Danny claps. Bryan’s still holding his phone. Hold up—was he just videoing that?
Isa extends a pointed foot. She bows, one hand still in mine, the other raised over her head. Her smile is so big her cheeks crowd her eyes. “Cuidado,” she says. “Wouldn’t want Kiara to get ahold of that.” She tips her head at Bryan’s cell.
Did she just tell me to be careful in Spanish?
The train brakes hard into Sixty-Sixth Street.
Isa takes her coat and bag from Danny. “Gracias. And just so you know, mi mamá es Cubana. I understood everything you said.”
Danny’s scar flushes bloodred.
Bryan flings his hands in the air. “How is this blondie a Cubana?” Bryan gives me a what-the-hell-just-happened look.
My heart crawls back to my chest. I don’t think it’s beating at all. Isa heard everything? Her mother is Cuban? Coño.
The doors open. Isa waves and steps out.
On the platform, she looks at Bryan. “Oh, and thanks for the offer, but I’m like him.” She points at me. “I don’t have time for anyone special. So unless you’re going to come and take classes with me . . .” She points to the ballet shoe on her sweater. “You’ll be waiting years before I move on from even my first novio.”
If I were her, I’d be umpire-made-the-wrong-call mad. I’d be throwing down my cap and kicking dirt on the base. But Isa’s still smiling as she backs away. I give Bryan and Danny a look that says I’m coming for them later. I grab the door as it’s closing.
“Isa!”
She looks over her shoulder.
“You’re not angry?” I ask her.
She runs back to where I’m stuck between the two halves of the subway door.
She brings her nose right up to mine. The gold flecks in her irises twist and twirl, just like her dancing.
“Not at you. You made it up to me with that dance.” She kisses my cheek. My skin, where her lips were, burns. “Hasta luego, jodontón.” She whirls and runs through the turnstile.
I can’t let her leave. She’s smiling. But she can’t not be upset.
“You better cover for me,” I shout. Danny and Bryan are crowded around Bryan’s screen, grinning like fools. “And don’t you dare share that video.” I don’t care anymore what they think about me and Isa. I don’t care who knows. But I’m not letting others watch that clip—watch Isa dance—the way those two are.
I catch up to Isa on the subway steps.
“I’m sorry. For what went on back there.”
“Listen, I have a lot of cousins back in Miami. I’m used to that sort of talk—not that it makes it OK. At least you weren’t talking like that.” She gives me a smirk. “Anyway, I heard what they said about you not being interested in Kiara. So not all of it was bad.”
I look down at my feet. I don’t want to show her my smile.
“But I meant what I said about not showing her the video.” Isa’s boots are soundless on the stairs. “Kiara definitely wants more from you than just friendship.”
We’re almost at the top, at the street. I want to ask Isa what she wants from me. But her answer won’t matter. She just told Bryan what she told me before. She has no time for anyone.
“Can I walk you to practice?” I can’t help asking.
“Sure. But we call it class. Don’t you have to practice?”
“They can start without me.”
“That’s right, you’re the awesome star player who’s going to get all the girls.” She throws out her hands like she’s holding down an enormous balloon.
I deserved that. My silence makes her laugh.
“You’re cute when you’re shy,” she says.
I refuse to look up from the sidewalk. My heart is ticking like mad.
We stop for the light. “So, your mother’s Cuban?”
“Yup. Hard to believe, right? My dad’s from Indiana. But you know, my mom’s blond. Her great-grandparents came from northern Spain.”
The light changes and we cross.
“How’d they meet?” I want to keep her talking. I want to hear her voice.
“In college. Mom couldn’t wait to get out of Miami. Of course she fell in love with the most Nordic-looking guy she could find and never let go.”
“Your father’s a Viking?”
My heart trips at her laugh.
“No. Dad’s family’s from Scotland and England. Total WASP. He’s like the opposite of a Latino, except he can sort of dance. I think Mom wanted someone as different from my abuelo as she could find.”
I glance up from slate-gray stone.
Isa takes a deep breath and lets it go. “Yeah, my mom hated her dad. He left her and my abuela a bunch of times. She blames him for them not having money when she was growing up. They could have gotten out of Cuba earlier, but my abuelo was in the middle of another affair. He didn’t want to leave his mistress.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. That must suck. To lose everything and blame your papi for it. We’ve stopped in front of a poster for Peter and the Wolf, the symphony.
Isa shrugs. “It’s OK. But it explains a lot about my mom. Don’t ever tell her I said any of that, though.”
The look she gives me, like she’s delighted we’re sharing this secret, sends a jolt into my gut. She touches my arm and I almost take her waist. I don’t need Prince Royce. I could dance with her right here on the street.
“Hey . . .” She hestitates, glancing away. “I’m not like my mom. I don’t put people in boxes based on where they came from or who their family is. I mean, my friend Chrissy’s dad has had affairs and he’s from Georgia.”
I don’t like to put people in boxes either. Only, that’s what Bryan and Danny just did to Isa. They assumed she didn’t speak Spanish because she’s white and blond. And I let them do it.
It’s my turn to cup my hand to my mouth. “I hate tostones. You Cubans cook platanos much better with those thin chips.”
“Oh, I know, right? Tostones are so dry. But you know what I hate?” She widens her eyes again. “Flan.”
“Flan? You kidding? That stuff’s great.”
She presses a hand to her forehead. “I know. A lot of people love it. My abuela used to make it for our neighbors. They’d come knocking as soon as the doorman told them she was in town. But I hate the consistency, you know? Anything pudding-like is just—yuck!”
I start walking again, even though I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t want her to be late for class.
“Yeah, well other than the tostones, I’m kind of a poster for a Dominicano. I’m really good at baseball. I love my mother. I love bachata.”
“But I don’t know. Mr. Alex Ros doesn’t sound very Dominican to me.” She extends her hand toward the fountain we’re passing, as if asking the pigeons to weigh in.
“My last name isn’t Ros. It’s Rosario.”
“Oh! I just thought, because your Instagram said ARos . . .” She laughs at herself. It makes me want to dance with her even more. “But yeah, Rosario, that could be Dominican.” She double-winks at me. She runs over and jumps up on the ledge around the fountain. I follow but stay on the ground. In case she needs help to balance.