Merrit ignores me when I ask about the World Series of Poker—he watched it for hours last night on his laptop. He shakes his head when I suggest stopping for pizza.
As we approach Broadway, I rise to my feet. I reach for his elbow, but Merrit shrugs me off, looking all annoyed. He doesn’t understand why his baby sister has to chaperone him. But if you don’t show up to your appointments, if you disappear for hours and don’t tell anyone where you’ve been . . . well, you have no choice. I offered to help after school, what with the movers around. Mom’s a mess and Dad’s managing everything. I don’t mind missing one afternoon of dance. Dad gave me a huge hug, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Thank you.” Mom didn’t even respond when I said we were going to take public transportation. Taxis are just too expensive.
Merrit stumbles off the bus. He veers in front of it to cross the street. I yank him back just as a car screeches by.
“You didn’t even look!” I accuse.
Merrit scrutinizes the drain, shaking his hands up and down in his pockets, jiggling the coins inside.
The light changes. I tug him through the crosswalk, then down the steps into the subway, toward the front of the tracks, where there will be fewer people waiting.
Merrit’s jiggling change again, his shoulders vibrating. A lady with a Century 21 bag glances at us.
“I wasn’t watching poker last night,” he says. It’s jarring after his long silence. “Not all night at least. I was watching Superman. The one from 1978. You’ve seen it, right?”
I nod, too shocked to speak. He hasn’t spoken more than single words to anyone in days. Superman is one of Dad’s favorites. He used to make us all watch it together on his birthday. He’d recite the lines along with the actors. “I’m here to fight for truth and justice and the American way.” He even got Mom to play along, calling out to her, “Easy, miss. I’ve got you,” and laughing when she’d reply, “You—you’ve got me?! Who’s got you?”
Merrit grimaces. “Yeah, duh. Of course you’ve seen it. Anyway, I was thinking about what happened to the actor who played Superman. I mean, imagine being a superhero—sure he didn’t have x-ray vision and he couldn’t fly in real life—but he was this tall, good-looking guy who was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. So imagine being that guy and then having an accident and being paralyzed. And then dying. He was only Dad’s age when he died, did you know that?”
I shake my head. I’m not sure whether to be happy or nervous that Merrit’s talking so much.
Merrit drags the toe of his shoe along the bumps edging the yellow line. “What does that mean about us, about our society, when the man who embodied Superman is squashed so easily? Like a mosquito.”
I hope Merrit is referring to how the actor died so young, and not to the accident. It’s not as if life ends just because you get a diagnosis or because you can’t do something you used to be able to do. I’m about to ask when Merrit loops his hand around one of the tiled columns. He swings out over the tracks.
My heart jolts. “Merrit.” By some miracle, my voice stays calm. “Merrit, what are you doing?”
Merrit peers down into the wide cavity filled with trash and rats and long pieces of metal conducting high voltage. He sways back and forth, holding on with his long arm.
“Merrit, you’re making me nervous. Please step back.”
A train is coming. Its horn blares out a long and angry warning.
My brother turns his head to find me. His eyes are lit with a wild gleam. “I think the message is that we’re all mosquitos. Any of us can be squashed in a flash.” He swings again. My heart ticks madly. I’m about to scream Merrit’s name when he propels himself away from the track. He trips toward me, laughing.
The train slows to a stop in front of us. Merrit’s pointing at me, his smile broad and exaggerated.
“Your expression . . .” He lets out a bark of laughter.
I smack him. Hard. “That’s not funny,” I growl. I can still feel the beat of my heart on my tongue.
“Sure it is.” He raises a hand to his reddening cheek. I’ve never slapped anyone before, and I’m shaking now.
I grab Merrit’s coat, dragging him onto the train with me. I don’t let go until we’re in the doctor’s office, even though Merrit’s eyes are shooting daggers at me. After I tell the doctor what happened, after I say I don’t know if Merrit was clowning around or if he really was thinking of jumping onto the tracks, I sit in the waiting room, wiping tears with my sleeve. The bag with Alex’s poems is on my lap. I can’t even open it.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24
ALEX
I lean against the brick of the Sixty-Sixth station wall. Two uptown trains pass. I don’t care how many others go by, I’ll wait forever. Isa texted that she’s coming.
Footsteps echo in the crossunder. The rhythm is heartbeat-fast. Isa soars out of the stairwell, a ball off a bat. My hands seek her, strong and sure. I catch her as if this is what my training is for.
A train flies in behind her. Wind tears my eyes. I don’t close them. I don’t blink. I can’t. Not when she’s looking at me like that.
Her hands are on my shoulders. Her chest hits up against mine.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
“For catching you?”
She tips her chin to me. “For that too. I meant the poem I found yesterday. You have no idea how much I needed it.”
“Why? Did something happen?” My arms tighten around her.
Her eyes go dull. Her features cloud. “No.” She smiles again. “I was just missing you.” An incoming train slows and stops, and she pulls me aboard.
This car, with its shaking walls and machine-pumped air, is ours. Here, on the train, with her by my side, it feels like home.
“Which one did you find?”
She recites the first line.
“You liked it?” I ask. My mouth matches her grin.
She recites the rest.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
We sit in our favorite seats, beside the MTA’s poem poster. I can’t help but think of Northeast Lit, of what she did for me, of what she said months ago. Someday, maybe one of mine will be up there.
Isa burrows her head into my shoulder. I inhale the scent of her shampoo. It’s different. More fruit than flower. It’s still all I want to smell.
Isa goes still. I follow her gaze to a girl sitting between an older boy and a light-haired woman. The girl’s holding a newspaper. She chews the eraser of a pencil and looks up at her mother. The mother tells her something and the girl writes it down. The boy takes the pencil, then writes something too. The girl kicks her feet, happy with what he’s done.
Above them is a black-and-white poster of a woman in a dark room, an ad for a study at one of the city’s hospitals. The woman is pressing a hand to her head like she’s in pain. The words SAD, ALONE, ANXIOUS surround her. She looks like the mother of the kids doing the crossword.
I knock Isa’s knee. “Hey, it’s like a before and after.”
Isa looks up. Her eyes skid from the ad to the floor.
“What do you think they gave her? Shock therapy? Or maybe happy pills?” I try nudging a grin from her. “Or maybe that research is trying to prove you don’t need any of that. That you can fight the blues if you do enough crosswords with friends and family, huh?”
Isa doesn’t laugh, which isn’t like her. She stares at one of the doors. Her answering “Hmmm” is quiet.
I release Isa’s arm, searching for something else to say. “Hey, Merrit’s home from school for the summer now, right?”
She leans her head on me again and the strain across my shoulders eases. She doesn’t look away from the little family. “Yup. He’s home.”
“Can I meet him?” I wait for her answer. I try not to think about empty seats at the ballet.
Isa laces our fingers together, turning her palm up and then down, bringing mine with it. I’m afraid of what she’s going to say.
“Sure. I’ll find out
when he’s available.”
I let out my breath and lift our hands. I rest her fingers against my lips.
Her face tilts to mine. “Chrissy and Kevin are going to the Catskills again this weekend. His parents are away, visiting his grandma. Chrissy’s all nervous about it.”
Isa’s told me about Chrissy’s “dilemma.” I had to swear on my mami’s life I would never share what I know.
I chuckle. “She should just own up,” I tell her again. “If he loves her, he’ll accept the truth.”
“I know how you feel, Mr. I Shall Never Tell a Lie. But what if you’re wrong? What if when Kevin finds out, he freaks and ends it?”
“Then she’s better off without him.” If he loved her, he would accept her for who she is. Like Isa accepts me. If I said I wanted to quit baseball, she’d probably be the only one all right with it. Not that I want to quit. Not that I ever would.
Isa puts her hand on my knee. “What if it were me? What if I were the one hiding something from you?”
“Yes, I’d want to know. And yes, I’d be OK with it. I’d have to be.” I exhale slow as her hand travels from my thigh down to my knee. “If you’re going to tell me you’re an expert en la cama because of an experience you had before you knew me, I’d be OK with that too.” I know I should be, at least, even if the thought makes my gut knot up.
She massages open my clenched fist. She stretches until her lips meet mine. I cup the back of her head. We’re heading home, so I don’t have to worry about her bun. But still, I’m careful.
“Sorry to disappoint.” She smiles against me. “But you’ve been my only conquest.”
I sweep my mouth over hers again, not caring about the people around us.
“So when’s your practice this Saturday?” I ask when I’ve pulled away, when my breathing’s slowed enough for me to speak.
She shakes her head, rubbing the tip of her nose across mine. “I don’t have any. No class, that is. Free, for once in my life. You have a game?”
I nod. “But it’s early. Should be done by three. Mami works until eight.”
Isa looks into my eyes like she’s been lost at sea and she’s looking for land. She spots it—what she’s searching for. And grins. “Are you finally inviting me over?”
I tickle her, right under her ribs. She shrieks.
“Finally?” I say. “Finally?” I ask her all the time. She’s never able to come.
“Yes! Yes! I’ll come. Stop!” She’s leaning all the way back. Her head is nearly touching the floor. She’s balancing, her knee pinching my side, holding her in place. Coño. Her muscles are so strong. Is it weird that it makes me want her even more?
We both know what this means. We’ve talked about finding time alone.
I pull her up. “You’ll stay for dinner?” I whisper.
She nods. She’s trying to control her grin. “I’m excited to meet your mom.”
“Oh, is that what you’re excited about?” I take her face. I’m about to kiss her again when the subway doors open. A cop steps in. His handcuffs smack against his baton.
I drop my hands. They’re weights at my sides. Not strong. Not sure.
The cop scans the car. He frowns when he sees us.
Isa slides her arm through mine. She grips my hand so tight my fingers go numb. The cop passes us. When he’s in the next car, Isa reaches for my chin. She kisses me until I forget about the cop. Until all I can think about is Saturday.
•••
The elevator dings. The words of the poem I’ve been writing in my head since I kissed Isa goodbye scatter. I piece them back together as I tread the brown shag rug to my apartment. In a few days, Isa will walk over the same Hershey-chocolate carpet, drag her fingers along the peanut-butter walls. She’ll laugh, remembering I told her I live down a Reese’s Pieces hall.
I smell the chuletas before I open the door. Mami’s voice rises from the kitchen, carrying over the hiss and spatter of oil. I poke my head in. She’s got the phone wedged under her ear. She pushes thin strips of cebolla y pimientos around the frying pan, then flips pork chops with a spatula. It’s after nine. She’s home early.
She gives me a nod, then gestures at the meat. I bring her a plate from the counter.
“Sí, sí, mi amor . . . Entiendo . . . Lo siento,” she says into the phone. She slides one of the chuletas onto the plate. The edges are golden and crisped. Just how I like them.
“¿Quién es?” I mouth the words.
She holds a finger up. Her bangle bracelets slide down her arm. Their brassy color looks good against her brown skin. Her blue scrub top is flecked with grease. A sweatshirt with rows of tiny yellow pineapples drapes over the back of a chair. The steam’s still running in our fifth-floor apartment. Mami jokes that it always feels like the DR in here.
Mami points to another plate. I hold it steady as she places a pork chop in the middle, then dumps spatula after spatula of onions and peppers on top. This plate must be mine.
My stomach grumbles.
Mami puts down the phone, and we sit at the two-person table. “Sorry,” she says. “That was the abuelita de Danny. Have you seen him?” She saws off a piece of chuleta. She closes her lips around the fork and groans.
I’m crunching down on meat, the sharp tang of garlic mixing with sweet onion and pepper. The words of my poem flood back, riding colors of green, gold, and red.
“¡’Pérate, la leche!” She jumps out of her chair when she sees I have nothing to drink.
I swallow. “Siéntate, Mami. I’ll get it.” I pour us two glasses of milk.
“¿Y Danny?” she asks, when I place the milk in front of her.
“Haven’t seen him today.” I try to think when he was last in school. We’re not in the same classes. “Maybe Monday I saw him? In the hall?” If he hadn’t dropped the team, I’d be seeing him every day. It’s not the same when it’s just Bryan and me. It’s like I’m wearing two shoes, but forgot my belt.
Mami stabs another bite. “¿Con quién está andando? Is it a girl at least?”
A girl would be so much better for Danny than Pinchón’s gang. I don’t want to give her Pinchón’s name. I shrug instead.
Mami shakes her head. Her fork scrapes her plate.
“Speaking of girls, I know you wanted to meet Isa. She can come this Saturday. Does that work?”
Mami’s eyes widen like Sra. Hernandez just told her about a celebrity visiting the Fifth Avenue salon where she works. “¿De veras? She no has class? But what about your game?”
“I’ll finish in time for dinner. We’re both free for once. Can you believe it?” I scoop another forkful of peppers and onions. A line from my poem is stuck on repeat.
Mami pats at her hair. “Ay, but I need to make an appointment.”
“You look beautiful,” I tell her. “You don’t need to do anything special. We can even go out, so you don’t have to cook.”
She puts down her fork. She crosses her arms. Her red-painted nails tap at her skin then point at my plate. “¿Y qué? You don’t like my food?”
I stand. I plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Your cooking is the best. I just don’t want you to have to work. Not unless you want to.”
“This, I want to,” she declares. She grabs up her fork and finishes her food. “Since when has my son brought home a girl before? Never. And I would like to thank her for that smile. You no smile like that since you was nine and your papi started taking notice of you.”
“Mami—” I hate when she brings that up.
She raises her hands. “No, no. To ’ta bien. I know you love your mamá. But I can do nothing to make you look like that. Your papi? Sí. Your Isabelle? Sí. And I know this smile”—she squeezes my cheeks—“is not just for las chuletas. You saw her tonight, no?”
I nod. I try not to smile harder.
She nods back. “I know this Isabelle, she is special. I will make una cena especial for her. And we have something else to celebrate. They told me I can have the day shift. S
tarting in July.”
“Really?” The nursing home’s had Mami’s request for five years. But it goes by seniority. Someone has to retire or leave for a day spot to open up.
I grab Mami into a hug. She squeals when I lift her off the ground. Mami owns our apartment. She bought it with her settlement from the divorce, but she still has to make the monthly maintenance. And pay bills for food and electricity. So she needs that job. One of the things I dream about if I make it to the pros, besides the look on Papi’s face, is being able to care for Mami.
“Ay, ¡felicidades!” I swing her around. When I set her down, she pushes a chair to the counter. Before she can climb it, I get down the bottle of Brugal from the cabinet above the refrigerator. She side-eyes me as I hand it to her. She examines the bottle, checking to make sure I haven’t taken any. As if I would ever drink her rum. That same bottle’s been there forever. She only takes it out on truly special occasions.
I stamp down my smirk. “You should keep it somewhere else.” I put the frying pan in the sink and start scrubbing. “I don’t want you falling.” Mami puts on music as I turn for the cutting board. Mami’s sitting in the chair, watching me, a small glass in her hand. Her crossed leg bobs to the bachata beat. She raises the glass to me. I blow her a kiss and pick up the sponge.
Dos Locos comes on. Mami stands, smoothing out her scrubs.
“Ven, baila con tu mamá.”
I dry my hands and dance with her. It’s her favorite song, a slow one, about two lovers who’ve broken up but can’t stop thinking of each other. It used to make me think she missed Papi. She never got another novio. Not that I know of, anyway. When I asked her about the song and Papi years ago, she laughed. She said it was just a good song.
“Mami? Ever heard of a school called Haeres?” Yellow dish towels with palm trees, the ones Mami got from DR, hang next to the stove.
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