I squeeze his whole hand, then every one of his fingers and then his whole hand again, this time cradled in both of mine. He smooths down the puff of my untamed hair.
I curl forward. I want to lean against him. I want to feel him next to me.
He releases my hand. He takes hold of my chin. His lips brush against mine, back and forth, as if to remind me how soft they are, how warm. As if I could forget. My heart beats like bird wings, fast and light. We’re all of us safe. There are no more secrets.
He kisses me—gentle at first, then deeper, harder—all of the hurt and fear of the past days, the past weeks and months, surging between us. I don’t think of anything else. I can’t.
We pull away at the knock on the wall. Merrit’s standing there, grinning down at us.
I draw my fingers out of Alex’s hair. I grip his hands again. “Alex, I’d like you to meet my brother.”
SATURDAY, JUNE 1
ALEX
Papi’s behind the fence. He’s yelling at Robi about a grounder up the middle that he missed. I can hear him from the rec building.
I wait for Robi to go up to bat. I don’t want him or the other boys to see me. I don’t want to take attention from his game.
Robi hits a single. I clap, even though I’m trying to hide. When Robi’s on first, I whistle. Both Papi and Robi turn. Only Papi can come find me in the shade under the awning.
He slaps my shoulder. “Dime. ¿Cómo pasaste la mañana con Coach O’Neil?” he asks.
“Practice was fine,” I tell him. He knows I’m starting in tomorrow’s game against Fordham and that Isa and her brother are coming.
“Tonight you have to get good rest. Take an extra protein drink. Tomorrow is important. Oye, hay un player, a senior, up in Dutchess County at una escuela que se llama Beacon High. He doesn’t pitch as well as you, but they say he’ll be a second-round pick next week in the draft. We’ll see.” He claps me on the back again.
I lift my gaze from the grass. I look him in the face. I’ve been waiting for this, a moment that feels right.
“Mira, Papi. Next year? I don’t want to go straight to the draft. I want to try for college. The Bigs will be there when I’m done.”
Papi steps back. He turns and walks away. He comes close again and when he does, his face is the color of a Red Sox jersey.
“Estupido,” he calls me. “Ingrato.” He hurls spit at the ground. “After everything I did for you.” His finger marks the beat of each word on my chest.
“I’m sorry I disappoint you,” I tell him. “But I’ll be more sorry if I disappoint myself.”
After the game, Robi runs up to me. He looks like he’s not going to stop. He looks like he’s going to run through me or leap up for a hug. At the last moment he brakes. He blinks and grins at me, shifting from foot to foot. He’s getting bigger. He’s eleven now and almost up to my shoulder. I don’t tell him about my decision. I need to tell Mami and Yaritza and Isa first.
Papi says not one word to me the whole walk home. That’s OK. This time, I’m prepared for it.
I put my arm around Robi as we trail Papi through the park. I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll always be here for him. That I won’t ever leave him, even if it means staying local for college. I don’t want Papi doing to him what he did to me. I don’t want Robi thinking there’s only one path for him, to his future or to Papi’s heart. Because there’s never only one path. Or at least, there never should be.
•••
It’s good to be on the 1 train again. It took a few months before I could say that. I’m still seeing the therapist Mrs. Warren found for me. I have the doc to thank for helping figure out what to do about Papi and the draft.
The rocking and the swaying of the train reminds me what I miss about this ride. I half expect to see Bryan hanging on one of the rails, begging Danny for his last taco. But Bryan’s playing up in the Bronx today. AHH made the playoffs again. Danny’s not in the city anymore. He’s upstate at a tech school. After everything went down with me and the cops, he quit the gang. Gracias a Dios. I didn’t even need to talk to him about it. He moved up near Syracuse to live with an aunt who’s a principal of a middle school there. He wants to be a mechanic. Says he’ll make decent money and it’ll keep him out of trouble. I visited him one weekend before baseball started up. I had to thank him for getting that lawyer. I had to thank Pinchón too. Guess it makes sense that Pinchón would know an attorney, someone the cops would believe when he produced evidence that they had the wrong guy. Pinchón even offered to pay the bill, not that I let him. Those cops showed up at one of my Haeres games. I didn’t pitch so well that day. And Isa had come to watch with her mother. Mrs. Warren must have sensed I was buggin’. Bottom of the third, she went right up to those cops. Few minutes later, they left. I never asked what she said, but I did thank her. I never want to see those cops again. I’m still torn up inside. I haven’t been able to let it go, but I’m working on it. With the doc.
The train pulls into Sixty-Sixth Street/Lincoln Center. Mosaic stick figures leap across the tiled wall of the station. I don’t see any dancers with buns. But a guy with mouse-brown hair and glasses gets on. He’s carrying the case of some musical instrument, not sheets of music. I won’t run into Chrissy or Kevin either, though I’ve seen them plenty these past months. They already left for Prague for the summer. Chrissy emailed me that the music and dance school there is mad cool.
At Seventy-Second, a man plays the trumpet for change.
At Seventy-Ninth, a guy and a girl get on. Their clasped hands remind me of me and Isa. Only, the girl looks like me and the boy doesn’t have blond hair. His hair is red. The girl’s even wearing a Prince Royce shirt. They sit opposite me, one row down. I can’t not look at them because they can’t stop looking at each other. It blows the dust off the ache inside my chest. When the girl puts her leg in his lap and tucks her shoe around his calf, my eyes get all wet.
I squeeze my lids shut. I think of my favorite poem. The one I wrote for the San Francisco Literary Journal. The one I dedicated to Kiara. The one about needing to really know yourself and love yourself—your inside self—before you can share that love with others. I named the poem after Merrit’s new app that’s number fifteen on the top 100 list, right below his companion app that allows you to know if a video’s been doctored. Those apps are part of the reason Merrit got a transfer to MIT for next year. Isa’s family’s excited for him, but Isa and her mother are nervous. I told Isa it’s OK to be worried, but that she should talk about it with her brother. Merrit suggested setting up regular times when they can video Snapchat, when Isa can see him and know he’s fine.
The train doors open.
“Alex?”
My eyes are still closed. This happens sometimes. I hear her voice. I even wrote a poem about it. Only I’m not dreaming this time. I open my eyes. Isa’s the one who gave me strength to talk to my papi, strength to see myself as something different from what everyone expects.
She’s wearing cutoffs. She sits down next to me. Her ankle is small and perfect again. Her T-shirt is plain gray. There’s no ballet shoe on it. Her irises are the exact color of the rich earth of my parents’ island. Perhaps it’s the same color of the earth of her mother’s island too. Isa slides out the band from her ponytail. Her hair falls around her face. My jaw drops. Her hair—it’s above-her-shoulders short.
“Can you even make a bun with that?” I ask.
Her lips spread wide. “Sure I can.” She shows me. She doesn’t stop grinning.
And I don’t stop looking at her. Or listening to her as she tells me about dance. Her ankle’s getting stronger every day. Then she’s talking about yesterday’s game and my two home runs and how Robi hugged her so hard she couldn’t breathe. She can’t wait to see me pitch tomorrow.
She takes my hand. She doesn’t let go. Not when we get out at 168th. Not when we take the elevators up to Broadway. We walk past the hospital, past the bakery that sells muffins as big as your fi
st. We head toward the river. We pick our way down to the water, to empty picnic tables in the shadow of the bridge. Isa gets sandwiches out of her bag.
“I put in lots of extra pickles,” she says, her voice teasing.
I kiss her. “Thank you.” I kiss her again because I can. I kiss her because it’s all I want to do.
A dog runs, barking, after a Frisbee. Isa pulls away, laughing. She pushes my sandwich toward me. I take an enormous bite.
“Delicious,” I tell her. I thank her also for my appetite. She pinches my side. I grab her and hold her tight.
I take out my new notebook, the one Robi gave me as a gift just because. I watch the sun set behind Isa’s laughing face. I put my pencil to paper and write.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the love and support of many.
To my outstanding agent, Jim McCarthy, thank you for your unwavering faith, your expertise, your wit and guidance. To my incomparable editor, Anne Heltzel, and her superb assistant, Jessica Gotz, thank you for asking all the right questions and pushing me to make Isa and Alex’s story better. (You’re like personal trainers—minus the whistles!) Thank you to the extremely talented Siobhán Gallagher for such an amazing cover (again!!) and to the rest of the illustrious team at Amulet, Trish McNamara-O’Neill, Jenny Choy, Mary Marolla, and Borana Greku, for getting this book into the hands of readers.
To my incredible writer friends, new and old, who are all far more accomplished and brilliant than me, Carolyn Mackler, Paul Griffin, Emmy Laybourne, Liz Acevedo, Tisha Hamilton, Stacey Lender, Mayra Cuevas, thank you for patiently listening to all my worries and even more patiently and graciously doling out advice and support. To my ever-supportive writer’s group, Maria Andreu, Lisa Hansen, Gigi Collins, Hannah Lee, Betsy Voreacos, thank you for your honest but gentle critiques and for our many nights of carrots, chips, and hummus. To the gifted José Angel Araguz, thank you for lending your poet’s eye. To the thoughtful Mark Oshiro, Ricardo Peralta, and Leslie Bermingham, thank you for the early reads and very beneficial comments. To my wonderful nephews, William, Connor, and Owen, thank you for answering all my questions about baseball (an additional baseball thank-you to Betsy and my husband, Marc!). Also thank you to Lisa, Frankie and Dylan Campione, as well as Helen Poon and Laurie Rocke for NYC high school baseball insight. Thank you to Detective Isaac Moltry for answering my questions about NYC police procedures. Thank you to Lesly Torres and Albany Perez for letting me check my cubanismos against dominicanismos. Thank you to Dr. Janet Jackson and Dr. Amanda Wilson for fielding my questions about being a child of a parent with mental illness and about bipolar disorder specifically.
To my mom friends and girlfriends, Christina, Trudi, Sara, Kristin, Davina, Kennedy, Nat, Sally, Suzannah, Pilu, Amanda, Barbette, Jillian, Lucia, Jennifer (C and L), Corey, Leslie, Jane, and Rachel, thank you for long talks, laughter, and camaraderie (and for your enthusiasm and not-so-patient questions about when the next book is coming out). To my medical colleagues and friends, Guytree, Nora, Daisy, Nadine, and Daphne, thank you for supporting my medical career and helping me balance it with my writing career. To my brother and sister-in-law, Jamie and Ashley, thank you for sharing with me stories from your childhoods and for helping me understand sports team and family mentalities.
To my loving parents and abuela, thank you for the many years you drove me back and forth to ballet class and for all the recitals you had no choice but to attend! To my cariñoso abuelo, who would tell me stories deep into the night when we were supposed to be asleep, and who wrote such beautiful poetry, thank you for instilling in me a love of words and characters and plot. To Rachelle and to my brother, Curtis, and to Emma, thank you for helping out with the kids when I was pulled in five different directions. To my in-laws, thank you for your unwavering faith and support and for bragging about me to all your friends (it really is the best type of publicity). To my daughters, Auden, Amaia, and Ella, thank you for putting up with me when I disappear into my writing cave and when I emerge somewhat bearlike. Every day, your kindness, thoughtfulness, and curiosity amaze me. I am so proud to be your mother and cannot wait to see how your stories unfold! And to Marc, my Everything. Darling, I can’t get enough of your love, babe.
Finally, I would like to thank each and every reader. Thank you for being interested enough in Isa and Alex to make it to this point in the book. It still astounds me that there are people in the world who are not related to me who want to read what I have written.
•••
A note about mental illness: If you or someone you know is going through a difficult time, please don’t keep it a secret. Find someone you trust to talk to. Mental health resources for patients and families can be found at the following links: childmind.org or childmind.org/audience/for-families. The National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH, at nimh.nih.gov/health/index.shtml) and the National Alliance on Mental Health (nami.org) are also helpful resources.
•••
A note about subway travel: The pediatrician (and mom) in me would like to remind you that what Alex and Isa and their friends do in this book is fiction. Traveling between subway cars is illegal. As Isa’s mother says, the subway can be dangerous—so stay alert! Also, please don’t jump onto the tracks.
ALSO BY ISMÉE WILLIAMS
Turn the page for an excerpt!
TWENTY WEEKS
“His name ain’t Dr. Love. Coño. You’re messing with me, right?”
Yaz smacks me in the shoulder. She’s doubled over, fingers clamping her mouth shut. Her purple silver-studded nails press dimples into her cheek. She’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” I ask her. My cell slips as I shrug my shoulders. “They expect me to believe this guy’s name is Dr. Love? A heart doctor? How stupid do they think I am?” I squat and snatch the phone. I wedge it back in the crook of my neck. “Like if Toto called for a penis doctor and was told the guy’s name was Dr. Weiner he would believe them?”
Toto is Abuela’s boyfriend. That’s not his real name. It’s just what my girls call him. Because his hairline’s low. And he’s bulky. Like one of them fighting dogs. And he’s got these small hands and feet.
Yaz is gasping, cherry lollipop–colored lips pressed almost outta sight. Teri is giggling, fingers smoothing down long strands of inky hair. Heavenly’s screen is three inches from her nose. She’s probably browsing posts from her favorite designers.
She doesn’t respond to my joke. But she thinks it’s funny. I can tell.
“Your appointment with Dr. Love is scheduled for nine thirty on Thursday, September eleventh.” The lady on the phone can’t wait to get rid of me.
“Nine eleven? No way, José. Give me another date.”
Yaz kicks me in the thigh.
“Hey!” I circle an arm around my belly, my finger pointed, already wagging. “Watch the baby!” I catch my phone as it tries to fall again.
“Like she was anywhere near your uterus.” Heavenly rolls her eyes. Thick clumps of mascaraed lashes make everyone else look like a clown doll. On Heavenly, it looks good.
Phone Lady gives me a different appointment.
I hold the phone away from my face and turn to my girls. “Does Monday, September fifteenth, at ten work for youz guys?” I fix each of them with my you-better-be-there glare.
“Whatever you think, Mari.” Teri’s smiling like I just told her I won some money off those scratch cards at the bodega and I’m takin’ them all on vacay. “I’ll come,” she says, as if her expression ain’t enough. We was all excited when I found out about the baby. But Teri was the one who went out and got a book. And read it. Teri was the one who told me when it was time for my first doctor’s appointment. Found the clinic I should go to.
“Weez guys will be ready.” Yaz strikes the air above her with her fist, like Dazzler from the X-Men. She been doing that same dumbass pose since we chased Ricky Lopez down 173rd Street all the way to Broadway for her backpack. That was in the thir
d grade. We been besties ever since.
Heavenly’s acrylics tap-tap-tap on the face of her phone. It’s the second one Jo-jo’s bought her. As long as it texts and is in the pocket of jeans that show off the curves of her nalgas, Heavenly don’t care what logo it has or when it came out. But Jo-jo does. Only the best for his girl. I don’t mind, seeing as I got to keep her old one. She’s promised Yaz this one once it goes outta style. Heavenly’s bottom lip slides out like she’s gonna apply more pinta. But her eyes, they be smiling. “Ten on Monday? Perfect. I hate Mr. Sansone’s English class.”
Phone Lady’s still talking. I can hear her squawks even with the phone a foot off my ear. I press it back into the space between my shoulder and cheek and catch the end of what she’s sayin’. “And please arrive twenty minutes early to fill out all the necessary paperwork.”
Twenty minutes? For paperwork? You gotta be kidding me. “Coño. Listen,” I say, trying to be nice seein’ as Yaz knows what I’m thinking and is giving me those lizard eyes. Like my swearin’ is some bug she’s fixin’ to eat with that long tongue of hers. “I was just there yesterday seeing my baby doctor. She told me I had to make this appointment. Don’t you have all my info in some system?” I know they do, ’cause every time I go I have to stand there and wait for them to pull it up.
Silence. Then, “You have our number if you need to reschedule. Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Pujols?”
Miss Pujols. I’ve gotten over the way white folks say my last name—Poo-joe-ells. It’s actually better than how it sounds in Spanish—Poo-holes. Yeah, I won the instant scratch-off lottery with that one. But what I hate most is that they always call me “miss.” I know I look young. But we’re on the phone. She can’t see me. And I’m making a pregnant-lady appointment. Shouldn’t that make me a Ms. or a Mrs.?
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