This Train Is Being Held

by Ismée Williams

  “Go, go, go!” Danny’s running alongside us. The train’s horn blasts.

  I take Isa’s weight. I shift my own. I’ll throw her onto the platform, get her out.

  Brakes squeal in my ear. The heat of the train’s engine is at my back. The engine inside me bellows. I’m not going to make it. But at least I’ll save her.

  I swing Isa up and around. A bachata spin. Like in a dance, her hand wraps back around me.

  “No!” she cries. She doesn’t let me go. With one foot, she lauches off the track. She leaps then dives, pulling us both forward, pulling us farther ahead of the train. We smash onto wooden boards, a tangle of arms and legs.

  Her hand is on the back of my head. “Down!” she screams. We’re in the space between the rails. We fit, but just barely. The mass of hot metal skids to a halt inches from our feet. We made it more than three-quarters of the way down the station. Even if the train hadn’t stopped, we would have been safe. Because of where we are. Because of what Isa did. The subway car would have passed over us.

  “Alex?” There is so much she asks with the one word of my name.

  “I’m here.” It’s the only answer that matters. I crush her to the ground with my arm. “Isa.” The word is a croak. “Isa.” I repeat it like a prayer. How did she do it? How did she know?

  She trembles beside me. She’s sobbing, I think. I can’t see her face.

  “It’s OK.” I’m sobbing too.

  •••

  By the time I steady my nerves and help Isa up, there’s a whole lot of people shouting down at us, asking if we’re OK. Danny, Pinchón, and some of his boys stand near the edge. They give me a nod and some type of salute. When they see we’re fine, they fade into the gathering crowd.

  “I d-don’t think I c-can walk.” Isa’s stopped crying. She’s leaning against me. I don’t want her to let go.

  I draw Isa’s arm over my shoulder. I wrap mine under her knees and lift her in front of me. Hands come down and pull her out. I climb over the side after her. Isa’s swaying. I take her arm before she falls. I carry her to the wall, as far from the tracks as I can get. I sit us both down onto hard, safe stone. She’s shaking all over. She’s staring wide-eyed at her brother, who’s lying next to an open door of the train.

  “He’s all right.” The woman who shouts says she’s a doctor. She says they’re waiting for EMS to immobilize his neck.

  Merrit’s speaking, a long string of words garbled together. I can’t understand him. The doctor quiets him and orders him not to move.

  Isa’s nodding. Her eyes are falling closed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chants. “I should have told you. About my brother.”

  “It’s OK,” I whisper. There’ll be time for that later. I should be apologizing for getting her into this mess. “We’re OK.” I repeat it for her and for me.

  “Don’t go,” Isa says. “Please, don’t go.”

  My arms tighten around her. “I’m here,” I tell her again. I’m not going anywhere. Not unless she tells me to.

  I’m sitting like that, holding her, when cops rush across the overpass. A bunch of medics are behind them, gracias a Dios.

  “She needs help.” I’m croaking. My scream destroyed my throat.

  The medics don’t come near. They stay behind the cop on the staircase. The other police fan out. They stop five feet in front of me. They draw their guns.

  “Hands in the air where we can see them!”

  I blink, recognizing the nightmare is still going. I scan the masses of staring people for Danny and Pinchón. They’re not here. They knew police would come looking for them. Did they know they’d be looking for me too?

  “Alex?” Isa’s voice trembles.

  “Let the girl go,” one of them says. His voice is slow and calm. Like he’s speaking to someone unreasonable.

  No. No, no, no. I think of that time in kindergarten, outside of my school, when they came and took Papi. When they took him from me though I was screaming at them not to. My heartbeat gags and starts to drown. “She’s hurt,” I say. “I was trying to help her. I was trying to help her brother.” I rasp the words. Even if they can’t hear me, they can see my face. They should understand what I’m trying to say.

  Just like Feather-beard, they see what they want to see.

  “You’re mistaken.” Isa uses her private-school voice, though it wobbles with pain. She presses against me. “He didn’t do anything. The guys you should be looking for left.”

  “Miss, I need you to move away.” The cop’s pistol clicks as the firing pin slides into place. He steps closer, aiming the gun only at me. “I said, let her go.”

  The empty space surrounding us grows, the crowd of onlookers pushing back. None of them look me in the eye.

  Inside I am fire and rage and fear. I have no choices. They’ve been taken from me.

  I try to slide Isa away. Her hands fist my jacket. “No,” she whimpers. I shake my head at her. I try to hold my lips steady. I put my hands up like they tell me to.

  A cop seizes my arm. Metal rings snap onto my wrists.

  “No!” Isa cries out. She rises onto one foot and launches for me. Another cop pulls her back.

  The medics surround Isa. They try to tend to her leg.

  Isa pushes them away. She yells after the cops. “You’ve got it all wrong. You have the wrong guy. Alex!”

  “Is she OK?” I call out. “Is her leg OK?” A hand pushes my head down. They won’t let me even look at her.

  “Wait! His name is Alex Rosario. He’s a baseball player at Haeres. Call the school, call his parents. He’s not who you think he is.” Isa hurls out the words, her voice so desperate, it cracks. I never even told her what baseball can do for someone like me. She figured it out. Only, it’s too late. The cops have already decided what kind of moreno I am.

  They drag me up the steps. I plead with the cops. I tell them I need to go back to Isa. I promised I’d stay. I need to stay at least until her parents arrive. My panic is claws scrambling on ice. I feel like I did in that dream, the one from the summer, when Isa cried out for me and I couldn’t get to her.

  “Please!” I tell them again.

  A bat jabs into my gut. I fall to my knees.

  “Is this the guy?” the cop next to me asks. I look up thinking maybe they found Danny. Only he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to a lady. She nods and says I was at the bakery. She was finishing her shift when I ran out and started that big car crash on Broadway with the others. We must have run into the subway and caused all this mess down here too. A little girl in one of those cars got hurt. Stores got smashed up. She hopes the cops teach us all a lesson.

  I say I’m not part of any gang. The lady laughs like I do stand-up.

  A bat strikes my back. I bite off my cry. I don’t let myself fight the hands holding me. Inside, I scream. Inside, I wrestle free, I run back to Isa and hold her. I still hear her calling for me.

  “¿Ále?” Kiara is a Greek goddess of anger. She’s at the front of an advancing tide of folks crossing the overpass. Glares of whited eyes stab me. Shuffling feet blur. Kiara’s hand is on her hip, her chin cocked.

  She is an answer to my prayer.

  I tell her in Spanish about Danny and the guys with the knives. I tell her about Isa and her brother and falling into the tracks. I beg her to tell these cops I’m not who they’re looking for. I never was part of a gang and I never will be.

  Wooden sticks meant to hit baseballs beat me instead. Shouts order me quiet.

  Kiara’s gaze darts to the platform, to Isa’s hoarse voice repeating my name. Kiara presses her lips together. Her nostrils flare. She slides out her phone and points it at me. At the cops who are hitting me.

  “He’s not who you want. Unless you were looking for a pitcher with an ERA under 1 who also happens to be an incredible poet.” She blinks hard, like something’s in her eye, and steps back. “But I see how it is. Well, Snapchat is going to see how it is too.”

  The cops stop hit
ting me. They wrench me toward the elevators as Kiara disappears into the crowd. The doors close on Isa’s cries. Just like in that messed-up dream.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27

  ISA

  Midmorning, our intercom rings. Mom presses the buzzer and waits by the door. I want to be the one to open it, but Mom orders me to stay on the couch. She just got me settled with my foot up on pillows.

  I haven’t seen Alex since that horrible afternoon when the police took him away. When I couldn’t stop them from taking him away. Mom and Dad met Merrit and me in the ER. I was crying so much the doctors kept thinking I was more hurt than I was. It took me three different tries to explain to Dad what happened, how there’d been a terrible mistake.

  Dad called his lawyer friend who knows one of the ADAs at the Thirty-Third Precinct. When she checked in at the station, they were already preparing Alex’s release. Danny, who went straight to his abuela’s to tell her he was safe, has a friend who sent a lawyer to the precinct for Alex. They released him the morning of the twenty-fourth, a few hours after Merrit and I were discharged from the hospital. They didn’t end up charging him. Cameras on the street show Alex and Danny running from some guys with knives, the same ones who attacked us in the subway. One of them, the short guy, is apparently a leader of a gang from the Bronx. He must have confused Alex and Danny for someone else. It’s happened before. A fifteen-year-old boy was even killed a few years ago in the Bronx due to mistaken identity. Also, there are videos from people’s phones showing what happened down in the subway, how Alex jumped in to help Merrit and me. How Danny helped Merrit out. They’re all over social media along with messages calling them heroes. The clip was even on one of the news websites, “Daring Santa Rescue on the Eve of Christmas Eve.” Merrit used his app to add words to the video and posted one where Alex and Danny are narrating the rescue to the tune of Jingle Bells. That clip is trending like mad. Merrit even created a GoFundMe and tagged it to the video so people can click on it to donate to an after-school baseball program in Washington Heights that aims to keep kids out of gangs. And then there’s the video Kiara posted. Merrit thought it was perfect, just the way it was. All he did was link it to his clip. When I first saw it, I had to stop halfway through. I barely made it to the bathroom before losing everything in my stomach. I don’t know how Kiara did it. How she kept it together. How she even thought to do that in the first place. I DM’ed her to tell her she’s a rock star. I wasn’t expecting her to respond, but she sent me an emoji of a flexing bicep. A few hours later she sent me another message. She told me to take care of him. Of Alex. I lost it, reading those words. Up until that point I wasn’t even sure where things stood between the two of them.

  I haven’t spoken with Alex, but I’ve talked with his mami every day since it happened. She says he’s been quiet, staying mostly in his room, except for his morning runs. She had her ex-husband and Yaritza and Robi over for dinner on Christmas since Alex didn’t want to ride the subway. He said he wasn’t ready. I don’t blame him.

  But this morning—this morning he messaged me. He wanted to see me. He wanted to know if that would be all right. I texted him back asking him to please come. There’s so much I need to tell him. Now he’s in our building, something I once would have thought impossible.

  Mom opens the door. Alex stands in the hallway. He’s wearing pants and a button-down shirt, not athletic clothes, under his coat. Alex stares down at his feet—he’s even wearing leather shoes, not sneakers. He glances up at my mom with a shyness I’ve never seen.

  Mom knows Alex’s parents are Dominican. But she avoided the “triggering” videos of the rescue. She hasn’t seen him before. Not like this.

  Mom sticks out her hand. “I’m Elisa García Warren, Isabelle’s mother.”

  Alex takes her hand. “Hello. I’m Alex, Alex Rosario. It’s good to meet you.”

  I fidget. I don’t know what she’s going to say.

  “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. Not just the other day with Merrit and Isa in the subway. My husband tells me—Isa tells me—you’ve been a source of support for our daughter over this past hellish year. So, for that, you have my gratitude.”

  Alex’s tense mouth takes on the trace of a smile. It’s true what Mom said; we’ve been talking more since the accident. She’s been listening. Mom’s still holding the door. She doesn’t step back to make room for him. “And I want to apologize for my behavior back in April at Isa’s dance performance. I didn’t . . .” She inhales and closes her eyes, likes she’s resetting herself. “I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone, much less a friend of Isa’s. Not that it’s an excuse. But I am sorry for how I acted.”

  Alex watches her, his face frozen in that almost-smile.

  “But before you come in,” Mom continues, sounding much more like herself, “I need to ask about that friend of yours. Danny, right? What exactly is your plan with him?”

  Alex frowns. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  I don’t understand either. “Mom?” I make to get up off the couch. She holds her hand up to me but doesn’t look away from Alex.

  “Your mother told me that Danny’s gotten mixed up with the wrong people. If he’s your friend, you’ll want to help him. You need to tell him that either he walks away from that gang, or you walk away from him.”

  Wait—she called Sra. Rosario? And what is she saying about Danny? “Mom!” I shout.

  It’s Alex who lifts his hand this time, telling me to hold on. He licks his lips and nods at my mom. “All right. I’ll talk to him. I’ve been planning to anyway.”

  Wait—it’s . . . true? Danny’s involved in all of that? I’m staring at Alex but he’s not looking at me.

  My mom lets out a breath. “Good. Because otherwise I’d have to insist that you cut off contact with my daughter. I won’t allow her to be put at risk again.” Mom moves into the apartment. “Oh—wait. There’s one more thing.” She puts her arm in front of him. “If I ever find out that you are going around with other girls behind Isa’s back, I will personally make you regret it.” Mom lifts her fingers into the shape of scissors and makes a cutting motion with them. “Got it?”

  Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, even though her threat is ridiculous. He nods again. I almost bury my red-hot cheeks in my hands, but I don’t want to miss anything.

  Mom gestures to the chair by the door, the one I use to get my boot off. “You can pull that over by the couch,” she tells him. “I’ve got some work to do in my room. My husband’s been looking forward to seeing you. He’s still at work, but he asked if you could stay for dinner.”

  “Mom!” Now I do throw my arm in front of my face. That’s so like her to go from terrorizing him to laying it on too thick. “Alex probably has to get back to his family.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” Alex’s question surprises me. Those intense eyes search mine.

  “Yes,” I tell him, my voice very quiet. It hurts that he has to ask that, that he’s not sure if I want him around. But it makes sense, because of the way I’ve treated him.

  “Then I’ll stay,” he says.

  “Good,” Mom says. “I’ll call your mother to let her know. I want to invite her too.” Mom backs down the hallway, a hint of a smile replacing her typical frown. Alex and I are alone.

  Alex sits on the chair. He’s so tall and the chair’s so tall, he towers above me. Having him close makes me self-conscious all of a sudden.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “For not saying anything about Danny. I’m sorry for everything on Saturday.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But they were going after me,” he says. “After me and Danny. That put you and Merrit in danger.”

  “Well, I’m more sorry. That they took you. That I couldn’t stop them.” He knows I’m talking about the police. I wish I could erase it all, everything that happened to him that hurt him. I wish it were as easy as deleting that video Kiara took. But what happened to him wasn’t just a video.
It was real.

  Alex frowns down at his hands where they rest against his knees. He starts to speak, then stops himself. Eventually he says, “There was nothing you could have done.”

  “Maybe,” I tell him. But I think of all those times when Alex got so tense, when he got so nervous around the police. “I never asked you about it. Before. How you felt when police officers came by. I should have.” I should have found out why. I should have let him talk to me about it at least. Because now I know how stupid and naive I was. Just like I was stupid and naive about his concerns about meeting my parents. I don’t have to tell him this. I don’t have to tell him I saw him as this sensitive, smart, and caring person who made me laugh, and that I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing him differently. But I do tell him. I don’t want anything left hidden between us.

  Alex only nods.

  “How horrible was it?” I ask.

  He closes his eyes tight, like even the memory is painful. “Bad. But I don’t want to talk about that.” He lets out a slow exhale. “How’s your ankle?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that either.” I don’t want to tell him I likely won’t dance until the spring. There’s something more important I have to say.

  “Alex?”

  He’s watching his hands again. I wait for him to look at me.

  “I wasn’t honest with you. About my family. Or myself.” We talk about my attempt at a double life, the happy one with him and the sad one with my parents and brother. We talk about all of it—Dad’s job, Merrit’s suspension, the apartment. Also my fears about bipolar disorder: my mom’s and Merrit’s diagnoses, what that means for me. Because of the genetics. Because I might get it or pass it on.

  Alex’s hand closes around my fingers. He slides off the chair onto the floor beside me, pulling my palm closer so he can study it.

  “I want you, Isa. All of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  He’s so close I could rest my head against his shoulder.

  “I want to be with you through the bad. Not just laugh next to you during the good.” He tells me what his mami told him. That falling in love is easy but fighting for it is hard. “You, this.” He points to the two of us. “It’s worth fighting for.”