This Train Is Being Held

by Ismée Williams

  “Hey.” The security guard stops about fifteen feet away. “You can’t be here.” His hands rise to his waist. A baton hangs from his belt.

  “Um . . . I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Who?” he asks.

  “A student. A dancer.” I try to look him in the eye.

  “What’s her or his name?”

  “Isabelle Warren,” I reply.

  His face doesn’t change. I don’t know if he recognizes Isa’s name.

  “Is she expecting you?” he asks.

  “No, I—”

  The guard holds up his palm. “You need to go.”

  “But—”

  “You’re loitering. If you don’t go, I’ll have to call the police.”

  I fist my hands in my pockets. My huff of breath is like dragon smoke. “Can I at least leave a message for her?”

  His squinting eyes widen. “You don’t have her phone number? Now you really got to go.” He shows me his thumb.

  I do have her number. She just won’t answer it.

  I walk toward the Symphony building. I take the corner and lean up against the wall.

  A couple walks by, bundled in scarves and hoods. Their laughter cuts off when they see me. I swear I see the guy draw the girl closer. They both look over their shoulders, back toward the fountain, once they’ve passed.

  The security guard comes into view. He takes out his phone. He puts it to his ear. He watches me as he talks into it.

  I’m finished here. I turn, heading for the subway.

  “Alex?”

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 4

  ISA

  Alex’s eyes go round when he sees me. His hands come out of his pockets. “Hi,” he says.

  Freddy, the night guard, jogs over. “You know this guy? He’s been hanging around for hours, looking in the windows and stuff.”

  I nod, studying Alex’s face. The temperature’s in the twenties. It’s arctic out here.

  “He’s scared a few folks. He tried to get in the side entrance,” Freddy continues. “I was about to chase him off.”

  Alex breaks our gaze to scowl at his feet.

  The idea of anyone thinking Alex a threat is like a hand squeezing my heart. “I’m sorry.” I mouth the words, but Alex doesn’t see. He glares at the stone slabs beneath us, tracking the long, rigid line between light and dark. He’s at the edge of one of the sand-colored spokes that radiates like a beam from the fountain. I am paces away, in the middle of a sea of black.

  “You sure you’re OK?” Freddy’s looking from Alex to me.

  “Yes, thank you.” I turn to stand beside Alex, easing closer while keeping space between us. I want to show Freddy I don’t need him.

  Freddy nods and heads back inside.

  If Alex had come on any other night, the plaza would have been filled with crowds for The Nutcracker. No one would have noticed him. And I would have been on stage until ten. I wonder if Alex knows that.

  Alex remains motionless, his irritation not quite directed at me but near enough that it smarts. Still, my stomach quivers. Heat seeps into my hands and up my neck. My body recognizes his. It doesn’t care about all that has passed.

  I was planning to take the subway. I won’t if it means riding with Alex.

  “How’s Kiara?” I don’t know why I say that, of all things. It must be the part of me shouting to put distance between us. Hoping he’ll leave so I can get on the subway alone.

  Alex grimaces. “She’s fine.” He tells it to his shoes. He shakes his head and lifts his face to me once more. “She’s not you, Isa. She never will be.”

  Wind kicks up. I shiver inside my coat. I duck behind my scarf. I should walk away but I cannot move. My feet won’t obey.

  “You’re cold. Come on, let’s get you inside.” Alex’s arm comes out, the other extends toward the subway.

  More than anything, I want to feel the weight of that arm, the warmth of it around me. Instead I step back. “What do you want, Alex?” I mean to ask him why he’s here. But also, I wonder if he wants to hold me too, if the longing for it is shaking him apart.

  Alex frowns at his hand, the one reaching for me, as if it’s a habit he’s been meaning to break. “Your hair is wet.” He says it with surprise.

  Before he can move toward me, I coil the frigid, stiffening strands and tug up my hood. It’s dark and the street lamp’s behind me. Alex can’t possibly see my face anymore. I try to back away from him. My feet have stopped listening to me. They want to know why he’s here too.

  Alex’s frown returns as I remain silent. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

  He didn’t come here to ask me that. “Yes, thank you. And you?”

  His hand brushes his abdomen. “Ate too many guava pastries.”

  I smile, safe within my hiding place.

  “I had no one to share them with.”

  His hopeless tone springs tears from my eyes. My mood’s been like this these past months, shifting from one second to the next. It terrifies me.

  “I tried calling you. Over the past few days. I texted you too.”

  I nod even though I didn’t know, because I blocked his number. I thought it would be easier that way.

  “I miss you,” he whispers. His hands are in front of him. His fingers open and close but he doesn’t reach out this time. He gazes down at me from under thick, thick lashes.

  I miss you too. I almost say it. My tongue twists, fighting to form the words. My eyes swim with tears. Thank God for my hood.

  He clears his throat when I don’t say anything. He looks toward the opera house. “I came because I wasn’t straight with you. About my papi.” He tells me his dad played pro for only a season and a half. That drugs led to an injury and then a suspension. That he was in and out of rehab and had a few arrests for possession too. One of those arrests was when Alex was with him.

  Alex watches me, bare and undone. My insides ache for a five-year-old Alex who had to grow up under that shadow.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. I’m not aware of putting my hand on his arm. The warmth of his hand covering mine makes me realize what I’ve done.

  “I should have told you sooner,” he says. “But I didn’t want to give you another reason not to be with me.”

  “What?”

  Alex shrugs. “You never met Papi or Yaritza. We set it up a few times and you never showed. And I know you didn’t want me to meet your mother. Danny told me about her.”

  My breath catches in my throat and I fight the urge to cough. Did Danny hear what Mom said about him? Did he tell Alex that?

  Alex squeezes my hand. “It’s OK. Your mother’s right. I’m not good enough for you. I’m just another moreno from the Heights with a papi with a record.”

  I feel exhausted all of a sudden. Like I could lie down on the cold stone and close my eyes.

  “I would never think of you that way.” He must know that, right? “You are not your dad. What he did—what he does—that’s not you. It shouldn’t affect how people see you or what they think of you.”

  “Yeah,” he says, but his eyes don’t meet mine. As if he knows I only partly believe what I’m saying.

  “And you not being good enough for me? That’s just bullshit. That’s not why I needed to take a break.”

  His face snaps up. He watches me. He’s waiting for me to give him the real reason.

  Nausea clambers up my throat. I let go of his arm and step back, the hand that had been under his pressed to my mouth so I don’t lose the protein bar I just ate all over his sneakers.

  “Isa? Are you OK?”

  I shake my head. Is this why he told me about his dad? Why he brought up my mom? He’s expecting some big confession from me, isn’t he?

  “Chrissy told me I should come find you.”

  “Chrissy?” Confusion, followed by alarm, fills me. Did she tell him about Merrit? “What did she say?” I demand.

  “Only that you and I should talk. I think . . .” He shifts his feet. “I think s
he’s worried about you.”

  I rip off my hood. I blink into wind like ice. “I’m fine.” I grit my teeth and force my face to smile. Tears stream onto my cheeks but it’s from the wind and nothing more. Alex shouldn’t have come. I’m glad he told me about his dad. That he trusts me enough to share that. But nothing for me has changed.

  “Goodbye, Alex.” I run until my feet strike the steps to Columbus Ave. I don’t bother crossing to Broadway to get a taxi going uptown. I don’t think of how much it will cost. I hail the first one I see.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9

  ALEX

  I run up the stairs to our apartment. Mami was expecting me sooner. One of the kids in my group didn’t get picked up on time. The kid was standing by the office, his bottom lip quaking. Robi used to do that when he got upset. I sat with him out by the batting cage and we talked baseball until the nanny came.

  I open our door and the smell of bacon, fried beef, garlic, and peppers hits me. Mami knows I love her sancocho. She must be trying to cheer me up.

  “Lo siento,” I say when I get to the kitchen. I usually cut up the onions and the vegetables.

  “No te preocupes.” She sticks out her lips for a kiss. When I was smaller, she’d peck the top of my head. Now I bend so she can reach my cheek. I wash my hands in the sink, careful not to let water spray the platter of tostones waiting for a final fry.

  I leave my sleeves rolled up. “¿Qué hago?” I want to help.

  Mami shakes her head and tuts at me. “Nada. We’ll be ready to eat a las siete. Pero, go shower. Your friend, she will be here soon.”

  I glance at her, confused. I thought Sra. Hernandez was joining us.

  Mami shrugs. “I miss seeing your smile.”

  I try to wash the cutting board and the pots in the sink. Mami shoos me out with a dish towel.

  I go to my room and strip off my dirty clothes. Before heading to the bathroom, I take my notebook out of my bag. I open to the poem I’m working on. It’s the fourth since I saw Isa outside Lincoln Center. The twelfth since I started writing again. I’ve been working through everything—my anger, my shame. But also there’s beauty, and longing. There’s Isa. I read over what I wrote, marking what doesn’t sound right.

  I bend my head under the shower. Water beats down on my back, almost too hot to bear. I roll my neck, loosening my muscles, relaxing my mind. Drops enter my mouth as I murmur words, shaping the poem. I crack the small window behind the showerhead, wiping condensation from the mirror. I layer on shaving cream that smells of peppermint, a birthday gift from Yaritza. With each sweep of the razor, I recite a new line.

  I open the door and steam billows into my room.

  Kiara’s on my bed, curled on her side. Her hair is up in a bun. She never wears it like that—it’s always down, a mass of dark curls. The top of her dress hugs her body. Folds the color of a tropical fruit drape her hips. She doesn’t do girly outfits like that either. Frayed jeans are more her style.

  I tighten the towel around me. Mami knew I was showering. There’s no way she would have sent Kiara in here.

  “I told your mami I needed to freshen up. She said I could use her bathroom. If she catches us, I’ll tell her I got lost. I wanted to give you your Christmas present early.” Kiara’s ankles uncross. Her legs are covered in some sort of black lace.

  Coño. Does she really think that’s what I want? Does she think she owes me something?

  I look away from her and my breathing cuts off. My notebook is out. I left it open to the poem.

  Kiara follows my gaze. She rises onto her elbows. “Did you get me something too?” I move for my desk. Kiara’s already off the bed. Her dress swishes behind her as she scoops up my writing. My back, my arms, my neck jerk tight.

  “Look at you, Mr. I Don’t Want a Girlfriend.” Kiara’s smile softens as she reads. My stomach is tangling knots. She places the notebook back on the desk. She climbs into my chair, tucking her feet under her. She turns page after page.

  I slide a pair of boxers off my dresser. Kiara doesn’t look up when I slip on my pants. I go to my closet. My heart drums like fists against bars.

  I grab a T-shirt. I’m pulling it on when hands tipped with pointed, glittery nails stop me.

  “‘Pérate.” Kiara presses up against my still-damp skin. She paws at my neck, draws me down to kiss her. Her fingers loop around my belt. She tugs me toward the bed.

  “I didn’t know you could write like that.” The words are gasps in my ear.

  I kiss her back even though it feels wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t see a way out of this cage.

  Kiara has never made me forget. I don’t think anyone can. But I don’t want to hurt her.

  “Tell me,” she commands. She nips at my jaw. I let her put her mouth on mine. She pulls away, her smile sly. “Tell me I’m your musa.”

  Her body, pillowy and soft, climbs over me. But when I close my eyes, she is not who I see. I see my hand tracing the length of lean, graceful limbs. I feel muscle, taut and trembling against mine.

  Kiara kisses me again, her mouth greedy. My eyes clench shut. I don’t know what else to do.

  My fingers drop from her waist where she put them.

  She breaks away. “Tell me you wrote those poems for me.” There’s worry in her voice. “They’re about me, aren’t they?”

  All I have to do is nod.

  Kiara glances at my hands, fisted at my sides. I’m still not holding her. I can’t.

  Kiara shuffles off the bed. She snatches up the notebook and starts to read a poem out loud. The one I just wrote. Her voice catches over the last line. Her eyes lift from the wrinkled paper. They’re wet, but there’s challenge in her glare.

  I grab another shirt from the drawer. I reach to take the notebook back.

  “No!” She doesn’t let it go.

  I pry her fingers from pages that rip.

  “Mamagüevo,” she hisses, as I tear the book loose.

  She slaps my chest. My cheek. I let her. I deserve it. She yanks at my shirt. She slashes at it with her nails. I deserve that too. Her groan becomes a shriek. “Maldito hijo de la porra, vete al diablo.”

  I hold the notebook high. It’s all I care about. The only thing I won’t let her get.

  “Lo siento,” I say even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean for you to find this.”

  Kiara scratches and slaps at me more. Her face is redder than her dress, her bun a loose tangle down her back.

  “¿Ále?” Mami’s concern comes through the door.

  “Don’t you ever—EVER—come near me again. You sorry, sorry excuse for un hombre.” Kiara backs toward the hall. Her hands are shaking. “You know, I feel bad for you. She dumped you, ¿recuerdate? But you’re still dreaming about your blanquita girlfriend, panting after her como un perro.”

  Kiara’s right. Isa doesn’t want me anymore. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still think about her. Being with Isa was the most remarkable thing that ever happened to me. I’m good at ball. I’m good at writing poems. But loving her? I was great at it.

  Kiara spits out a laugh. “I was so stupid. I didn’t believe what people say about you. I thought, there’s no way someone so fine and so good at everything, someone who’s so proud of his mami y papi, could be a hater. But apparently everyone else knows you better than me.” She aims a finger at my face. “You’re never gonna be one of them. You know that, right? No matter how many fancy schools or fancy teams you join. No matter how many blondies you get with. You’ll always be a moreno . . . un dominicano. You got to stop hating yourself for that.”

  Kiara launches from my room. The front door slams like a thousand lockers.

  I count to ten before I breathe. I wish she’d kept hitting me. Her hands hurt less than her words.

  I love my family. I love the island they came from. I don’t love that I tense up every time a cop passes. I don’t love that strangers look at me like I’m someone who’s going to hurt them instead of help. Do I wish I were di
fferent? Yeah, sometimes I do. And I hate myself for it. But that wasn’t why I was with Isa. It’s maybe why I’m not with her, though.

  Mami stands in the hallway. Her eyes are so wide, the whites of them show. She glances in, sees me standing there. The notebook is still in my hand. She frowns in concern. When I shake my head slightly, she ducks her head and hurries toward the kitchen.

  I want to tell her I’m OK. But I don’t want to lie.

  I shut my door. I put the notebook down. I pull on a new shirt and sit at my desk. I turn page after ripped page. Carefully, I tear the ruined ones from their binding. I transcribe poems until Mami calls me for dinner.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 10

  ISA

  I smooth out layers of tulle and reach for my tiara, checking it’s secure. The tempo of the music shifts. I extend my arms, flutter my hands like snowflakes. The first three dancers prance out. Three more come on from the other side. They leap and spin and—just as quickly—exit. I tilt my head, flicker my fingers faster, then dash on stage.

  Bright lights glance off my painted cheeks, my sculpted brows. My muted lips lift into a well-rehearsed smile. My arms circle up and around my tiara. I soar into the pas de chat. I pop onto my toes, pirouette, then duck down and scurry off, lifting my pointed feet high in front of me. I’ve got to the count of twenty before I’m on again. I flex my foot. My left calf has been tight since I pulled it a few weeks ago. But there was no possibility of missing a Nutcracker performance.

  “Ready?” Jane, the dancer who leads us on, shakes the hem of her sparkly skirt. Stage lighting makes it glimmer even brighter.

  Chrissy stands ready behind the second curtain. She’ll come on right after me. I flash her a smile to show her I’m fine. She doesn’t see it, because she’s frowning down at my foot.