’s just going to disappear. I don’t think I could stand it. I have to be strong for my family. But I’m not that strong.
Alex sits two seats away. He looks worried.
“Isa. Please. Can I touch you?”
I can’t speak—by now tears are streaming down my face—so I just nod.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His hand on my back is warm. I hate that it feels so good.
I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry.” He can apologize for not answering my messages. But the rest of it—all of this—it started because of me. Because of my messed-up family and our complicated life. I can’t be with someone, not right now. It’s not fair to either of us.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I slide out from under his arm and move to stand by the door. Alex comes up behind me; I see his reflection in the window. I feel his hurt, like heat, steaming off him.
We’re coming up on Ninety-Sixth, which is good. I don’t know how much longer I can stand near him and convince myself I don’t want this. Only the train isn’t slowing. We push through my station. The conductor comes on and tells us that due to delays, the train is running express to 137th. For access to all bypassed stops we need to transfer to the downtown train.
Oh no.
We’re rushing along so quickly I can’t think.
Alex offers me his phone. “Do you need to call your mother?” He remembers.
“Thanks, but I don’t need to.” Mom won’t be waiting for me. She’s seeing her doctor tonight.
I rest my head against the bar. I don’t look at Alex’s face, because if you’re starving, staring into a restaurant at people eating steak and lobster will just make you feel more miserable, won’t it? But what if you’re not starving for the food? What if you’re starving for the laughter, for the hands touching across the table? It doesn’t matter. I can’t have any of it.
We’re already passing 116th. Only two more stops to go.
A baby in a stroller starts to fuss. The mother stares out the window, her sleepy eyes widening as we shoot out onto the elevated tracks. She blinks at the twinkling lights, at the raindrops that streak the glass. A fat little hand smacks at the sippy cup lodged beside a pink blanket. I’m so distracted, I don’t notice the train has stopped.
“Isa? Aren’t you getting off?” Alex’s voice is quiet. Almost like he doesn’t want me to hear him.
“Oh!” I swing around. This is where we say goodbye. Only I can’t form the words, not without crying.
The woman with the baby is pushing the stroller out. The wheels get caught in the gap. She mutters and jams at the stroller. The baby falls back against the blanket.
“Can I help you?” I grab hold of the front wheels. I lift them out of the rut. I place them down gently on the platform. “There you go,” I say. Only it’s not the mother’s hands on the stroller. It’s Alex’s. The mother is behind him. He’s talking to her in Spanish.
“There are a lot of stairs at this station,” Alex says to me. “It’ll be hard for her by herself.” He motions for me to step aside. Instead, I take the front.
He lifts the stroller, taking so much of the weight, I do little more than steer. As we put it down at the top of the steps, I smile at the baby. I’m rewarded with a gurgle and a flap of a chubby arm. Alex is watching the mother slowly climb up behind us. Rain pelts us as we exit the station and cross the street.
At the top of the downtown entrance, Alex heaves the stroller up. He waits down at the platform. The mother thanks us multiple times. I give the sweet baby a wave as the mother heads to a bench.
Alex stands beside me. He stomps mud from his sneakers.
“Aren’t you going uptown?” I ask, pretending to myself I don’t care.
His gaze swings to the mother and the baby. “They’re going to Ninety-Six. I told her that’s where I’m going too.” He looks at me. “Do you mind? If I ride with you?”
“Sure, anything to help the baby.” I fling my arm in the air. I mean it to be funny, but it comes out as overly dramatic, like something my mom would do.
Alex takes my hand just before I slip it back in my pocket. “I’m not doing this for the baby,” he says.
I look at his sneakers, white laces now stained with dirt. “I know.” I don’t pull my hand away. It feels too good, right where it is.
“I’m sorry,” Alex says again. His thumb traces my finger, just like he did backstage. Like he’s sad, like he’s saying goodbye. “Your show, it shook me up. Meeting your parents, that shook me up too. But the ballet itself, the story? It made me think about us. How we’re so different. Maybe too different. It made me worry we would never work. That’s why I left.”
He’s comparing us to a peasant and a lord in a ballet that takes place over a thousand years ago?
Alex lifts a shoulder, even though I haven’t said anything. “I know. It’s ridiculous. I can’t help the way I feel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” His hand tightens. He gives my arm a little shake. “I believe you. About your parents. Maybe I’m just too sensitive about it.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Will you give me another chance? Give us another chance?”
The train comes in a rush of wind and grating steel. Alex releases my hand as we step on. I take a seat, drawing in a breath as Alex settles beside me. Our hips touch, but he angles his leg away.
Maybe I can do this
. Showing everyone you’re happy and excited about life is so much easier when you’re truly feeling it. I want to tell him the truth. But I don’t know how. Not without telling him about everything.
I think about that time on the train, when Alex asked me what type of guy I liked, and I wouldn’t tell him because I was too embarrassed to admit that he’s my type. He is exactly my type. And then he went and proved it by asking me about dance, about my life, and actually listening to my answers. I didn’t want to get off. I wanted that ride to last forever. But I was afraid to stop talking so I introduced him to that game. He caught on without missing a step.
I clear my throat. “I’ve been lonely. I haven’t told my family. Because they need me to be strong. They need me to be the happy one.”
Alex stares at me. His dark brows are nearly touching.
I don’t look at the mother with the stroller, the one we helped. I don’t want to give it away. “My husband is serving overseas. I send him photos of our beautiful daughter. I write to him that she is the most wonderful baby and that I love being a mother. But I miss him. I worry because being a soldier is dangerous. And being a single mother is hard. I’m tired all the time. But I tell him I’m happy because I know that will make him feel good.”
Alex’s eyes dart to the baby stroller and come back to me. “This . . . this is that game, right?”
I attempt to lift one eyebrow. They both go up, as I knew they would. “The game’s not as fun when there are only five other passengers in the car.” I’m not sure if Alex understood what I was trying to tell him. Still, he reaches out. He brushes a strand of wet hair from my cheek. His mouth curves into a hopeful smile. I slide next to him. I push our legs together until I can feel his hip, his knee, and his ankle. I rest my head on his shoulder.
He takes my hand in his. He understood. I missed him so much. I missed having someone who asks about me and cares about the answers.
Alex follows me out at Ninety-Sixth Street, then waits with me for the bus. It’s still raining. We back into the corner of the bus stop shelter. He wraps his sweatshirt around both of us. My hands reach for each other along his back. I was starving. For all of it. For all of him.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 17
ALEX
We’re on the Great Lawn in Central Park. It’s been twelve days since I stopped acting like a fool. Nine days since Isa took me back. I’ve managed to see her five out of the nine. At night, I’m dreaming again instead of tussling with sheets. Yaritza says my appetite’s come back. My average is up to .497. Yesterday, I had five RBIs and AHH advanced to the playoffs. And we’ve got one more hour of this beautiful sun before it sets.
“How’s it going with Robi?” Isa hands me one of the sandwiches she made for us. She reaches for sanitizer. She grins when I hold out my palm. She squirts out a big glob and massages it in. I capture her hands. I pull her toward me. My lips brush hers.
“Robi’s good.” I take the sandwich from her. I’ve told her about my little brother’s dreams. About my dream to help him get Papi’s attention. To get his respect and help. “Yaritza’s reminding him to do his exercises every afternoon. Once I’m done with playoffs, I’ll have him work on catching and hitting again.”
Isa rips off a piece of bread from her own sandwich and pops it in her mouth. “He loves playing? Like you do?” Isa twists her hair over her shoulder.
“Robi’s crazy about baseball. It’s all he ever reads about, all he talks about. Yaritza says he doesn’t even watch his regular shows anymore. Just baseball games and commentary.”
Isa eyes me before taking another bite. “But you love it, right?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I don’t tell her what I love most. The respect that comes with it—Papi’s and everyone else’s. I push the rest of my sandwich in my mouth. It’s better than from a deli. Isa puts in these tiny pickles that give it crunch. Isa’s watching my face, and I smile around all the crumbs. Isa rises onto her knees. She digs in her bag and pulls out a white bundle. She unwraps the napkin. Three chocolates sit in her hand.
“I got them at dance. Someone gave our instructor a whole box because she pulled a muscle in her groin. No, not that way!” She laughs at the look I give her. “It’s actually a pretty common injury for a dancer.”
I consider a couple of comments, ways to offer my assistance should Isa ever need it. She pokes me like she knows where my mind’s at, then offers me the chocolate shaped like lips.
“You saw that one and knew it was for me, right?” I rub my tongue over the bump on my bottom lip, the small scar from that day Isa forgave me. I hope it never fades.
“We’re sharing them,” she informs me. “Each one is different. I love tasting them all.” She bite off half and passes the rest to me. Wow. Sweet milk chocolate blended with hazelnut. Reminds me of the flavored coffee Mami gets from Dunkin’ Donuts.
There’s a clap of a bat hitting a ball. A Little Leaguer runs to first. I lie down on my back. I stare through leaves at a sky the color of faded jeans. The air smells fresh and green, like a promise. This moment is perfect. I don’t want anything about it to change.
Isa’s face appears above me. Her hair, soft as feathers, brushes my cheek.
OK, I can think of a few things that would make it even better.
I take her arm.
She sinks onto her heels. “Wait. I have something else.” She slips a magazine in front of her. Northeast Lit is sketched on the cover in purple slanted letters.
Her hands shift the magazine up to reveal her grinning mouth. “Open to where the bookmark is.”
I sit up. I slide my finger between the glossy pages. I find the bookmark, but I start at the front. There are short stories, and artwork, and poems in here. I’m reading the first poem, my mind forming the sounds of the words, when Isa leans into me.
“I can’t wait any longer!” She snatches the magazine, flipping back to the bookmarked page. “Read!” Her cheeks and mouth are bright pink.
I pull my gaze from her face to the page in my lap. I read the first sentence. I look up at her. She’s chewing her lip. Her eyes are big and full of shine.
I start at the beginning. I read all the way through. I read it again. I read a third time. I run my finger over the words, over the name Anonymous.
“Well?” Isa’s fingers tap her water bottle.
I take her hand to make her stop. “How?” I whisper. I don’t know what this means.
“It’s open submissions. I sent it a few months ago. I figured you wouldn’t send it yourself. I didn’t use your name. I didn’t think you were ready for that.”
“Did you have to pay for them to print this?”
“No!” She’s shaking her head. She takes the magazine from me and turns to the last page. She shows me the submission guidelines and rules.
“But why? Why did they take it?” These poems I write, they’re just for her. For me. I don’t expect other people to like them. It’s not about them.
“Because the poem’s beautiful! See, I knew I needed to do this. You still don’t think you’re good. Listen, just because you’re this amazing baseball player doesn’t mean you can’t also be an amazing poet. It’s not one or the other. You could grow up and be something other than a professional ballplayer, you know. You could be an architect, a doctor, an astronaut.”
“You want to send me to the moon?” She’s the only one who likes my jokes.
“No, of course not.” She wraps her jumpy fingers around my forearm. “It’s just . . . You’ve got a gift and I want you to use it.”
I love that Isa thinks all her possibilities can be mine too. That she doesn’t see anything holding me back. I don’t correct her. She was born looking like a dancer, but she could go to school, put on a white coat, and people would call her Doctor. Me? I was born looking like I belong on the field. Even if I went to school for years, people wouldn’t see me and think poet. I don’t say anything. I like her dream for me, even if it’s not my reality.
“Have you th
ought about that school I told you about? Just, because . . . you never know. What if you get a career-ending injury? You said it happened to your dad. You can’t control everything, no matter how hard you train or how careful you are.” She lets out a breath, draws another in. Her smile comes back, bigger than before. “This”—she waves the magazine—“would help you get into the Haeres School. They’ve got a champion baseball team and great college acceptances.”
I hold my hand out for the magazine. She gives it back to me. I flip through the pages. I read the other poems. They’re chévere.
Isa’s right. The baseball program at Haeres is solid. A lot of the kids I train at the Institute apply there. It’s a private Catholic high school. But it’s free. So it’s hard to get in. They’d never take me. And Papi would never go for it. He doesn’t want me to go to college. He wants me to get drafted right out of high school, like he did.
I slide my hand behind her head and draw her close for another kiss. “Thank you.” I give the magazine back.
“No, that’s your copy. I have two more at home. If you want one for Yaritza or your mom—”
“Nah, this one’s great.” I don’t want to share what I wrote with other people. Anonymous is one thing. They don’t know it’s me. But if Papi found out? I’d never live it down. He thinks I read too much already.
Isa comes down beside me. Her arm curls around my chest. She rests her chin on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I tell her again.
“You’re welcome,” she whispers.
I read the poems, mine and others, until the sun disappears.
MONDAY, MAY 22
ISA
Merrit’s forehead is pressed against the glass. He stares out the window as the city goes by. It’s weird to see him not on his phone. For some reason, he’s angry with it today.
The bus stops. A bunch of students get on at Central Park West. Merrit glances at them, his gaze lingering on a girl with a thick cascade of blue-black hair. I rub his back but I’m not sure he can feel my hand through his winter coat. It’s going to be seventy today. I reminded him of this as we were leaving but Merrit didn’t want to return and find it packed away in some box, perhaps shipped to the storage facility instead of to the new apartment. I can empathize. I’m carrying a duffel even though I’m just taking him to his doctor’s appointment. My pointe shoe box with Alex’s poems is inside.
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