ALEX
I don’t know whether to sit or stand. If I sit, Isa might not see me. If I stand, I’ll pace. I don’t want her to see that. I’m not in my usual spot in the middle of the train because I want to see her as soon as she comes down.
I unzip my jacket. There’s dirty snow and brain-freeze wind on the streets. Down here there’s only tracks of muddy slush. Two little kids take the stairs, lowering one foot at a time. Behind, a mami clutches a metal cart filled with groceries. It clangs on each step.
I push off the post.
“Can I help you?” I motion to the cart. The woman jumps, like a pigeon scared by a bear.
“No, no is OK. We OK. Thank you, thank you.” The mami bows her head and shoulders to me again and again. The cart smacks onto the next stair. A carton of eggs wobbles on top. The mami’s eyes dart from me to her kids, like she thinks I might do something to them. I’ve been keeping my eye on them. They’re too small to be on the platform by themselves.
“Alex!”
Isa’s running down the steps. She doesn’t stop until she’s in front of me. “Alex.” She grabs my hands with both of hers. She looks at me like I’m hidden treasure she’s finally found.
I try not to smile too big. “You’re breathing hard,” I say. Her face is flushed.
“Oh.” Her light-brown eyes bug. She rises onto her toes then drops to her heels. “I was so excited to see your message. I can’t believe it’s been two whole weeks and we’re finally making this work! I couldn’t wait to see you.” She whispers the last part.
I’m glad for my sweatshirt. An extra layer to hide the pounding inside me. It’s been two weeks and three days. But who’s counting?
Her fingers squeeze mine. “How are you? Are you ready for your first game? It’s in two Saturdays, right?”
I hide my surprise. “You been checking up on me?”
She ducks her head. “Your team’s schedule is online. You’re playing Morris. Are they a good team? Will you still play if there’s snow?”
“We’ll see about the weather. And yes, Morris is good.” I don’t tell her that AHH is better, that last year we crushed them 11–4 and then 10–5. I don’t want to talk about ball. “How’s your rehearsing?” Isa’s hair is in a bun again. Tiny flecks of pink light up in it as she moves.
“I’ve got big news.” She goes on her toes again. It brings her eyes about level with my nose. I bend my knees to see her better. “I might go to the Manhattan Academy of Ballet full time!” She’s jigging up and down. Like she’s on a trampoline, about to launch into the air.
“Wow!” I tell her. “That’s great!”
“I’m still waiting to hear if they’ll accept last year’s audition. I’d start over the summer. I had to promise Mom it doesn’t mean I’m going professional. I told her I’m still considering medical school.”
“A doctor, huh?” I fix the collar of her jacket. She must have thrown it on fast. “You’d look good in a white coat. A stethoscope hanging here.” I trace a line down the side of her neck. Her skin, where I touch her, colors. I tug at my hoodie. Coño, I’m glad I’m wearing it.
Her eyes look straight at mine. “Yeah, well. I’m actually kind of scared of blood.”
“Maybe you should tell your mother that.”
She leans close. Her breath smells like fruit, like orange and mango. “That guy over there?” She’s whispering again. “The one staring at us? He looks like one of the lion statues in front of my building. With his jowls and frown.” Laughter trickles out of her.
I go to turn but she stops me.
“Wait. Don’t make it obvious!”
I give her a look that tells her I know how to do this. I push back my hood and search the ceiling for the next train’s estimated arrival. The family with the cart and the two little boys watches us. The mami smiles at me and bobs her head. Sure, now that she sees me with Isa, I deserve a smile.
Farther down the platform is a white man with droopy cheeks. Jowls Isa called them. Yeah, I can see why she thinks he looks like a lion. It’s his attitude. I know guys like him. Guys who look at me and decide they’re more important than me, ’cause I’m nothing.
I face the man. He looks through me. He adjusts his tie. He turns to the approaching train.
It’s because we’re standing together, Isa and I. I’m still holding her hand. He doesn’t like it.
The heat in my blood goes from simmer to boil. I get that feeling again, that no matter what I do, I can’t win. I exhale, nice and slow, like I’m preparing to take the mound. What Lion-man and that mami think of me doesn’t matter. They’re like a heckling crowd, trying to shake me. I won’t let them.
“Come on.” I tug Isa with me, down past the man with the necktie and loafers, toward the middle of the platform.
“What?” she asks.
“You’ll see.”
The train rushes past. Wind hits the back of my arm, my neck. A wisp of Isa’s hair flutters onto her cheek. She presses against me. Words swirl in my head. My hand itches for a pen and a piece of paper.
I count the cars as they roll by. “This one,” I say as the doors open.
“It looks empty.” Her bright gaze slides to mine. “Is that why you want it?”
The sly curve of her mouth punches heat into my gut. I try to keep my expression cool. “No, no, it’s just . . .” I go to wipe the sweat that’s coming on my forehead but stop myself. “I’ll show you.”
She follows me in.
Ofrescome. I nearly gag at the smell.
Isa turns to me, her eyes bugging again. She slaps a hand to her mouth. Her fingers cover her nose. I’m not sure if she’s trying not to laugh or not to breathe.
The car’s not empty. There’s a homeless person at one end. Ratty blankets cover his shoulders. Ratty sneakers, tongues hanging out like desert dogs’, sit beside him. He’s got a piece of cardboard under his feet. They’re bare and red.
I drag Isa into the next car.
Laughter pours out of her as soon as the door shuts.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know he was in there.”
Her hand seizes my arm. “I’m not laughing at him.” She points at my face. “I’ve never”—she snorts—“I’ve never seen you look so surprised. I thought . . .” She covers her mouth as she hiccups. “It’s just, you’re always so calm, so in control. I like that you can be caught off guard.” She tips against me.
“What are you talking about? I get surprised.” She thinks I’m calm and in control? That’s good though, right?
Her lashes are damp. They’re clumping together. “Yeah? When?”
“Well.” I think for a moment. “Halloween. When you . . .” I nod at her. “You know.”
She stops laughing. She wets her lips. Her eyes drop to my mouth.
I can’t help it. I wet my lips too. Inside, my heart taps a merengue beat.
“You didn’t look surprised.” Her voice is softer. “You didn’t feel surprised either. It almost felt like . . .” She traces her smile with a pink fingernail.
“Like what?”
Her gaze swings back to me. “Like you knew I was coming.”
I close my mouth. I remind myself to swallow.
“So why did you bring me into that car?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter. Just . . . I was going to show you something.”
“Show me what?”
The other day, on the train, I almost didn’t show her what I’d written. I’ve never been more nervous. A bottom-of-the-ninth playoff game with bases loaded, us up one run and me on the mound, has nothing on that afternoon. I felt naked, watching Isa read. She smiled. And what she said? Her words were like robes of fur and velvet, making me feel like a king. Making me feel like I could do anything. Be anyone. Not just what everyone expects.
Isa bumps me with her arm. She’s waiting for an answer.
I shrug. “Something I wrote.”
Her mouth makes a small O shape. “But how?” she asks.
I tell her how I spoke with a conductor who was from La Vega. How he confirmed how long it takes to run the whole line, how many trips a day a train can make. There’s still luck involved. Some trains get switched out on the weekend. I tried to account for that by planting extras.
Cool fingers burrow into my fist. “Come on,” she says. She tries to pull me to the door.
I don’t budge. “No. I don’t want you going in there again.”
“Listen.” She’s smiling at me. “I don’t care about that. I’ve smelled worse.”
“You have? Like in dance school? Dancer feet, they smell like that?”
She ignores my joke and bounces on her toes. “I want to see what you wrote.” Her fingers tap against my palm. “Please? Show me?”
I take her arm. I draw an exaggerated breath. I wait for her to do the same. I yank open the first door, and the second. I rush us inside. The poem I left for Isa is at the other end, tucked under the seat beside the framed poem by Enrico García, a thirty-eight-year-old Nuyorican with a wavy website.
Isa’s eyes glow. She doesn’t look away from me.
I reach down and feel along the edge of the two-person bench. I untape the folded note. I hand it to Isa. I try to pull her out, to get her into the next car.
“Wait.” She snaps it open. The paper covers her face as she reads.
I look away. The homeless guy is checking us out. He has reason to be suspicious. Bryan and I once saw some dudes with blue bandanas beating up a homeless person. We were only in seventh grade. There was nothing we could do. And I was too afraid of the cop outside the station to tell him what was going down beside the tracks. I should have told him though. I think about that homeless person sometimes.
I give our fellow passenger a nod. As if to say, “Hey. You cool, I’m cool.”
He nods back.
My eyes are watering. ¡Guay! Maybe we’re cool but that be a powerful smell. It’s like dead fish and dead mice are having a zombie party.
Isa’s eyes are teary too. Her lip shivers. Is she cold?
“How?” she says. She draws a breath through her mouth. “How do you write this?”
I’m afraid to ask. But I need to. “You like it?”
“Look at me.” She rattles the paper at her face. “You made me cry.” Her lip shivers again.
“Here.” I draw her hand around my back. My arms close around her shoulders. She’s going to feel the thudding in my chest. But I don’t know what else to do.
Her nose rubs against my hoodie. She sighs, and I dip my face to her hair. She’s like a breeze off the ocean. “You smell good,” I breathe. “I can barely smell the stanky feet.”
She laughs against me.
“Come on.” I tow her to the door. Push us through to another car.
She’s still leaning against me. I can’t see her face. But I hear her smile.
“Read me the poem?” She passes the note into my hand. I don’t take it. I recite from memory.
I LOVE
The oiled leather of my glove
baking in my full-sun window,
The untouched pages of a new book,
The tip of a freshly shaved pencil
you hand to me,
My madrastra’s cooking,
Papi’s rare not-frown,
Your hair,
wet or dry or in between.
Cool cotton sheets
on legs sore from sprinting and sliding,
Snow drifting
onto eyelids and uncovered cheeks,
Shavings of coco-flavored ice
on outstretched tongues,
Your hand melting in mine
on an ever-moving train.
Arms tighten around me. Fists bury into my sides. “Can you do it in Spanish?”
I can.
She tilts her face up. Her smile hits me like a ninety-five-mile-per-hour ball to the chest. I was downed by one last year. At a game against JFK High. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hear what Coach and Papi were shouting at me. It wasn’t until they brought that heart-shocking machine next to me that I gasped and pushed the paddles away. This time, I wouldn’t push them away. I need that machine. Because it aches too much.
Isa’s hand slides off me. My heart shifts into a panic step. I don’t want her to take it away.
She doesn’t. She touches my face. She draws a line from my cheek to my jaw to my chin.
There’s no way she can’t feel my heart. It’s fighting its way out to her.
“Alex,” she whispers. Her fingers slide to the back of my neck.
Her hands are cool. But her lips, on mine, are warm and wet. She makes a small noise. I can’t help myself. I reach under her. I lift her to an empty seat. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, my head. She makes another noise, and I almost lose it. I grab her to me. Her leg is around my waist. Holy God.
The side door opens. The homeless guy shuffles in. “Get a room! Get a room! Get a room!” he shouts at us.
Isa pulls away. She keeps her forehead pressed to mine. She’s laughing.
The train doors open.
“Hold on.” I pick Isa up.
“My bag!” she cries.
I snag it from the seat. She still clutches my note in her hand.
I don’t put her down until we’re on the platform.
“Kiss me,” she says.
I do.
People stream by us. We’re like rocks in a river. Isa pulls me toward the wall. Behind a column that says SIXTY-SIX. Coño. That homeless saved us. We would have missed her stop.
Isa’s hands are on my back. At the waistline of my pants. I bring her fingers to my chest. They slide to my face. I can’t breathe. I don’t need air. All I need is her. The roar of the passing express is distant. I don’t want to stop. But she’s going to be late.
“Your class is at eleven?”
“Yes,” she gasps.
“You need to go.”
“No!” Her lips find mine.
I kiss her then pull back. “It’s 10:55.”
“Can’t be. We met at ten.” She sinks against me, ear to my shirt. Like she’s listening to a secret.
I show her my watch. Her eyes get round. She bites her lip. It’s red and swollen.
The train ride is fifteen minutes, tops.
“No way!” She hides her smile.
I kiss her again. I fight my body and release her. I step back. “Go!”
She doesn’t move. “When will I see you again?”
“Tomorrow.” I blurt it. I’ll leave for Brooklyn later or come home earlier. I’ll figure something to tell Papi. “You have class?”
“Nope.” She beams. “Just breakfast plans with Chrissy.” She comes toward me again. I hold her at arm’s length. “You’re going to be late.” I won’t be able to let her go a second time.
“Hasta mañana,” she says. She turns and runs. She stops at the gate. “Thank you!” She removes the poem from her pocket and presses it to her lips. Then she’s gone.