ISA
I wait in my regular spot, under the ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL sign, right where the fifth car will stop. My stomach feels like Mother Ginger’s skirt from The Nutcracker, squirming with children ready to leap out and dance. I bend to touch my toes, stretching the backs of my legs. The digital readout says 3 MIN. Three more minutes to wonder. I never know if the train I’ll get will have one of Alex’s poems.
He’s been writing a lot, he says. It helps him focus for his games. I love finding the secret notes meant just for me. Whenever Alex gets on the 1 train, either to or from Brooklyn, he leaves me a poem. If there’s already one there, if I haven’t found it yet, he gets off and waits for the next train. The other week he sent me a DM showing him in front of three different cars. He wanted to know if I’d stopped taking the subway. I told him about our rehearsals for the spring performance. Chrissy, Kevin, and I have been riding home together, and I’m not about to look for Alex’s poems when they’re with me. I’ve been spending time with Mom too, looking at apartments. But Alex doesn’t need to know that.
The shriek of steel announces a train. I count the cars that pass, just to be sure.
Students crowd the entrance. They’re singing “You Don’t Know Me,” Leo Xiao’s hit single. They’re probably going to Leo’s free concert in South Street Seaport, the one Alex suggested we meet at since he only has a Sunday game this weekend. But I have rehearsal.
“Excuse me. Pardon me.” My heart is doing its own sautés as I push into the car. I make my way to the bench by the MTA poem poster. Two ladies, one with white hair, one with magenta, are having a full-body conversation. They’re Dominican—I can tell by their accents. They don’t look like they’re getting up anytime soon.
I have a plan for this. I take out my tiny notebook, along with the fancy pen Dad brought me back from a business trip years ago. I pretend to write. I drop the pen. It rolls under their seat.
“Oh, oops! I’m so sorry. Lo siento. May I?”
It’s an odd request and the women regard me with weak smiles. One moves her shopping bag, and I squat and peer behind their legs. The pen is way back there. The other woman’s leg is blocking where the note would be.
I straighten and ask, in Spanish, if they wouldn’t mind standing for a moment at the next stop. They give each other a look but nod and then go on complaining about their hairdressers.
At Eighty-Sixth Street, the women rise. I duck under the bench, murmuring apologies. I snatch my pen and feel behind the hard border of plastic below the seat. My heart pitter-patters as my fingers press against tape. I rip off the note, tuck it into my palm.
“Thank you!” I show the ladies the pen and wedge myself into the corner, where fewer people can see me. I unfold the note, careful not to tear the paper.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
I crumple the poem to my chest, stifling a gasp.
Alex is in front of me, lips lifted in that half smile. His eyes dance with amusement.
I thought he had practice this morning. I want to ask how he got here and why he didn’t text he was coming. Something inside me shifts. The stress of Dad always in the apartment on his computer, of furniture being appraised and marked for sale, of our car being sold—it all just goes away, like it no longer belongs to me, like it was never there in the first place.
Alex steps closer, and tugs the paper from my fingers. I don’t wait for him to take my hand. I press against him, foot to foot, knee to knee, cheek to his chest. He smells like fresh air and pine-scented soap. I forget about yesterday’s rehearsal, when I stumbled out of the fouetté en tournant and almost fell. I forget about the shouting coming from Mom and Dad’s room as I left this morning.
Alex recites the poem, whispering near my ear.
“Thank you.” I breathe him in.
His hand settles on the back of my head, just below my bun. “For what?” he asks.
“For finding me. For the poem. For this—” I lift onto my toes until my mouth meets his.
Alex kisses me until my hands are sliding under his shirt. He takes my wrists, puts my hands on his face. His smile blinds me. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs. “Creative, by the way. Getting to the poem.”
I grin back at him. The women are still talking, but they’re both watching us. I wave at them. They wave back. One of them gives me a thumbs-up. At the next stop, they shuffle off, the other giving two thumbs-up.
“I think they like you,” I say as Alex leads me to the now-vacant seats.
“And they didn’t even read my poetry.”
“Darn, I should have showed it to them. Speaking of which, did you submit to that online literary magazine I sent you?”
He runs a hand down his leg. His other hand clasps mine. He gives a noncommittal tilt of his head.
“Come on, you have to! Your work is amazing.” I’ve been telling him this all along. I’m not sure why he doesn’t believe me. Alex leans down and touches his lips to the tip of my nose.
“I know you think they’re good. It’s just . . . you’re biased.”
“I may be biased. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. If you’re not going to believe me, we need external validation.”
“How about we make a deal?” Alex tucks his arm around my waist. “I’ll submit to the magazine after you come to Brooklyn and the Heights. And after you show me Park Ave. I’ve always wanted to see a fancy Upper East Side apartment.” He gives me a playful wink.
Alex has invited me to meet his parents before. He’s hinted about meeting my family too. We’d be able to spend more time together if it overlapped with family time. But I don’t want him to see a room that doesn’t look like mine anymore, the pictures on my desk and the figurines on my bookshelf moved by the realtor for the people traipsing through. I don’t want him to see my dad stressed and rumpled. And I don’t want him to meet my mom at all. If he knows about everything that’s going on with my family—everything that’s wrong with it—it will become part of us. I want to protect what Alex and I have. I want to keep it separate. And I can’t meet Alex’s family if I’m not going to let him meet mine.
I keep my smile steady as the deep bass of a speaker takes over the car. Four guys in sweats skip down the aisle, asking passengers to pull their legs in and pick bags off the floor. The guys move together, shoulders and knees bouncing to the beat, until they form a straight line. Arms jut out, necks roll. They side-kick in unison. I recognize the routine from a Beyoncé video, but they’re dancing to Drake’s latest hip-hop track. One breaks off, runs and does a flip in the air, narrowly missing the bar. The crowd ooohs. Another dancer drops to the floor and windmills right in front of the doorway. The Leo Xiao fans holler. Drake stops rapping and the guys run through the car, caps out, collecting money.
“Is that a no?” Alex is leaning over, elbows on his knees. He’s watching me as I watch the guys rack up a good amount of change and bills. I open my wallet. All I have are some singles. I hope Alex doesn’t notice.
Alex’s thigh knocks mine. He wants me to look at him. I’m afraid if I do, he’ll see right through me. He’ll know everything at home is a mess. And I don’t want him to.
The song starts over. I stand and pull myself into a long stretch, hands to the ceiling, fingers glued together. I sway to the side. My arms swing, snap together. I turn, thrust my hips, pump my arms, just like Beyoncé does it. I’m better than those guys. I’ve been classically trained. My eyes stay on Alex. I ignore the rhythmic clapping that surrounds me. I ignore the guys beside me, doing the moves, copying my technique. My blood roars in my ears. Sweat drips down my chest, my back. I keep dancing. For Alex. For me.
I’m doubled over in front of him when the music stops. The car goes crazy. Alex pulls me up. He isn’t smiling. A few of the performers pat my back. I hear, “Damn, you good, girl.” And “Who said white girls can’t dance?” They do another round of collections as Alex leads me off the train onto the subway platform.
I’m still pumped from the music, from the dance. This is what I want to feel. This is how he makes me feel. At the gate, I kiss him hard. He doesn’t stop me. But he doesn’t kiss me back. Not the way I want him to.
I know I’ve hurt him. I know a little dance, a little fun, isn’t going to make it right.
“Will you come to see me? At my performance?” I give him the date. “I don’t have a big part, just a semisolo. But it’s famous ballet—a great story, you’d love it. My parents will be there, and you can meet them . . . if you want to, I mean—” Alex cuts me off. He kisses me, the way I want him to.