“This is most important.” Papi shows me the baseball in his fist. “This is what makes you more. What do people see when they look at you, eh? Un moreno walking the streets.”
He stomps toward the display case in the living room. Behind him, Robi’s eyes are twin full moons. Papi swipes the key from the top ledge. He wrestles the glass open. With two hands, he takes out his cap, the one he wore when he played for the Yankees. He comes back to me, slips it on my head. I want to tell him to stop. My hair is a mess of sweat and dirt.
He pulls me to the mirror. “Now what do people see?”
I tip my chin up. The cap fits me. It fits me perfect.
“A baseball player.” I know what to say. I’ve said it before.
“Eso.” Papi grips my shoulders. “People don’t see color when you’re wearing this. And you, you’re better than I was.” He tugs the brim over my eyes. “This will be yours one day.”
In the mirror, Papi’s smiling at me. It makes everything worth it.
Behind us, Robi’s looking at the floor.
“Pero, mañana it will be en los teens. You said, less than twenty-five is too cold.” Yaritza sidles up to him. She knocks her hip against his.
“And why do we have the room with the weights and equipment?” Papi jabs his hand toward the floor.
“So you can look good.” She squeezes his thighs. “And all this doesn’t turn to fat.”
Papi’s hands find her butt. “Ah, sí? I look good, eh?”
Robi clomps up the stairs. He doesn’t give me a smile. I don’t know if it’s because I won’t be spending the night or because of what Papi said.
Yaritza’s whispering to Papi. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. She leans into him. She drags her hands down his arms.
“He’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you, Ále?” Yaritza looks over her shoulder at me. She waves me to the kitchen where I find a foil packet of what smells like tortas.
Papi’s eyes are still closed. They’re swaying together, dancing to music I can’t hear.
“Gracias.” I plant a quick kiss on Yaritza’s cheek. “Nine o’clock good for tomorrow?” I sling my bag onto my back. On the weekends, it takes a good hour and a half to get here.
“Eight,” Papi calls out as I shut the door.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 14
ISA
“Gods be damned, my trap is killing me.” Chrissy’s whispering through her teeth. She extends over her leg, reaching for her pointed toe, an exact mirror of me and the five other girls at the barre. Madame Toussane, our Adagio teacher, claps her hands, stopping the piano. Chrissy rubs her shoulder as we reposition ourselves for the final combination. Madame Toussane nods at Mr. Richards, the pianist, and the music starts. She snaps her fingers to the beat, calling out the steps.
There are two sharp claps and the music stops. “Non. That is incorrect. Isabelle, venez ici. To the center.”
I bow my head and step away from the barre. Did I do something wrong?
“Now, everybody watch. Isabelle, please, again.” Madame Toussane glances at Mr. Richards and notes fill the room. She chants the moves.
“Plié, tendu. Plié, développé. Plié, now the grand rond de jambe . . .”
I stretch my leg as I lift it in front of me. I imagine it growing longer from my hip to my heel and toe as I swing it slowly, ever so slowly, behind me.
“Front, second, now écarté, écarté, écarté . . . then to arabesque. Yes! Excellent! Now let’s see it with some movement across the floor. Isabelle, please.” Her praise is like air to a balloon inside my chest. I feel pumped up and light on my feet. She gives me new steps. I take my place in the corner. I sink into a deep plié, one foot pointed behind me, my arm reaching up as if to the branches of a tree dripping fruit. Music begins. I drag my foot forward, lift the leg into développé, transfer onto it for the pirouette, arms forward, chest out, then slow into the grand ronde de jambe, ending in arabesque with another deep plié. My hand reaches now not for the tree but directly in front of me, toward the door of the room. I imagine Alex there, watching me.
“Beautiful. Well done. We will all work on that next class. Dismissed!” Madame Toussane gives a final clap.
“You are so getting a lead part for the spring performance.” Chrissy prods me with her elbow as we walk to the locker room. I duck under the arm of a dancer whose leg is being lifted by a young man in dance shorts and a T-shirt. He’s helping her stretch, but the way they’re facing each other, her foot in his hand, her ankle above his shoulder, their pelvises inches apart, seems awfully intimate. I think of Alex doing that for me and my cheeks flame.
“We’ll see,” I say to Chrissy. I don’t like to hope for things that might not happen.
Chrissy scoffs. “Madame Toussane hardly ever compliments anyone. And she loves you. Excellente, Mademoiselle Isabelle. You are the most perfect dancer who has ever graced my classroom! Come, let me have you dance for the entire school!” Chrissy’s French accent makes me laugh. It comes out with a tinge of southern twang. She’s not making fun of me. Or being jealous. She just likes to make me laugh.
“Meet you downstairs?” She grabs her bag and runs to find Kevin. Like she does each day after class. She’s so lucky Kevin is in the same building as her every single day.
Ten minutes later, Chrissy comes down the marble steps. Her arms cradle pink roses tied with a satin ribbon, but there’s no Kevin. I’d forgotten it was Valentine’s Day. I scheduled an e-card for Merrit a few days ago, but he hasn’t responded. I give Chrissy a supersad face. “Did you lock Kevin in the janitor’s closet? Sorry, I meant to tell him about your thing against flowers.” Chrissy hates them. She’s always thought giving something that’s going to die is a stupid way of showing affection.
Chrissy shrugs a shoulder. “Perhaps my antifloral attacks were too vicious. I’ve never gotten roses before.” She buries her nose in the petals, then sighs. “Kevin’s stuck in rehearsal for another hour. Guess it’s just you and me, chica!” She flings her arm around me then grimaces in pain. She rubs her neck as we push out into the frosty air. When we get down to the subway, I massage her shoulders.
“Thank you . . .” Her growl is eclipsed by the screeching of our train pulling in. “You. Are. The. Best. Man, Coppélia is the worst variation ever. My body’s not meant to be stiff like a doll. I’m meant to be pliable and loose, in the arms of a lover.” She wags her eyebrows and I laugh as we get on.
“How’s it going with Kevin, by the way?” I think of Alex again. Ever since Alex walked me to class and uploaded a picture of me to his Instagram—you can’t tell it’s me because it’s just my back, my coat sailing behind me—he’s posted almost every day. The photos feel like they’re for me: shoes, all types, not just ballet shoes. Anything to do with dance. And then there are some that are just plain beautiful. The sun hitting the George Washington Bridge. An old lady on a park bench, her smile wide as she feeds the pigeons. I can’t wait to see what he posts today.