“It will work out. It always does,” Dad says. It’s our mantra, his and mine. I say it to myself as we eat, as I clean up, as I head back to my room.
When I’m on my bed, I take out Alex’s poem. I read it over and over until it blocks out Dad’s promise, until it’s all I see, all I think about. Before I turn out the lights, I open Instagram. Alex’s account is right up top. He’s posted a photo of our two hands. It’s blurry—the train must have been moving—but still, I make out the curve of his fingers under mine.
FRIDAY, MARCH 3
ALEX
I don’t know whether to sit or stand. If I sit, Isa might not see me. If I stand, I’ll pace. I don’t want her to see that. I’m not in my usual spot in the middle of the train because I want to see her as soon as she comes down.
I unzip my jacket. There’s dirty snow and brain-freeze wind on the streets. Down here there’s only tracks of muddy slush. Two little kids take the stairs, lowering one foot at a time. Behind, a mami clutches a metal cart filled with groceries. It clangs on each step.
I push off the post.
“Can I help you?” I motion to the cart. The woman jumps, like a pigeon scared by a bear.
“No, no is OK. We OK. Thank you, thank you.” The mami bows her head and shoulders to me again and again. The cart smacks onto the next stair. A carton of eggs wobbles on top. The mami’s eyes dart from me to her kids, like she thinks I might do something to them. I’ve been keeping my eye on them. They’re too small to be on the platform by themselves.
“Alex!”
Isa’s running down the steps. She doesn’t stop until she’s in front of me. “Alex.” She grabs my hands with both of hers. She looks at me like I’m hidden treasure she’s finally found.
I try not to smile too big. “You’re breathing hard,” I say. Her face is flushed.
“Oh.” Her light-brown eyes bug. She rises onto her toes then drops to her heels. “I was so excited to see your message. I can’t believe it’s been two whole weeks and we’re finally making this work! I couldn’t wait to see you.” She whispers the last part.
I’m glad for my sweatshirt. An extra layer to hide the pounding inside me. It’s been two weeks and three days. But who’s counting?
Her fingers squeeze mine. “How are you? Are you ready for your first game? It’s in two Saturdays, right?”
I hide my surprise. “You been checking up on me?”
She ducks her head. “Your team’s schedule is online. You’re playing Morris. Are they a good team? Will you still play if there’s snow?”
“We’ll see about the weather. And yes, Morris is good.” I don’t tell her that AHH is better, that last year we crushed them 11–4 and then 10–5. I don’t want to talk about ball. “How’s your rehearsing?” Isa’s hair is in a bun again. Tiny flecks of pink light up in it as she moves.
“I’ve got big news.” She goes on her toes again. It brings her eyes about level with my nose. I bend my knees to see her better. “I might go to the Manhattan Academy of Ballet full time!” She’s jigging up and down. Like she’s on a trampoline, about to launch into the air.
“Wow!” I tell her. “That’s great!”
“I’m still waiting to hear if they’ll accept last year’s audition. I’d start over the summer. I had to promise Mom it doesn’t mean I’m going professional. I told her I’m still considering medical school.”
“A doctor, huh?” I fix the collar of her jacket. She must have thrown it on fast. “You’d look good in a white coat. A stethoscope hanging here.” I trace a line down the side of her neck. Her skin, where I touch her, colors. I tug at my hoodie. Coño, I’m glad I’m wearing it.
Her eyes look straight at mine. “Yeah, well. I’m actually kind of scared of blood.”
“Maybe you should tell your mother that.”
She leans close. Her breath smells like fruit, like orange and mango. “That guy over there?” She’s whispering again. “The one staring at us? He looks like one of the lion statues in front of my building. With his jowls and frown.” Laughter trickles out of her.
I go to turn but she stops me.
“Wait. Don’t make it obvious!”
I give her a look that tells her I know how to do this. I push back my hood and search the ceiling for the next train’s estimated arrival. The family with the cart and the two little boys watches us. The mami smiles at me and bobs her head. Sure, now that she sees me with Isa, I deserve a smile.
Farther down the platform is a white man with droopy cheeks. Jowls Isa called them. Yeah, I can see why she thinks he looks like a lion. It’s his attitude. I know guys like him. Guys who look at me and decide they’re more important than me, ’cause I’m nothing.
I face the man. He looks through me. He adjusts his tie. He turns to the approaching train.
It’s because we’re standing together, Isa and I. I’m still holding her hand. He doesn’t like it.
The heat in my blood goes from simmer to boil. I get that feeling again, that no matter what I do, I can’t win. I exhale, nice and slow, like I’m preparing to take the mound. What Lion-man and that mami think of me doesn’t matter. They’re like a heckling crowd, trying to shake me. I won’t let them.
“Come on.” I tug Isa with me, down past the man with the necktie and loafers, toward the middle of the platform.
“What?” she asks.
“You’ll see.”
The train rushes past. Wind hits the back of my arm, my neck. A wisp of Isa’s hair flutters onto her cheek. She presses against me. Words swirl in my head. My hand itches for a pen and a piece of paper.
I count the cars as they roll by. “This one,” I say as the doors open.
“It looks empty.” Her bright gaze slides to mine. “Is that why you want it?”
The sly curve of her mouth punches heat into my gut. I try to keep my expression cool. “No, no, it’s just . . .” I go to wipe the sweat that’s coming on my forehead but stop myself. “I’ll show you.”
She follows me in.
Ofrescome. I nearly gag at the smell.
Isa turns to me, her eyes bugging again. She slaps a hand to her mouth. Her fingers cover her nose. I’m not sure if she’s trying not to laugh or not to breathe.
The car’s not empty. There’s a homeless person at one end. Ratty blankets cover his shoulders. Ratty sneakers, tongues hanging out like desert dogs’, sit beside him. He’s got a piece of cardboard under his feet. They’re bare and red.
I drag Isa into the next car.
Laughter pours out of her as soon as the door shuts.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know he was in there.”
Her hand seizes my arm. “I’m not laughing at him.” She points at my face. “I’ve never”—she snorts—“I’ve never seen you look so surprised. I thought . . .” She covers her mouth as she hiccups. “It’s just, you’re always so calm, so in control. I like that you can be caught off guard.” She tips against me.