He’s comparing us to a peasant and a lord in a ballet that takes place over a thousand years ago?
Alex lifts a shoulder, even though I haven’t said anything. “I know. It’s ridiculous. I can’t help the way I feel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” His hand tightens. He gives my arm a little shake. “I believe you. About your parents. Maybe I’m just too sensitive about it.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Will you give me another chance? Give us another chance?”
The train comes in a rush of wind and grating steel. Alex releases my hand as we step on. I take a seat, drawing in a breath as Alex settles beside me. Our hips touch, but he angles his leg away.
Maybe I can do this. Showing everyone you’re happy and excited about life is so much easier when you’re truly feeling it. I want to tell him the truth. But I don’t know how. Not without telling him about everything.
I think about that time on the train, when Alex asked me what type of guy I liked, and I wouldn’t tell him because I was too embarrassed to admit that he’s my type. He is exactly my type. And then he went and proved it by asking me about dance, about my life, and actually listening to my answers. I didn’t want to get off. I wanted that ride to last forever. But I was afraid to stop talking so I introduced him to that game. He caught on without missing a step.
I clear my throat. “I’ve been lonely. I haven’t told my family. Because they need me to be strong. They need me to be the happy one.”
Alex stares at me. His dark brows are nearly touching.
I don’t look at the mother with the stroller, the one we helped. I don’t want to give it away. “My husband is serving overseas. I send him photos of our beautiful daughter. I write to him that she is the most wonderful baby and that I love being a mother. But I miss him. I worry because being a soldier is dangerous. And being a single mother is hard. I’m tired all the time. But I tell him I’m happy because I know that will make him feel good.”
Alex’s eyes dart to the baby stroller and come back to me. “This . . . this is that game, right?”
I attempt to lift one eyebrow. They both go up, as I knew they would. “The game’s not as fun when there are only five other passengers in the car.” I’m not sure if Alex understood what I was trying to tell him. Still, he reaches out. He brushes a strand of wet hair from my cheek. His mouth curves into a hopeful smile. I slide next to him. I push our legs together until I can feel his hip, his knee, and his ankle. I rest my head on his shoulder.
He takes my hand in his. He understood. I missed him so much. I missed having someone who asks about me and cares about the answers.
Alex follows me out at Ninety-Sixth Street, then waits with me for the bus. It’s still raining. We back into the corner of the bus stop shelter. He wraps his sweatshirt around both of us. My hands reach for each other along his back. I was starving. For all of it. For all of him.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 17
ALEX
We’re on the Great Lawn in Central Park. It’s been twelve days since I stopped acting like a fool. Nine days since Isa took me back. I’ve managed to see her five out of the nine. At night, I’m dreaming again instead of tussling with sheets. Yaritza says my appetite’s come back. My average is up to .497. Yesterday, I had five RBIs and AHH advanced to the playoffs. And we’ve got one more hour of this beautiful sun before it sets.
“How’s it going with Robi?” Isa hands me one of the sandwiches she made for us. She reaches for sanitizer. She grins when I hold out my palm. She squirts out a big glob and massages it in. I capture her hands. I pull her toward me. My lips brush hers.
“Robi’s good.” I take the sandwich from her. I’ve told her about my little brother’s dreams. About my dream to help him get Papi’s attention. To get his respect and help. “Yaritza’s reminding him to do his exercises every afternoon. Once I’m done with playoffs, I’ll have him work on catching and hitting again.”
Isa rips off a piece of bread from her own sandwich and pops it in her mouth. “He loves playing? Like you do?” Isa twists her hair over her shoulder.
“Robi’s crazy about baseball. It’s all he ever reads about, all he talks about. Yaritza says he doesn’t even watch his regular shows anymore. Just baseball games and commentary.”
Isa eyes me before taking another bite. “But you love it, right?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I don’t tell her what I love most. The respect that comes with it—Papi’s and everyone else’s. I push the rest of my sandwich in my mouth. It’s better than from a deli. Isa puts in these tiny pickles that give it crunch. Isa’s watching my face, and I smile around all the crumbs. Isa rises onto her knees. She digs in her bag and pulls out a white bundle. She unwraps the napkin. Three chocolates sit in her hand.
“I got them at dance. Someone gave our instructor a whole box because she pulled a muscle in her groin. No, not that way!” She laughs at the look I give her. “It’s actually a pretty common injury for a dancer.”
I consider a couple of comments, ways to offer my assistance should Isa ever need it. She pokes me like she knows where my mind’s at, then offers me the chocolate shaped like lips.
“You saw that one and knew it was for me, right?” I rub my tongue over the bump on my bottom lip, the small scar from that day Isa forgave me. I hope it never fades.
“We’re sharing them,” she informs me. “Each one is different. I love tasting them all.” She bite off half and passes the rest to me. Wow. Sweet milk chocolate blended with hazelnut. Reminds me of the flavored coffee Mami gets from Dunkin’ Donuts.
There’s a clap of a bat hitting a ball. A Little Leaguer runs to first. I lie down on my back. I stare through leaves at a sky the color of faded jeans. The air smells fresh and green, like a promise. This moment is perfect. I don’t want anything about it to change.
Isa’s face appears above me. Her hair, soft as feathers, brushes my cheek.
OK, I can think of a few things that would make it even better.
I take her arm.
She sinks onto her heels. “Wait. I have something else.” She slips a magazine in front of her. Northeast Lit is sketched on the cover in purple slanted letters.
Her hands shift the magazine up to reveal her grinning mouth. “Open to where the bookmark is.”
I sit up. I slide my finger between the glossy pages. I find the bookmark, but I start at the front. There are short stories, and artwork, and poems in here. I’m reading the first poem, my mind forming the sounds of the words, when Isa leans into me.
“I can’t wait any longer!” She snatches the magazine, flipping back to the bookmarked page. “Read!” Her cheeks and mouth are bright pink.
I pull my gaze from her face to the page in my lap. I read the first sentence. I look up at her. She’s chewing her lip. Her eyes are big and full of shine.
I start at the beginning. I read all the way through. I read it again. I read a third time. I run my finger over the words, over the name Anonymous.
“Well?” Isa’s fingers tap her water bottle.
I take her hand to make her stop. “How?” I whisper. I don’t know what this means.
“It’s open submissions. I sent it a few months ago. I figured you wouldn’t send it yourself. I didn’t use your name. I didn’t think you were ready for that.”