“What team do you play on? Is it like a city league or something?”
He shakes his head. “School,” he says. “Alexander Hamilton High. It’s . . .” He pauses. The officer is in front of us. Chuck swallows.
“Oh, I know where that is. It’s up near Fort Tryon Park, right?”
Chuck doesn’t respond. He’s gripping my hand like he’s fallen off the subway platform and I’m the only thing keeping him from hitting the tracks.
“I love it up there. We’re members of the Met. We go to the Cloisters every Mother’s Day. My mom likes the unicorn tapestries. We always stop at this bakery up on 215th for guava pastries on the way home.” I’m speaking a little loudly, trying to keep him focused on me. The girls on the other side of Chuck are too, about their hotel and their dinner plans. I don’t know why he’s acting like this—maybe he had a bad experience. I just hope I can help.
The police officer moves past us.
Tension drains from my shoulders. “That is so cool you go to school up there.” I keep my words smooth and slow, like how I speak to Merrit or Mom when they get worked up. “So what are you? A junior?”
Chuck releases a breath. “Sophomore.”
“Oh! Me too.”
He runs a hand over his face. “You like guava pastries?” His whisper is hoarse.
“Love them. My dad sometimes makes a special trip up to the bakery around Christmastime.”
Chuck watches the police officer exit to the next car. He bends down. He takes his cap and a small book out of the bag. He pushes the bag toward me. “Here,” he says. “My mother made them.” His eyes are kind of shiny.
I look inside. There’s a huge foil packet, enough to fill an entire platter.
“I can’t take these,” I say. “Your mom didn’t make them for me. I’m guessing they’re for your dad? That’s awesome that they’re still on good terms.”
He shrugs. “They’re for my little brother and my stepmom. She and my mother get along just fine. My mother and my father, not so much.”
“I can’t take pastries from your little brother.”
“How about I give you some? Please. It would make my mother happy.”
“Your mom doesn’t know me.”
“If she did, she would want you to have some.” His smile makes my heart miss a step. God, he is so beautiful. He unwraps the foil, tears off a piece, and makes a smaller package. He holds it out to me.
There’s no use hiding my grin. “Thank you. Hey, what’s your real name? I’ve been calling you Chuck because of your sneakers.”
He laughs, looking down at his shoes. “Good thing we didn’t meet today.”
He’s wearing white Superstars with black stripes. “I don’t know, Adidas sounds pretty cool.”
“Well, my name does begin with A.”
“Adam?”
He shakes his head.
“Aaron?”
Another shake.
“Oh! I know!” I shoot up from my seat and clutch an imaginary microphone. “Alejandro, Alejandro . . .” I sway my hips a little. “Ale-Ale-jandro, Ale-Ale-jandro,” I croon in my best Lady Gaga.
He uses his hand to wipe off his grin. “You’re close. It’s just Alex.”
I plop back down, enjoying the jealous looks from the girls in the blue-and-white jackets. “Nice to meet you, Just Alex.” I put out my hand. He takes it, gives me a shake. Instead of letting go, he turns my palm down. He draws my hand toward him, stopping just before it reaches his mouth. He gives me a moment to pull away. I don’t. Of course I don’t. He touches my fingers to his lips.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Isa.” His breath is warm on my skin. Our knees brush. I want to slide my leg between his, climb into his lap, thread my hand through his thick, dark hair and . . .
He releases my fingers. He motions toward the window. “Your stop.”
Tiled pillars with the number THIRTY-FOUR whip by.
I don’t want to get off. I don’t want to leave Alex. But Merrit is waiting for me.
My throat tightens. When will I see Alex again? It took almost a month to find him. The fact that I found him at all is pretty amazing considering how many people ride the subway. I want to ask for his number. But what’s going to come of that? We both said we were too busy.
Time’s up. The doors open. I leap up and dash out. I don’t even say goodbye. As the train pulls away, I glance back. Our eyes meet through the window. He lifts his hand in farewell.
•••
I find Merrit where we said we’d meet. He’s gazing through the window of the Sunglass Hut, hands cupped around his eyes even though the store is all lit up.
I sneak behind him, then bend my knee into the back of his until his leg buckles.
“Hey!” he cries out. But he’s grinning. He reaches back with one hand and pulls me next to him, tucking me against his shoulder, his elbow crooked around my neck. I breathe in the leather of his jacket then burrow against him until I find the smell of freshly washed clothes. Magnolia-and-poppy-scented detergent always makes me think of Merrit. I remember the morning Merrit announced he couldn’t stand the regular Tide our cleaning lady used. He claimed it made him itchy, gave him rashes, though I was the one with eczema. Instead of taking us to school, Mom took us shopping. Dad was out of town or else he never would have let her. We went to different markets, piling boxes and bottles of detergent into the carts. At home, we did load after load of laundry. Mom put on Celia Cruz and was dancing around saying instead of a taste test it was a smell test. Merrit and I lay on our stomachs and played Rummikub, jumping up every time the dryer dinged. The Whole Foods brand was Merrit’s favorite. We’ve been using it ever since.
“See those glasses in the middle case? Second row?” he asks me.
“The horn-rimmed ones in purple?”
“Yup. Those. I’ve always thought I’d rock the rhinestone look.” Merrit’s arm tightens around my neck, just enough so I don’t squirm away while he tickles my side. “I meant the aviators. Third ones from the left.”
We go inside so Merrit can try them on. I have to admit, they look pretty good on him.
He bends to the mirror. His smile makes me smile.
“Can I get them for you?” I take out my wallet with my allowance money.
“You mean, can Dad get them for me?” His smirk is playful.
“Har, har.” It’s what Dad says when Merrit rides him.
Merrit wears the glasses out onto the street, even though it’s dark. “Samantha has a pair like this.”
I don’t know what to say. We pass a window display of a little boy asleep under a plaid quilt, stockings hung over a fire beside a tree with gold and red ornaments. Letters made of ice spell the word Believe in a winter wonderland set just beyond the boy’s room. “How’d it go?” I finally ask. “At her house?”
He shrugs. He shakes out chin-length strands of sandy hair, the same color as the sleeping boy’s. “She said to say hi to you.” We walk another block before he adds, “She has a new boyfriend.”
Alarm burrows into my gut.
“I’m sorry,” I say. What I think is, Please be OK.