I grin back at him. The women are still talking, but they’re both watching us. I wave at them. They wave back. One of them gives me a thumbs-up. At the next stop, they shuffle off, the other giving two thumbs-up.
“I think they like you,” I say as Alex leads me to the now-vacant seats.
“And they didn’t even read my poetry.”
“Darn, I should have showed it to them. Speaking of which, did you submit to that online literary magazine I sent you?”
He runs a hand down his leg. His other hand clasps mine. He gives a noncommittal tilt of his head.
“Come on, you have to! Your work is amazing.” I’ve been telling him this all along. I’m not sure why he doesn’t believe me. Alex leans down and touches his lips to the tip of my nose.
“I know you think they’re good. It’s just . . . you’re biased.”
“I may be biased. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. If you’re not going to believe me, we need external validation.”
“How about we make a deal?” Alex tucks his arm around my waist. “I’ll submit to the magazine after you come to Brooklyn and the Heights. And after you show me Park Ave. I’ve always wanted to see a fancy Upper East Side apartment.” He gives me a playful wink.
Alex has invited me to meet his parents before. He’s hinted about meeting my family too. We’d be able to spend more time together if it overlapped with family time. But I don’t want him to see a room that doesn’t look like mine anymore, the pictures on my desk and the figurines on my bookshelf moved by the realtor for the people traipsing through. I don’t want him to see my dad stressed and rumpled. And I don’t want him to meet my mom at all. If he knows about everything that’s going on with my family—everything that’s wrong with it—it will become part of us. I want to protect what Alex and I have. I want to keep it separate. And I can’t meet Alex’s family if I’m not going to let him meet mine.
I keep my smile steady as the deep bass of a speaker takes over the car. Four guys in sweats skip down the aisle, asking passengers to pull their legs in and pick bags off the floor. The guys move together, shoulders and knees bouncing to the beat, until they form a straight line. Arms jut out, necks roll. They side-kick in unison. I recognize the routine from a Beyoncé video, but they’re dancing to Drake’s latest hip-hop track. One breaks off, runs and does a flip in the air, narrowly missing the bar. The crowd ooohs. Another dancer drops to the floor and windmills right in front of the doorway. The Leo Xiao fans holler. Drake stops rapping and the guys run through the car, caps out, collecting money.
“Is that a no?” Alex is leaning over, elbows on his knees. He’s watching me as I watch the guys rack up a good amount of change and bills. I open my wallet. All I have are some singles. I hope Alex doesn’t notice.
Alex’s thigh knocks mine. He wants me to look at him. I’m afraid if I do, he’ll see right through me. He’ll know everything at home is a mess. And I don’t want him to.
The song starts over. I stand and pull myself into a long stretch, hands to the ceiling, fingers glued together. I sway to the side. My arms swing, snap together. I turn, thrust my hips, pump my arms, just like Beyoncé does it. I’m better than those guys. I’ve been classically trained. My eyes stay on Alex. I ignore the rhythmic clapping that surrounds me. I ignore the guys beside me, doing the moves, copying my technique. My blood roars in my ears. Sweat drips down my chest, my back. I keep dancing. For Alex. For me.
I’m doubled over in front of him when the music stops. The car goes crazy. Alex pulls me up. He isn’t smiling. A few of the performers pat my back. I hear, “Damn, you good, girl.” And “Who said white girls can’t dance?” They do another round of collections as Alex leads me off the train onto the subway platform.
I’m still pumped from the music, from the dance. This is what I want to feel. This is how he makes me feel. At the gate, I kiss him hard. He doesn’t stop me. But he doesn’t kiss me back. Not the way I want him to.
I know I’ve hurt him. I know a little dance, a little fun, isn’t going to make it right.
“Will you come to see me? At my performance?” I give him the date. “I don’t have a big part, just a semisolo. But it’s famous ballet—a great story, you’d love it. My parents will be there, and you can meet them . . . if you want to, I mean—” Alex cuts me off. He kisses me, the way I want him to.
SUNDAY, APRIL 16
ALEX
I raise the glove to my chin. The leather smells warm, though the air’s cold. Red seams dig into my fingers. I huff out a breath. My knee comes up. I pivot and reach for the catcher as if I can grab his hat. The ball thumps into Bryan’s mitt. Papi nods at me. I smile before I can stop. The batter drops the bat and walks off the field.
Papi’s friend, the other coach, mutters something I can’t hear. He stays behind the chain-link fence. Papi asked him to bring his best hitters, the ones he’s considering for the travel team this summer. I’ve struck all four of them out. And the sun’s not even above us yet.
Papi waves me in. Bryan stands and stretches his legs. He keeps looking toward First Ave. He’s wondering if Danny’s gonna show. He’ll be an hour late if he does. Danny doesn’t have to come. But he does if he wants to stay on Papi’s team. Danny hasn’t been playing well for AHH. He’s missed too many practices. At least he’s been playing. At least he’s trying to stay part of one team.
I glance at First Ave too. Someone’s coming. But it’s not Danny. It’s another of Papi’s friends. He’s got three players with him.
Papi’s hand goes up for the new coach. He walks past me to meet them. Robi runs onto the field. He’s been practicing swings behind the fence this whole time. Robi drops into the dirt beside Bryan, legs as wide as he can get them. Bryan ribs him a little, then tosses him his glove. Robi sinks into a squat. He does the drills Bryan taught him. Robi’s always wanted to pitch. Papi won’t let him. This spring he started following Bryan around, learning all he could. He’s asked if I could pitch to him about a thousand times. I only ever do it when Papi’s not watching.
“Yefri! ¿Cómo tu ’ta?” Papi knocks the coach’s shoulder. Yefri introduces his players. Papi shakes their hands.
“Oye.” The other coach, the one still hanging on the fence, calls me. He shows me his fist, taps his chest with it, and nods.
I nod back.
Bryan’s watching. He turns so the coach can’t see him. He grins and sticks out his tongue. He’s probably swinging his eyebrows but I can’t tell because of the mask. He’s been in a good mood since he and Julissa patched it up.
Robi snatches the mask off Bryan and drops it on his own face.
“Throw me one!” He runs toward first.
Papi’s coming our way. He’s got an arm around Yefri. I shake my head at Robi.
“You heard from Danny?” Bryan creeps close.
I shake my head again.
“You think he’s with—”
“Not now.” I tilt my head toward Papi. He’s still chatting with Yefri about which positions to put us in. They can hear us.