This Train Is Being Held

by Ismée Williams

  The music fades. Notes from the harp float up from the pit as we float back out. We dip and flit and whirl, weaving circles and figure eights around one another. Sauté, assemblé, plié. I spring forward, my leg striking out in arabesque. I push off my heel, preparing for the jeté.

  My ankle folds. There’s a faint pop, like the crack of a toothpick.

  I want to cry out. Instead, I keep smiling.

  I draw myself into an exaggerated plié. I bourrée off stage, my weight on my right foot.

  Bert, the props manager, catches me before I fall.

  •••

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?” It’s the fourth time Dad’s asked since we left the emergency room.

  I shake my head. My fingers are wrapped so tightly around the crutches, there’s no blood left in them.

  Dad holds the door open while keeping a hand near my elbow. I pretend not to see it. He shuts the door, then kneels down and reaches for my shoe.

  “I can do it.” It comes out as a snap. I didn’t mean that.

  Dad sinks back onto his heels. He adjusts his glasses. “Sure. Of course you can.” He’s whispering because Merrit is asleep. Thank goodness. I was afraid he’d still be awake. Dad rises and takes off his own shoes. “I guess I’ll go check on your mom.”

  I lean against the wall, balancing on the crutch and the plastic boot as I try to kick off my one sneaker. Pain spears my ankle. Beads of sweat pop out along my back and neck.

  Dad comes out and sees what I’m trying to do. “Hold on.” He carries out a desk chair and places it beside me. I slide onto it and yank off my shoe just as Mom rushes out of the bedroom. She flings herself onto me, hugging me so tight I almost can’t breathe. I can’t remember the last time she’s held me.

  “Does it hurt?” she rasps, still not letting me go.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m fine, Mom. It’s not that painful,” I lie.

  “She’s OK, Elisa,” Dad says. I feel the thumps of his hand on her back through my chest. Mom has gotten so skinny. She pulls away and wipes at her eyes as Dad goes to the kitchen and fills a plastic bag with ice. The New York Times is still unfolded on the counter. He started leaving the crossword for me this past week, when he began his new job. Dad hasn’t complained about the boss who’s younger than him, or his salary being so much less, or about the medical insurance that has a lower cap on mental health coverage. Mom has though.

  Dad picks up the crossword and offers it again. When I was younger, Mom and I would do them together. It was one of the only times she didn’t yell at me for getting something wrong.

  I shake my head but Mom reaches for the newspaper.

  “Maybe tomorrow you’ll do it with me?” she asks.

  I give her a hesitant nod, blinking when my eyes fill with tears. This whole night has been too much.

  Mom stands over me, like she’s waiting to see how I get up and move around. “I’m so glad nothing is broken or torn. What a relief that must have been when the doctors told you.”

  I try for a smile.

  “But I have to say, I knew something like this was going to happen,” she continues. “Overuse injuries are common in dancers. At least you don’t need surgery. We have enough medical bills piling up. And your father’s insurance doesn’t cover physical therapy so that will be all out of pocket, which we really can’t afford right now.”

  I bite my tongue hard, so the tears slip back. Why does she have to make me feel so guilty about it? Does she think I wanted to get injured? Even a sprain means weeks, possibly months, of no dancing. I’ll miss the rest of the Nutcracker season. And going to Physics and World Literature with students who will be running off to Pointe and Variations will make me miss dancing even more. Not to mention I’ll have nothing—nothing—to throw myself into to escape from everything and everyone in this apartment.

  Dad puts a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Let’s try not to wake Merrit,” he whispers. “Do you need help getting dressed for bed?” He waits for me to say no before pushing Mom toward their room.

  Dad waits while I change. He helps me into bed, props four pillows under my leg, and tucks the bag of ice around my ankle. Merrit’s heavy breathing that borders on a snore filters through my open door.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  He rests a kiss on the top of my head, pressing it into my hair with his hand. “I don’t want you to worry about the cost of any of this,” he tells me. “We’ll find the best physical therapist there is.” He sighs. “And your mom didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . .” He shrugs. “She says things without thinking.”

  I nod, not sure I can do anything more.

  “I know it’s late, but is there anyone you want to call?” he asks.

  “No thanks,” I tell him. “Chrissy and I already talked.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not who I was thinking of.” He looks down at his feet. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about Alex. Have you been able to keep up your friendship even though you’re no longer at Deerwood together?”

  I’d forgotten Dad thought Alex and I were classmates.

  I don’t meet his gaze. His concern—something I’ve seen a thousand times directed at my mom—will break me. “It’s been hard,” I tell him. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “Yes, I imagine so. But now . . .” He gestures to my ankle. “You’ll have more time. Maybe you should call him. It’s important to have someone to talk to. Someone to complain about your parents to.” He tries to make a goofy grin, but his lopsided smile just looks sad. “Get some sleep.” He reaches for the light switch.

  Panic flutters inside me, pushing words into my mouth. For some reason, I want Dad to know who Alex really is.

  “Hey, Dad?” My voice sounds tinny, like it’s coming from a phone speaker far away. His hand pauses on the switch, and he turns to face me. I swallow, forcing myself to press on. “Alex never went to Deerwood. He went to Alexander Hamilton High in Washington Heights. I met him on the subway. On his way to baseball practice. He’s an amazing player. And an amazing poet too.”

  Dad leans against the wall. “Wow. He sounds like a really interesting guy. I can’t wait to get to know him better.” He doesn’t reprimand me for not correcting him before about Deerwood. And I don’t tell him that he won’t get to know Alex better because we’re no longer friends.

  “Goodnight, sweetheart.” He turns out the lights, and I lie back in my bed. The city bleeds around the edges of the shades, throwing light on the small bumps in the ceiling that look like melted rock salt on sidewalks. Outside, an angry driver leans on his horn. My foot throbs against the pressure bandage. I roll to my side, stretching for my middle drawer. My hand fumbles, finding only space where there should be the familiar edges of my pointe shoe box. It isn’t there. The throbbing in my foot rises to my chest. I’m seconds from full-on hysteria when I spy the box on top of my dresser, tucked underneath the faded black hoodie. I was looking at the poems earlier in the week, after I saw Alex outside the Academy. I was so upset that night, I must have forgotten to put it away.

  I reach out and run my finger over the shiny purple jewel on the box. I carefully lift the lid.

  On top is a note folded in half. It’s not from Alex. Not all his poems remain in the tiny square I found them in, but this one has only one crease, right down the middle. And the paper isn’t lined. It’s from the printer. My heart pounds. How could I have been so stupid to leave the box in full view of anyone who came into the room?

  I pinch the corner of the note and ease it out. I close the box. This paper doesn’t belong in there. The note springs open as soon as I release it. The shaky, slanted cursive looks nothing like Alex’s; but I recognize it all the same. Merrit scolds me in that joking way of his. He even sketched a picture of himself, eyebrows a V, mouth a zigzag, finger pointing. He’s glad I have someone special in my life. He hopes I know he would accept whoever loves me like those poems show. He hopes that now that I’ve read his note, I’ll tel
l him about this mystery person, maybe even introduce them. He promises he’ll take his medicine that day and he won’t do anything awkward like stick spaghetti in his ear to make the person laugh. He signs it, I love you. I’m sorry you have to put up with me.

  I’m crying so hard I almost can’t read his P.S. He apologizes for opening the box but since I left it out, I should know it was fair game. I fold the note into a square. It ends up being even smaller than the ones from Alex. The edges aren’t sharp. The paper’s so damp I’m afraid it’ll tear.

  I open the box. I was wrong. It does belong inside.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16

  ALEX

  “So you’re on second. The score is 8–7 in the eighth inning, your team’s up. You’ve got one out and no one else on base. You gonna steal third or not?” Bryan’s shoulders rock with the train. He waits for Robi’s answer.

  Robi stares at the space under the seats across from us. He’s sucked his lips into his mouth, he’s concentrating so hard. “Steal?” he answers.

  “Good.” Bryan knocks him with his elbow. “Now, what if you’ve got two outs and you’re down 8–5?”

  “Stay.” Robi straightens. He shows Bryan a smile. “You said if we’re behind more than two runs, stealing third isn’t smart.”

  “You didn’t ask about the hitter,” I remind him. Papi would have hammered him if he’d given an answer without all the facts.

  Bryan claps his cap to his head. “Ay, sí. Robi, what do you do if it’s a left-handed hitter? Same setup.”

  Robi screws up his face again. He doesn’t remember. I’ve been trying to spend more time with him but there’s more homework at Haeres than there was at AHH. I’ve had more baseball practices too, even in the off-season. I told Papi he should bring Robi when he comes up to the school during the week to help train the team. But Papi never does. He almost didn’t let Robi come today to the Institute’s holiday charity drive. Gracias a Dios, Yaritza worked her magic. Papi’s been setting up since six A.M., but we’re only just leaving.

  We get up to change trains at Forty-Second Street. Bryan’s arms wave as he explains how a right-handed hitter blocks the catcher’s view and stands in the way of his throw to third. He would know. Bryan’s likely going to get AHH’s MVP if he keeps upping his game like he has. Papi said it’s because Bryan’s not in my shadow no more. A star player can ruin the confidence of a solid one. I think it’s because there’s not as much drama between him and Julissa. Last time I saw them, they were like an old couple. I joked about it, but they’ve gotten pretty cute.

  An express pulls away just as we reach the platform. The local’s a few minutes out. No way I’m waiting for another express and getting Robi there late so we shove onto the crowded local 1 when it pulls up. Bryan asks Robi to list the nine ways you can score a run if you’re on third. He turns to me as Robi’s thinking about it.

  “Last night Kiara texted Julissa asking after you.” He nudges my shoulder. “That’s good. She still be thinking about you. See? Playing it cool just drives ’em wild.”

  “’Cause that’s what you’re doing with Julissa?”

  Bryan stretches back against the orange seats. His leg sways out and bumps mine. “Nah, we way beyond that. We like honeymooners now.” His grin falls. “I want to tell you something, only you got to promise you ain’t gonna tell no one.”

  I hold up my hand like I’m swearing an oath.

  He bends forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve been having these dreams of when I get drafted senior year.”

  I have those dreams too. Only, in some of them, I’m not going for the draft, I’m applying to college, and when I get in, Papi disowns me. “Yeah, so what’re you worried about? That you don’t get picked?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” He blows out an exhale. “In my dream, I get drafted in the second round. And then I ask Julissa to come with me. She says yes.”

  “That’s great, Bry. That’s a good dream, right?” Only, he doesn’t look happy.

  “When I wake, my heart’s racing and I’m all sweaty.” He checks to make sure Robi’s not listening. He leans over to me again. “You don’t think I’m missing out, do you? Staying with one girl so long?”

  “Don’t know. You want something else? Something more than Julissa’s giving you?”

  His mouth twists as he considers. I can’t believe he’s taking so long to answer. I never wanted anyone other than Isa. She was it for me. Problem was, it wasn’t the same for her.

  “No. Don’t think so.” Bryan doesn’t look at me. “I mean, sometimes I get curious, por supuesto. But never enough to wreck the good I’ve got going with her.”

  “So there’s your answer.”

  Bryan nods. He doesn’t smile. “So you don’t think there’s something wrong with me? That maybe I just don’t got the confidence to try with someone different? ’Cause seriously, what would the team think of me if they knew I’d only ever been with one girl?”

  I can’t believe he’s worried about those pariguayos. “Oye, you either want to be with her, or you don’t. You shouldn’t worry about what other people think. What other people expect. It’s just the two of you in the relationship.” It’s like what Robi told me. And Mami too. I wish that had been the only problem Isa and I had.

  Bryan straightens. He nods a couple more times. “Thanks.” His leg hits mine again. “So. What about Kiara? You changed your mind about your white girl preference yet?”

  The day after Kiara walked out, Bryan came over. He lit into me about letting down our people. He had a list of the Latinas who’d been crowned Miss Universe. He went on about Jennifer, and Eva, and Zoe, and Salma, saying if they were good enough for the big screen, they had to be good enough for me. I told him that’s not how it was. I told him that I just still wasn’t ready.

  I adjust my cap. “Bry, oyeme . . .”

  He holds up a hand. “I know, I know. You not ready. And you ain’t got time. Pero, what you doing about your needs? A man’s got to have a girl, ¿veldad?”

  Robi’s three seats down from Bryan with two folks between them. He’s still not listening.

  “No te preocupes,” I tell Bryan. “I’m good.”

  Bryan’s face breaks into a slow grin. “Ay, you got yourself another jévon, ¿sí? But I don’t wanna hear it’s someone from one of those Upper East Side all-girls schools.” He taps my chest. “You gotta show our island women some love.”

  I don’t answer him. He can think what he wants.

  “I got your back. I won’t say nothing to Julissa. Don’t want Kiara finding out. You already hurt her plenty.”

  I don’t say anything to that either. I don’t like thinking about what I did to Kiara, how I wasn’t fair to her, how I should’ve stopped what we were doing a long time ago. It’s kind of like what Papi did to Mami and me, pretending for so long that everything was good even when it wasn’t.

  Two old ladies get on. Bryan and I stand so they can have our seats. Crowds mob the doors. I tell Robi to stay seated where he is, but Bryan and I move to the middle of the car. I lift my hand and smile at Robi from where we stand. He waves back, but it’s not to say hello. He wants something. Only, it’s too crowded to get to him.

  “¿Qué quieres?” I call out.

  He doesn’t answer. He’s still making weird bug eyes at me.

  “What’s wrong?” Bryan ducks to see around the people.

  “No sé,” I tell him.

  I lean forward and catch Robi’s face again. He’s mouthing a word at me. He jerks his head toward the entryway. “¡Ále!” Robi’s shouting at me now. He’s pointing to the door.

  A girl passes the window. She’s so close to the train, all I see is blond hair reaching down her back. I can’t see her face. But it doesn’t matter. The way she holds her head, so straight and tall, gives her away. Only, she’s moving all wrong. Her shoulder dips with each step. She’s limping.

  Thundering starts up in my ears. It isn’t the train—we’re still not moving. It
’s my heart, sprinting, like it’s going express.

  “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

  “Excuse me. Permiso.” I throw myself toward the exit. I’ve got to see if she’s all right.

  “Hey, watch it!” A lady with a Jamaican bandana yells at me, gesturing toward a stroller.

  The doors slam before I can even get near them. I crane my neck, trying to see Isa through the window as the train pulls away. All I glimpse is her coat and golden hair.

  “It was her, right?” There’s only two people between me and Robi now. Bryan’s way back where I left him. “She was standing right over there.” Robi points to where the woman steadies the stroller, her back pressed against the door. Robi frowns. “Sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

  •••

  “It’s OK.” I tell him. I look away so he can’t see my face. Bryan, Robi, and I spend all afternoon at the Institute. When I’m not helping run drills or walking a kid through a better swing, I’m wrapping donated gifts for underserved communities. Robi’s sixth-grade team comes in third out of four. It’s not a real game, just points added up for different technical skills. But Papi’s angry about it anyway. Yaritza joins us after her shift at the restaurant. She takes Robi home before Bryan and I finish up.

  Bryan’s no fool. He doesn’t ask me anything about Isa until we’re walking out of the building, heading toward the C train. I don’t know what to tell him other than I wish I’d gotten to speak with her. I can’t stop thinking about that limp. And how last time we talked, outside the dance school, her words and her face didn’t match up—she didn’t look fine at all. When our train pulls into Ninety-Sixth Street, I tell Bryan I’ll catch him later. There’s something I need to do.

  I come out on Central Park West and jog through the park not bothering to wait for the bus. I don’t slow until I reach Fifth Ave. I know better than to sprint across swept sidewalks, past sparkling glass doors Windexed every hour by men who look more like me than the people whose buildings they guard. They would draw attention too if they were running here.