“How are things going in Isa and Alex land?” Chrissy’s looking at me sideways. With her lips so red, her grin is like a superhero’s.
“Good,” I gush. “Very good.” Alex is the one thing that’s all good in my life right now. “His mom’s making dinner for us next Saturday. And then he’s taking me to Brooklyn on Sunday to meet his dad and stepmom and brother.” Provided my family doesn’t scare him away.
“Ooh. That sounds nice. Kevin and I will be in the Catskills at his parents’ house next weekend. His parents won’t be there, of course.” She arches an eyebrow, then smiles as I glance back at Alex. She takes my hand. “I’m looking forward to tonight. Thank you for arranging for your dearest friend to spend more time with this boy who’s stolen your heart.”
SATURDAY, APRIL 22
ALEX
Coño, these seats are tiny. My knees are halfway up my chest. This would be a good stretch if I were a catcher. Next time I see Bryan, I’ll tell him I know where he can go before the game. He’d love this place. Everybody looks so fine. He’d likely make a fool of himself panting after some of these ladies. Not that he’d make a move. He is so lost over Julissa. He was complaining about all the weeks we’ll be away this summer traveling to upstate New York, New Jersey, Ohio, Pennsylvania, even Georgia, all in that big Chevy van Papi bought a few years back. I haven’t told Isa about travel ball. I don’t want to think about all that time apart.
I rest Isa’s flowers below my seat. The sleeves of my jacket ride up. I tug them down. Being bigger than Papi should make me smile. But everyone who looks at me has got to know this suit isn’t mine.
There are still empty seats on either side of me. Two have to be for Isa’s parents. Isa apologized she wouldn’t be there to introduce us. I told her not to worry. I know how to introduce myself. I open the program. Prints from my fingers mark the glossy cover. OK, maybe I am a little nervous. Maybe I wish I’d met her parents earlier, when Isa was with me. I flip through advertisements for watches and cars and cruises until I find the part that lists the cast. I find Isa’s name. She would like to thank her family for their support, her mom, her dad, and Merrit. She also thanks A, for everything. I shut the program. I straighten my tie and make sure my coat is covering my shirt, covering my heart that’s beating mad fast. Isa’s parents are going to read that. They’re going to know I’m A.
A man and a woman come into my row. The woman is tiny with dark hair piled on top of her head. She could pass for Cuban, but Isa said her mom was blond. The man is blond, tall and good-looking. The only things that keep him from looking like a Viking are his glasses and suit. A suit that doesn’t pull tight across his shoulders. A suit that looks like it was made just for him.
I wipe my hand on my pant leg and stand. I watch their faces, but they’re not looking at me.
“Hello,” I say. The man gives me a curt nod. The woman looks at me then looks away. She doesn’t say anything either. I sit back down when they sit. They don’t speak, to each other or to me. They can’t be Isa’s parents, right?
I clear my throat and lean forward. “You know anyone dancing in the show?”
The woman doesn’t look up. The man puts a hand to his mouth like talking to me has to be a secret.
“Our neighbor’s daughter, Cecilia, is a Wilis.”
I don’t know what that means but they’re not Mr. and Mrs. Warren. Isa’s parents must be on my other side.
A family passes in front of us, the boy grumbling as he takes his seat. The mother hushes him and says she expects him to behave. He’s got braces, just like Robi. Only none of them look like they could be part of my family. They could be descended from Vikings too.
I look down at my program to see what a Wilis is. I don’t want to think about Robi asleep on his bed, tears staining his cheeks. I don’t think about the phone call with Papi, the one where I thought he was going to apologize but instead he told me I’m easy to coach because I take direction and have natural talent. Robi, he said, is stubborn. Robi doesn’t listen. And he’s just not good enough. He told me my little brother is trying to be something he’s not, something he’s never going to be.
I reread the first two lines of the synopsis. Some great lord, who’s already engaged to another lord’s daughter, falls in love with a peasant, Giselle. The lord disguises himself so he and Giselle can be together. In the Middle Ages people didn’t marry between classes. Even now, giving up all your riches to be with someone you love would be impressive.
A chime rings. The lights dim halfway. People hurry to their seats. My pulse pounds in my palm where it grips the empty armrest beside me. Two of those people have to be Mr. and Mrs. Warren. I make myself read the rest of the first act. The disguised lord is outed by another peasant and is forced to admit he’s a fraud and is promised to another. In a fit of grief, the beautiful Giselle dances until she dies. The heroine of this supposed romantic ballet dies. In the first act. At least in Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare doesn’t kill off the lovers until the end.
“You must be Alex.” A man sinks down next to me. He holds out his hand. His smile is a smaller version of Isa’s.
I go to stand but the lights disappear. “Hello. Nice to meet you.” I shake Isa’s father’s hand while sitting down. It’s difficult seeing as I can barely move.
“I’m Clifton. Glad to meet you,” he says in a low voice.
The woman beside him has yellow-gold hair. She’s frowning but still, I see Isa in the shape of her face, the high cheekbones and small chin. I want to introduce myself to her. Only she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the stage.
“Mrs. Warren?”
She turns. The curve of her mouth deepens to a full-on grimace. She stares at my extended hand. Her forehead wrinkles and she shrinks back, as if I’m offering her something unclean, like a dirty tissue.
The music starts up.
Mr. Warren leans forward, putting himself between us. “It was so nice of you to come watch Isa.” He’s so quiet I can barely hear him.
My stomach clenches. Did Isa’s mother really just not want to shake my hand? I pull at my jacket. I straighten my shoulders. Fabric creaks. Coño. Did it just rip?
A phone lights up Mrs. Warren’s face. She stares at her screen, then stands. She pushes past the other people in the row.
“Elisa?” Mr. Warren calls after her. Isa’s mother strides out of the auditorium.
Isa’s father’s cell vibrates. He juggles it out of his pocket. As he reads, he gets this pained look. Like he’s sliding a mitt over open blisters.
“I’m so sorry, we have to go. I hope to see you again.” He follows his wife out before I can say anything. Their empty seats look like black holes. Sweat pools in my palms. The inside of my mouth is dust and sand. I can’t even swallow. The people behind me must be wondering what I did to scare Isa’s parents away.
The curtain rises. The huts have real hay for roofs. A donkey and two sheep are tied up beside them. Behind a tree, the lord—his name is Albrecht—changes out of red pants and a navy hunting jacket into the dull brown clothes of the other peasants. The assistant takes the lord’s sword and his fancy clothes and hides them under some hay. Albrecht walks out and joins a village dance. He pairs himself with Giselle. It’s a complete joke. Even in the clothes, you can tell he doesn’t belong. The way he moves, the way he smiles. He’s as different from the peasants as the donkey that’s chewing hay from the roof of one of the huts. Giselle doesn’t see it. They kiss and she leaps the length of half the stage. She twists, her head and arms extending back to him. How can she think they could ever be together? They can’t be something they’re not.