“They didn’t like the idea of me.”
“What does that mean?” He drops the bat and lifts his arms to the sky. It’s like he’s been taking lessons from Bryan.
“You’ll understand when you’re older.” There’s no way I’m explaining that. Let him enjoy not understanding for as long as he can.
Robi rolls his eyes. “Well, she liked you, right?”
I pick up the bat, flip it around, and hand it to him. “Yeah.”
“And you liked her?”
Lines of dark wood course through the blond grain of the bat. They disappear under my fist. One of the poems I wrote for Isa comes back to me. About the way her hair looked against my arm.
I nod.
Robi snatches the bat. “So who cares what parents think?”
He should be right. Even if he’s only in fifth grade.
“Since when do you not care what Papi thinks?” I ask him.
“Papi’s different. He’s not like other parents.” Robi raises the bat over his shoulder. “Ezra and Seung-wong’s parents are cool. They don’t yell.”
I tap Robi’s hands, reminding him to line up his knuckles. I don’t tell him I think Isa’s parents are like Papi. I don’t tell him that’s not the only reason we’re not together anymore.
I adjust the bat’s angle then step back to check his form. He remembers what I taught him last week about keeping his body straight. I tell Robi I’m going to feed him twenty easy pitches. He’s going to run to retrieve each ball as fast as he can. I’ll time him. Just like Papi timed me. After that, we’ll work on his catching.
Robi chases his first hit. I’m glad he’s not asking about Isa anymore.
We walk back to the house. I tell Robi to run inside and open the basement door. I don’t want to track all this dirt into Yaritza’s living room. Robi grabs onto the railing like he’s going to drown without it. I worked him hard today.
“Oye,” I tell him. “You’re getting stronger. And faster. I can see it.”
He’s halfway up the stoop. He turns back around.
“Thanks.” His little chest is all puffed up. He takes one more step. “Hey, when did you and Isa stop being boyfriend and girlfriend?”
I scratch my chin, pretending to think. Really I’m trying to figure out why he asked. “I don’t know,” I tell him, even though I do. I know the exact day. “Just before school finished for the summer?”
“That’s what I thought.” Robi keeps climbing.
“Hey, hold up. What do you mean, ‘that’s what you thought’?” How would Robi know that?
Robi shrugs his bony shoulders and looks over at me. “You threw out that notebook. The one with the yellow paper. The one you carried all the time. Mami used to complain about the bits that would fall out when you tore the sheets from it, so I started picking them up for you. Don’t think you noticed because you were too busy writing in it. Then one day I was throwing away the scraps in the trash and the whole notebook was in it. It still had plenty of paper. I figured something bad must have happened since you loved that notebook so much.”
I rub the back of my hand across my mouth. I’m worried he’s going to ask me what I was writing. I want to ask him what Yaritza thought I was writing and if she told Papi about it. I don’t say anything except, “Huh.”
“I saved it for you,” Robi says. “In case you want it back. You know, when you wrote? You looked happy.” He squints, studying my face. “I think maybe happier even than when you play.”
When I get out of the shower a half hour later, the notebook with the yellow lined paper is on my bed.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13
ISA
I’m the second one out the door after Technique class. I’ve got thirty minutes before Jazz Movement.
“Excuse me. Pardon me.” I dodge a beige bodysuit pirouetting in the hallway and duck under a pointed foot elevated above the dancer’s head. I weave around clusters of students talking too loudly, each with limbs extending and reaching and stretching. My gaze remains focused ahead. Ever since seeing Alex and Robi on the train, I don’t look at any single person’s face for too long. Their smiles hurt, because they’re real. They remind me what I had and what I lost, what I chose to give up. They remind me how little I have left.
The locker room is heavy with steam and the smell of damp dance clothes. I kick off my shoes and head for the showers. I stand under the jets and close my eyes, imagining heat and water peeling back layer after layer, thought after thought, discarding the sadness, finding the soft core of me underneath.
I’m out by the time Chrissy comes in, hands in her hair, adjusting her bun.
“You showered again?” She dips her chin and slides a pin through her hairnet. “Didn’t you shower after Pointe?”
I ignore her and bend to wrap the long, damp mess of my hair in white terrycloth. Chrissy sits beside me as I tug on a clean pair of tights. When she’s done pulling on her own, she stands, raising her arms, then drops into a deep plié. “Want to come over tonight? We’re ordering in Vietnamese and watching YouTube videos. It’ll be fun.”
It’s Friday, so I was expecting the invite. Chrissy always asks on Wednesdays and Fridays. She knows Monday and Thursday I’m either hanging with Merrit or taking extra classes until nine or ten. Tuesday is family therapy and Saturday and Sunday is family dinner.
“Thanks, but I can’t.” I adjust my tights, careful not to jam my ragged fingernail through the nylon.
Chrissy straightens her legs then plants her palms on the floor to stretch. “Why not?”
“I’ll be at class,” I tell her.
Chrissy unfolds herself, lines of confusion marring her forehead. “What class—Wait, you’re not taking the enrichment session with Madame Bouchard, are you? That will be your fourth extra class this week.”
It’ll be my fifth, but I don’t correct her.
“OK. What are you doing for Halloween then? Can we go to Lauren and Deborah’s party together again? I was thinking we could be Betty and Veronica from Riverdale . . .”
“Don’t you want to go with Kevin?” I ask, looking for a way out.
“Funny thing. He hates costumes. He says he’ll meet us afterward. We can catch a midnight showing of Rocky Horror. Susan Sarandon is such a versatile actress. Hey, that’s another idea! We could be Thelma and Louise, the ultimate gal pals who ditch all the men in their lives. How about it?”
I fold my wet towel and lay it on top of the others thrown in the wicker bin. I think about what I did to Alex, how he looked at me on the subway, his little brother glancing between the two of us. I did ditch him, didn’t I? I don’t think that’s anything to celebrate. Anyway, why would Chrissy think I’d want to dress up as someone who gets back at the world by offing herself? As if that would be an answer. As if that’s something anyone should ever do.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Chrissy whispers, realizing her mistake. She tries to take my hand. This time I let her. “Did, um, the psychiatrist find out what happened with Merrit and his medicines? Do we know for sure it was just an accident?”