ALEX
I stare off at metal spearing the sky. It’s the tallest spire in the western hemisphere, built above ashes of terror and destruction. It’s beautiful, yet seems lonely. None of the other buildings come close to it.
I want to be that spire, rising up, despite the past. Or maybe because of it.
Only two sentences are on the yellow page in my lap. One and a half, really. I hunch forward on the bench. I try not to look at the skyline. It’s hard because going back to my notebook means going back in my head where my thoughts vibrate with Isa.
I’ve tried calling Isa a few times since seeing her on the train. It’s useless, but I can’t stand not knowing if she’s OK. Her Instagram account is gone, either erased or blocked. I still post to mine, every other day. I’ve written and hidden five poems for her on the train. They’re all still there. Unclaimed. Like the child in the subway poem “Hide-and-Seek,” left outside in the dark when the others gave up.
I reread the words I’ve written. I speak them in my head. I speak them to the squirrel looking at me from the small rock four feet away. I fold thoughts of Isa down into a tight pill-shaped packet. I tell the mouth inside my brain to open wide and swallow. My pencil bounces on my finger. I put the tip to the paper and write.
“¿Qué haces aquí?”
I look up from three pages of raw words and feelings into Papi’s outraged face.
“Why your bag is thrown así en la acera? The people they can walk on it, damage your glove.”
Only, it’s winter. There’s hardly anyone in the park. It’s why I came here to write.
Behind Papi, Robi and Yaritza stroll up the sidewalk. They wave. They’re too far away to hear him or see what’s in my lap.
Papi snatches my notebook. “¿Qué es eso? ¿Algo para la escuela?”
I’m not going to lie and tell him it’s homework. It’s not. It’s for me.
Robi’s smile falls when he notices what Papi’s holding. He breaks from Yaritza and comes running. For Christmas, Papi finally agreed to sign Robi up for a winter ball session. His practice started two hours after mine, five blocks from their house. It was the first time Papi’s gone to watch Robi instead of me. Mine was just a practice, so Papi didn’t miss much and Coach O’Neil promised he’d give Papi a full report. But what about Robi? How did he hit in the cage?
I study Robi’s face. He’s looking at Papi who’s turning sheet after sheet in my notebook. Yaritza comes up behind him. Her hand touches the paper. She doesn’t let him turn another page. I sit tall on the bench. My insides are as frozen as my face. I’m tired, too tired to stop them from reading. Why won’t Isa respond to me?
I didn’t want Papi to find out about my writing. Now that he has, I almost feel relief. His dirt-crusted nails smudge the pages. His pinched eyes rise to mine.
“You wrote all this?” His voice is neither loud nor soft.
My breath is crystals in my mouth, too sharp to take into my lungs.
Yaritza’s lips still form the words I wrote. She takes the notebook from Papi’s powerful hands. “Son espectaculares,” she breathes.
I watch the thin line of Papi’s mouth. I listen for what I know is coming.
How could you write this? This is not what a man does.
“Es una distracción,” is all Papi says. “You should be focusing on beisbol. Nada más. ¿Me entiendes?”
I bow my head. It is not a nod.
Papi tries to take the notebook from Yaritza, but she holds on too tight.
Robi is behind the bench. My bag is on his shoulder. His mouth is fighting not to smile too big. “Ále,” he whispers. “I hit well! I was really driving the ball.”
Papi is stalking away. Still he hears him. “It’s not the same as on the field,” Papi shouts back.
I stand like a tower, stiff and alone. “That’s great, Robi. I’m proud of you.” My hand finds his shoulder. I take back my bag. I’d expected yelling and shaming. I’d prepared for the possibility of hitting.
I wasn’t prepared for disinterest.
I should have been. It hurts more.