She twirls on the ledge, keeping herself in a perfect line. She stops and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. She’s taller than me now.
My heart thumps a rhythm that’s not the bachata. The bachata’s too slow. My heart is merenguing against my ribs.
“You so could not fit into a box, Mr. Alex Rosario. You’re different. From everyone I know.” She glances at the building as a girl, also in tights, runs through a door.
“Shoot! I’ve got to go.” She hops down. She skips toward an entire wall of glass doors. She never bothered to close her coat. It flies out behind her like a cape.
I stay where I am, next to the fountain that’s been drained for the season. I want to follow her. But I know I can’t. She’s like a bird, swooping with joy and life. I want to write about it. I take out my phone and snap a pic.
All that I do, with baseball, with Papi, is so folks see beyond what their eyes tell them when they look at me. Isa did that all on her own. She doesn’t even care about my ball playing.
Isa yanks open a door. She waves at me with her entire arm. “See you on the subway!” She disappears inside.
I sit on the ledge as if it’s a bench. I’m already late for practice.
I pull up Instagram. I comment on Isa’s first post, the one she put up almost a year ago. I comment on her second and her third posts too.
I type in a private message. A few lines. Something I’ve been working on. I read them over. They’re rough. They’re not my best. I stand, press Cancel instead of Send. I pocket my phone and head back to the subway.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 4
ALEX
I lunge to my left, holding the thirty-pound disc to my chest.
“Más por abajo.” Papi grunts the command. “Bring your butt to your heel.”
I come back to standing. I drive down to the right.
“Again.” Papi leans against the tower of weights as he watches me. His muscled back is reflected in the mirror.
“Otro,” he tells me. I’m on set three of four. The door opens. Robi comes down and sits on the steps. He was at the dining table, cutting hearts out of red construction paper when I came. In elementary school, I had to bring valentines for the class too. Only, I got mine from a box. I was going to tell Robi how cool it was he was making them. How his friends and teachers were going to be impressed. Papi closed a hand on my shoulder, steered me toward the basement before I could. He yelled out to Yaritza, asked why his son was playing with paper hearts when he could be watching his papi’s old games.
Robi slides a valentine from behind his back. Loopy black letters spell out my name on white lace. I give Robi a nod. I try to smile but I’m gritting my teeth. I sink as low as I can. Papi rolls a medicine ball under his foot.
“Good.” Papi opens the small refrigerator and tosses me a protein drink. I take the towel Robi holds out and wipe sweat from my face.
“Looking good.” Robi always talks to me with a smile.
“Thanks.” I drape my towel over his head and ruffle his hair. I pick up my valentine. Robi’s drawn a picture of what could be a papi and an hijo holding hands. Only, the bigger figure’s wearing a jersey with a thirty-three on it. That’s my number, not Papi’s. “This is great. I love it.” I tip my drink to him, offering him some.
“Toma.” Papi tosses the medicine ball at me. I catch it, but just barely. The drink would have spilled over Yaritza’s carpet if Robi hadn’t taken it. My valentine drifts like a leaf in October. It settles on the bottom step.
“La jaqueta.” Papi shoves open the door before I can shrug my jacket on. I slide Robi’s card into my bag. Mami’s going to want it on the refrigerator.
“Can I come too?”
Papi’s already outside, walking toward Sunset Park. He doesn’t hear Robi.
“Go get your coat.” I’m rewarded with a mile-wide grin.
Doesn’t matter that it’s thirty degrees. As long as there’s no snow or ice, Papi will run me through drills. And Robi will try to join.
Papi’s waiting by the streetlight half a block away. I jog past him, my sneakers crunching grass that’s winter-brown. I squat, the medicine ball hanging between my knees. Cold air scrapes my throat. It ice-picks my chest from the inside. I clench my jaw, shoot up, and hurl the ball as far as I can. I sprint to it, pick it up, and do it again.
“Más rápido.”
I do as Papi says. My legs burn. I didn’t think I could go any faster. But Papi was right. If I push myself, I can.
Robi kicks around a rock. He stays on the other side of the walkway. Papi’s yelled at him for getting too close before. I don’t want Robi getting hit by the basketball-size weight. I don’t like him getting yelled at either.
Papi takes the medicine ball from me when I finish ten reps. He hands me a water bottle.
Robi’s hanging from a tree branch. His legs swing in the air. He sees me get down on the ground. He drops and sprints so he’s behind Papi. He gets into push-up position too. Papi’s marked off ten yards with a red ribbon.
“Go!” His stopwatch clicks.
I spring up and pump my legs until I’m past that ribbon. Papi frowns at the timer. I’ve got thirty seconds before the next one. I pace. I remember Papi’s words. I shut my mouth and force air through my nose, warming it before it hits my lungs.
On the other side of the green, Robi mirrors me, hands on hips, stomping down dead stalks of weeds.
At Papi’s nod, I get into position.
Robi does too.
Click.
“¡Pa’rriba! Knees to chest! Knees to chest!” Papi chants.
I barrel toward the ribbon. I pull my legs as high as they’ll go.
“¡Eso!” Papi’s not frowning anymore.
It’s hard to smile when you’re catching your breath.
Robi’s skipping sideways, arms pumping the sky. If I had my phone, I’d take a photo.
When Papi takes two gloves from his bag and a ball from his pocket, Robi bounds over to us.
“Can I throw too?” It’s impossible not to hear his hope.
“Más tarde.” It’s what Papi always says.
“But I want a chance to throw with Alex.” Robi shouldn’t whine. It just makes Papi dig in.
“I said later. ¡Vete pa’lla!” Papi points to a rock under a tree.
Robi hangs his head. A drop hangs from the tip of his nose. Instead of wiping it away, Robi snorts it back in.
“Come on, we can do a few tosses all together. There’s time, right?”
They both look at me, surprised I’ve spoken. Robi’s eyes light up. Thunder gathers in Papi’s.
“Time?” Papi says. “We have just four months until travel team starts. When you here, I train you. Es todo. ¿Me escuchas? This is not a game. This is your life.”
When we get back inside, Yaritza’s waiting. Mami called. She wants me home for dinner.
“Qué no.” Papi smacks the wood banister. “You said you’d spend the night. We still have game strategy to review. Y mañana tienes que practicar más.”
I haven’t seen Mami all week. When I get home, she’s already at work. She was supposed to work a double shift tonight, which is why I agreed to stay. But now . . .