ISA
I was supposed to be home for dinner by now. My phone’s dead, so I can’t even text Mom. She’s probably sitting in the kitchen thinking I got hit by a bus or a bike messenger, or that the chicken salad I ate for lunch gave me food poisoning. She’ll get so worked up she’ll insist on taking me to and from dance for the next several weeks. Dad should be home, thankfully. He’s good at talking her off her mental ledges.
I tuck my phone in my bag. Even if I could call, I’d never tell Mom I’m on a train that’s stuck between stations. She still thinks I’m taking taxis. I’ll tell her Chrissy made me stay late to teach her the new floor routine since she went with Kevin for crepes on Monday and skipped Technique, which is true.
The woman next to me is playing Candy Crush, her finger tapping nonstop at her screen. The shopping bags next to her crinkle every time she hits them with her elbow.
“Excuse me, could I borrow your phone? Mine died and I want to let my mom know I’m fine.”
She shows me her screen. No bars. “Sorry, darling.” She adjusts her reading glasses before going back to her game.
By the door, a mom with a baby strapped to her chest scrolls through her phone. I leap up to ask her but stop halfway. Sitting across from the mom, a few seats down, is Alex. He’s staring at the floor. I didn’t see him before because of the lady and her bags.
I touch my hair, smoothing flyaways that escaped my bun. My lips are chapped. I should have reapplied gloss before leaving the Academy. I don’t know why I care. Nothing’s going to happen between us. But that’s OK. Maybe we can just be friends who occasionally run into each other on the subway.
People look up, no doubt confused why I’m standing in the middle of the aisle. Alex doesn’t. He tracks a line in the linoleum, back and forth, like he’s Superman trying to cut the flooring in half with his laser vision.
I sit beside him. “Hi.”
Dark brown eyes meet mine. My pulse skitters into my throat.
Alex looks away. “Hi.”
I rub my bottom lip. “So . . . The train is stuck, huh?”
Alex leans back. He draws his arms to his chest. A few long seconds pass. “Just so I understand, so I know what to expect, are you only going to talk to me when we’re alone?” His voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want to upset the silence of the car.
I don’t understand. “Uh . . . We’re not alone.” I gesture to the other passengers. “And also, what are you talking about?”
“Alone like not with friends. Not with people whose opinions you care about.”
I go to wet my lips but stop myself because Mom is right and that only makes them more chapped. He must mean the time before the holidays when we saw each other in that super crowded train. Does he think I didn’t want to go say hi to him? Because I did. I wanted to so badly.
“You were with someone else.” I don’t mean to sound angry. I’m not angry.
He shrugs. “Yeah. My friends.”
Friends? “She had her arm around you.”
One dark eyebrow rises as if to say, And?
I look down at the red bag by his feet. It says BB INSTITUTE in block letters. “You told me you were too busy for a girlfriend. I figured that was a line. I figured she was your girlfriend.” I mean, who wouldn’t? She was all over him.
Alex uncrosses his arms. “Nah. It’s not like that. Kiara and I, we just hang out.” He sits up fast. “We hang out with other people. Not alone.”
He’s kidding himself if he thinks that’s all she wants. She was looking at him like she’d crossed a desert and he was a pool of cool water she wanted to slip into.
Alex touches the brim of his cap. “Anyway, Kiara’s not my type.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, only I can’t do only one so they both go up.
“And what I told you was truth. I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
What he said should make me happy. The part about that girl, Kiara, does at least. Before I can stop, my mouth is shooting out the words, “What is your type? I mean, if you had time.”
What’s wrong with me? When I do that, when I talk or act without thinking, it makes me think of my mom.
Alex looks at me—thankfully not like my behavior is weird. He looks at me the way someone would look at a painting. He studies me so long my cheeks start to feel like marshmallows in a campfire. I swear they crisp and are about to catch fire when he says, “I don’t know. Haven’t figured that out yet.” He rubs a hand over his knee.
“How about you?” he asks. “What’s your type?”
I grin before I answer. “Oh, I know exactly what my type is. But I’m not going to tell you.” Payback for the marshmallow cheeks. I scoot forward to his bag. “What’s in here? More guava pastries?” Embarassingly, my stomach grumbles. Please let him not have heard that.
His eyes are on me, my face, my body, following my every move. Without looking away, he pulls the bag to his lap.
“Just my mitt.” He shows it to me. “Why? You hungry?”
I shrug and make air fill my chest, hoping it’ll calm the crazy hammering inside. I’m not going to tell him I’m so starved I could eat his BB Institute bag with the mitt in it.
He digs in his jacket. “Sorry, it’s all I have.” He offers me a protein bar. But I don’t want to take his only food. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here.
Alex rips open the wrapper and hands me the bar.
“You’ll split it with me?” Before he can answer, I spray my hands with sanitizer then break the bar in half.
He glances at the small bottle attached to my pack. “What, my hands don’t deserve to be clean?”
The way he says it, like he’s truly offended, makes me laugh. “Sorry. It’s lavender scented. I didn’t think—”
He holds out his hand. “I’m cool with that.”
I unclip the bottle and squirt the sanitizer. A whole mountain of it comes out.
“Oops, sorry. Here.” I swallow the rest of my laughter and slide my palm into his to absorb some. I suck in a breath. His skin is warm under the cool gel. Very warm. The deep curve of his hand is slick. It’s so large both my fists could fit inside it. He has calluses at the base of his thumb and below his ring finger. I hover over them, tracing their shape. I slip to the outside of his hand and his broad knuckles flex, almost involuntarily. I circle up to his wrist, to the pound of his pulse. It matches the thrumming in my ears.
Alex’s lips are fixed in a half smile. He’s staring at our hands.
I don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. It’s like when I kissed him. It just feels right. No, not right. Better.
The baby across from us lets out a squawk. The mother coos, and the little one settles down.
I draw my fingers away. “There. All dry.”
I place his half of the bar in his palm. His eyes flick up. His half smile becomes a full one.
The bar is delicious, crunchy, like a Rice Krispies Treat dipped in peanut butter with chunks of chocolate shoved inside it. I could eat about ten of these for dinner. Shoot—I almost forgot . . .
“Hey, I’m sorry to ask this, but can I use your phone? I really need to text my mom, but mine ran out of battery. I’m so late and all she needs is another reason to hate ballet.”
He hands me his cell. I shove the rest of the bar in my mouth.
“Thank you.” I fire off a text and give it back.
“Your mother, she hates ballet?”
“Well . . . it’s more that she hates it for me. She wants me to be this independent, modern woman. So cooking, cleaning, dancing—things traditionally done by women—she doesn’t want me to do.”
“A lot of famous chefs are men,” he points out.
“A chef runs an entire restaurant. My mom might be OK with that. But she never even taught me to cook. She didn’t want me anywhere near the kitchen.”
“Wait”—he lifts a hand—“you don’t know how to cook?” His eyes widen like I told him I was born on an alien planet and have five heads and a crocodile mouth. It makes me laugh again.
I lean over and whisper, “Actually, I kind of taught myself. Online cooking shows.”
He lets out a huff that must be his version of a chuckle. “So why do you dance? If your mother doesn’t want you to?”
I’ve been asked before why I dance. No one’s ever asked the despite-my-mom part. I don’t advertise that. Parents are supposed to be supportive of their kids.
I shrug. “I love the discipline. I love that if you work hard, if you do what they tell you, you’ll improve and your teachers will be pleased. It’s predictable. Also, I love that I can lose myself in dance. How everything except my body and the music just melts away. I can be flying across the stage, grand jeté to pirouette to grand jeté, my heart pounding, my muscles screaming at me that they can’t possibly do one more leap. And then I don’t do one more—I do five more, perfectly executed, and my teachers give me a smile. Yeah. It’s pretty incredible.”
Alex is smiling like he was in the audience in my mind just now. “You like being on stage.”
He’s right. I like being seen, being recognized for my hard work. I rise and, using the bar for support, lift my leg into a slow développé. A few heads turn to watch me. And, I can’t lie, I like it. “My mom says I shouldn’t want to be defined by what I look like,” I tell him, coming back down into deep plié.
Alex’s eyes are everywhere but on me—the floor, the ceiling, the other passengers. “Maybe you should tell your mother you want to run the ballet. Maybe then she’d be happy for you.”
“The artistic director. I’d love to do that. Usually only former male principal dancers get the job though.”
Alex shakes his head like possibly my mom is right about ballet. I don’t want him to think that. I want him on my side.
“Maybe I’ll tell my mom I want to be the first solo female artistic director of the New York City Ballet.” I say this even though I know I could never confront her. Just thinking about it makes me tired.
“What is it that you like about baseball?” I ask at the same time he says, “You’re sure you don’t want all of this?” He holds up his untouched half of the protein bar.
“We had a deal.” I wave at him to start eating. “Why baseball?” I ask again.
Alex takes a bite. He chews slowly. “I’m good at it. My friends play.” He tucks the wrapper from the bar into his pocket.
“Your dad likes that you play, right? The one who lives in Brooklyn?”
His brow lifts like he’s surprised I remembered. “Yeah.” He picks up the mitt. “You into baseball?”
He’s redirecting. I’m familiar with the move, especially when parents come up.
“No, not really.” I’m embarrassed to tell him this. I mean, I’ve been to a few Yankees games. But that’s about it.
He bends the mitt, working the leather. He looks like he’s about to say something else but he doesn’t. The hair at the base of his neck is wet. The collar of his shirt is damp. He must be coming from practice. I’m sweaty too. I realize I’m staring at him. I’m not sure if he knows because he’s smiling down at his mitt, like the glove is whispering jokes to him. I pull my gaze away to a poem on the wall. They’re all over the subway cars, a citywide attempt at making culture accessible to the everyday New Yorker. I squint, trying to make out the words.
“‘Windswept.’” Alex reads the title for me. He reads the first sentence. Then the next. And the next. Only, he’s not reading it. His eyes are on mine as the words tumble out of him. He recites the entire poem.
“You know that by heart?”
He shrugs. His knee swings back and forth.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
His leg stops moving. “You like poems?”
“Yeah. It’s like music. Or art. Or dance.”
His mouth looks like it’s about to smile. His lips remind me of our kiss.
I lean back, tucking a foot under me. “Hey, you want to play a game?” I’ve got to stop staring at him. When I do, it feels like we’re the only two people on the train.
He coughs then clears his throat. “What kind of game?”
“Just something to pass the time. I make up a story about someone around us and you have to guess who I’m talking about.”
“OK.” He puts the mitt away. He turns to face me. It’s hard to think when he’s looking at me like that.
“My cats don’t like it when I leave them in the apartment alone. It’s not like I’m gone that long—only the four or five hours it takes to hit my favorite stores. I can’t help myself. The word sale is like a drug to me. But I bring them treats, so they don’t stay angry for long.”
Alex is giving me his you’re-an-alien look again. Maybe it’s because of the Boston accent I used.
He scans the car. He tilts his head toward the woman with all the bags. “Her.”
“Yup.”
“You really think she’s a cat lady?” He studies the woman. “She looks more like a dog lady to me.”
“Your turn,” I say through my laughter.
His gaze sweeps away from me. “I’m tall, but I hate basketball. I’m into golf. I grab every chance to take my convertible out of the city to my club where my golf friends and I stand around in V-necks and drink martinis.”
I’m covering my mouth, trying not to lose it. He sounded like a British guy who swallowed a frog. “Wow . . . That’s—um—pretty good for a first-timer.”
“Any guesses?” His long fingers stretch across his thigh.
I search the car for someone tall.
“It’s not me, by the way.” That half smile is waiting.
“It’s that really tall guy at the other end with the red jacket.”
“Nope. Too old.”
There’s only one other guy who’s younger. “Navy coat, brown loafers.”
“Yeah. You know him?”
I shake my head no. The guy has thick dirty-blond hair, a scarf around his neck, and is wearing the same type of watch Merrit got for Christmas.
“I thought maybe you went to the same school.” Alex pulls a sports drink from his bag.
“How do you know which school I go to?”
“I don’t. But I bet it’s on the Upper East Side. And I bet that guy goes to school on the Upper East Side too.”
“Well,” I point out, “most of the schools are on the Upper East Side. That’s not hard to guess.”
Our train inches forward, just as an announcement comes on with a full dose of static. The conductor apologizes for the delay and says something about track work.
I watch Alex’s face. Is he glad we’re not stuck any longer? Or does he wish, like me, we had more time? We pull into Eighty-Sixth Street. The next stop is mine.
Alex smiles down at his cell. “You on Instagram?” He says it quietly.
“Yup, of course.”
“I bet your account is all fancy.”
The way he says it makes me want to nudge him. I don’t. I don’t trust myself to touch him and be able to stop. “Why would you say that?”
“Because of your fancy Upper East Side private school.”
“I never told you I went to private school.”
He lets out another chuckle-huff at my expression. “You said most schools in the city are on the Upper East Side. Most private schools are. There are publics schools all over the city.”
I’m taken aback—he’s right, of course. How stupid of me. I trace a run in my tights, not knowing what to say.
“I bet you live in a fancy apartment in some sweet building on Park Avenue too.”
I cover my face with my hands.
“Wait, you live on Park Ave? For real?” There’s a note of mild panic in his voice.
I nod, still hiding behind my hands.
“Hey.” His fingers take mine. He pulls them away from my face. “I’m only joking. I wish I lived on Park Ave.” He keeps my hand in his. There’s that warmth again, only now it’s filling my chest. “It’s pretty over there. I bet there are good views. What floor are you on?”
“Fourteenth.” I don’t tell him it’s the highest one. “My Instagram isn’t fancy though.” I want to change the subject. “I pretty much only post about dance.”
“Show me?” His eyes gleam as he leans into the light.
My heartbeat startles. If Alex can find me on Instagram, he can contact me.
“Phone’s dead, remember? Give me yours.”
I open the app on Alex’s phone and type in my handle: @BalletBelleIsa, and press Request. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t post a lot.”
“You probably have more than five.” He shows me his: @ARos0133.
“Wow.” He wasn’t kidding—there are five total posts on his page. All baseball-related.
The train breaks with a sharp screech. It’s my stop. “Thanks,” I tell him. “For letting me use your phone. And for the snack.”
“Hey, there’s a good taco truck right on Ninety-Sixth and Broadway. If you’re still hungry. If you like Mexican.”
“I love Mexican.” I wait, wondering—no, hoping—he’ll suggest getting tacos together. But he doesn’t.
The doors slide open.
“Bye, Isa.”
I’m almost out but I turn back around. “Goodbye, Alex.”
Later, when I’m tucked in bed, my phone charged, I open my Instagram. I accept his request. Tomorrow, I’ll post a selfie in front of the taco truck, a secret message just for him.