The subway slows into a curve. Chuck draws a hand from his pocket. He makes a fist and touches his lips with the back of it. His mouth has the resting shape of a slight smile. It makes him seem content. And confident. Which makes sense given his looks. His eyes flick toward me though he’s partly turned away, like he knows I’m watching him.
My cheeks grow warm. I feel like I need to say something. “It’s probably my fault.”
Chuck turns, brow shifting down just enough to communicate his confusion.
“I should be wearing something else. So, uh, people won’t stare.” I clear my throat.
He looks away again. “You should wear what you want.”
“Yeah, well, it’s because I’m in a rush.” I’m almost always in a rush but I don’t tell him that. “It saves me time not having to change.”
He glances at me again. “You going to an exercise class?”
I don’t normally talk to strangers. Especially not on the subway. But Chuck doesn’t seem like a stranger anymore.
“It’s an audition. I’m going to an audition.”
One eyebrow shoots up. How does he do that? Merrit can do it too, but no matter how hard I try, I never can.
“It’s a tryout,” I add. “For a dance school.” I don’t tell him that even if I make it in there’s no way my mom would let me switch schools. I don’t tell him that I’m doing the audition for myself, to prove I could be just as good as the dancers who get to spend their day going from Pointe to Technique to Variations instead of just from precalc to chemistry. He’d probably think it’s ridiculous.
Both of his eyebrows lift. “I know what an audition is.”
“Of course. Of course you do.” I need to stop repeating myself. “Anyway, that’s why I’m dressed like this, which is why that guy was staring at me.”
Chuck glances at my feet and then at my arm hugging my side. He swivels toward me.
“This dance audition. It’s for salsa? For Latin dance?” He nods at the woman with the loud earbuds. He must have seen me moving to her music. She’s awake, tracing the patterns of her skirt, kicking folds of it out from between her legs. The train brakes hard into Seventy-Second Street. The woman slides partway into the next seat. Neither Chuck nor I lose our balance even though we’re not holding on.
“Nope,” I say. “Ballet.” I pop up onto my toes, just for a second. I shouldn’t be doing that without my pointe shoes. Ms. Maria gave me an earful once when she caught me showing off to my friends.
My face heats even more. I can’t believe I just did that.
The doors slide open. A bunch of people get on the train. I move to the other doorway, the one that will open at the next stop. My stop. Chuck follows.
He leans on the bar on his side of the entrance. “But you like Latin music?” He asks it like he’s afraid of the response.
“What’s not to like?”
He bows his head, which I think is him agreeing, but he’s examining his phone. He fishes a headset out of one of his pockets and plugs it in. He offers me the earbuds. The beat hits me before I pick up the tune. Chuck is watching me, waiting. The song sounds like Vieques, fast and catchy like the music from the woman with the skirt, but deeper, richer somehow. I smile and forget to hide it. Chuck’s lips part, revealing white teeth that gleam against his skin. I swish my hips. He nods along.
Ms. Maria’s lilting accent rises over the music. You execute perfectly, flawlessly, all the steps. But you need to feel the music. Why so stiff?
Well, this music sure is loosening me up.
“What’s so funny?” Chuck asks.
I didn’t realize I was laughing. “Um . . . It’s just . . . my dance teacher’s always saying I’m too tense.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “I don’t believe that.” He shrugs. “You look . . .” He pauses, his eyes catching mine. “Perfect. You look perfect to me.”
I move my feet, the dance from Vieques coming back. His shoulders sway, mirroring me even though he can’t hear the music.
The doors open.
“Sixty-Sixth Street, Lincoln Center. Downtown local 1 train. Next stop, Fifty-Ninth Street, Columbus Circle.”
I yank the headset from my ears. I clutch the strap of my bag. I’ve got to get out. I’ve got twenty minutes before my audition. Twenty minutes to stretch and lace up my pointe shoes. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to rehearse my piece one last time before I’m called. Is it ridiculous that I want to stay here, dancing with this boy I only just met? His smile is gone. The earbuds are swinging from his half-open hand. His gaze follows my face as I shift from side to side.
The signal rings. I still don’t move. My legs are trained to do any dance step I want. They’re frozen, like me, in first position.
The doors slide out from their pockets. A scuffed black Chuck Taylor catches them before they seal shut. They shudder open.
My stomach flutters as if I’m about to step on stage.
“Good luck,” he tells me.
I leap out just before the doors slam.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
ALEX
“Oye, chan. Your stepmom be the best.” Bryan pushes a taco in his mouth.
Danny nods. He’s leaning over his legs, two hands holding open foil. He’s breathing like we just finished practice. But it’s because he’s chewing so hard.
I take a packet labeled CARNITAS out of the bag. I unwrap it only partway. I’m not going to waste any of this filling. I bite off half and close my eyes. My stomach screams at me to hurry up. But I got the bag. Ain’t no way they’re getting more than me. Don’t care how fast they eat.
Bryan reaches for another. I slide onto the next seat, the bag tucked against me as if it has my lucky glove instead of twelve homemade bundles of meat. Bryan grunts. He kicks. I see it coming so mostly get out of the way. His cleats clip my knee. I don’t even look at him. Instead, I toss an al pastor at Danny. I take out another carnitas for me.
Bryan’s looking at me like I booted him from the lineup. He folds and unfolds his arms. His fingers tap the plastic seats. He jerks his chin up. “El Jefe was going to war today. He angry at you or something?”
I shrug. I peel back one corner of foil and then another. I inhale onion and cumin-spiced pork and hiss my approval. I take a slow bite. Papi couldn’t be mad at me. I was three for four. He took my shoulder when we left, squeezed it like he always does.
Danny stops eating. He actually lifts his mouth from the tortilla. No way I could do that. “El Jefe always be at war. Nothing new there.”
Bryan’s eyes once-over me. Don’t know if it’s because I’m enjoying my taco and he’s got nothing or if he’s still thinking about Papi. Papi made us run the bleachers. And the pier. But that was because Danny was slow coming into home. It couldn’t have been because of me.
Bryan shakes his head. “Coño. We got to get you a girl. Stop makin’ love to your food and dame uno.”
I grin and toss him a silver bullet of suadero. I wouldn’t normally treat Yaritza’s meals with such disrespect. But catching is Bryan’s thing. He grabs it out of the air even though the train is slamming into the next stop.