I try to wash the cutting board and the pots in the sink. Mami shoos me out with a dish towel.
I go to my room and strip off my dirty clothes. Before heading to the bathroom, I take my notebook out of my bag. I open to the poem I’m working on. It’s the fourth since I saw Isa outside Lincoln Center. The twelfth since I started writing again. I’ve been working through everything—my anger, my shame. But also there’s beauty, and longing. There’s Isa. I read over what I wrote, marking what doesn’t sound right.
I bend my head under the shower. Water beats down on my back, almost too hot to bear. I roll my neck, loosening my muscles, relaxing my mind. Drops enter my mouth as I murmur words, shaping the poem. I crack the small window behind the showerhead, wiping condensation from the mirror. I layer on shaving cream that smells of peppermint, a birthday gift from Yaritza. With each sweep of the razor, I recite a new line.
I open the door and steam billows into my room.
Kiara’s on my bed, curled on her side. Her hair is up in a bun. She never wears it like that—it’s always down, a mass of dark curls. The top of her dress hugs her body. Folds the color of a tropical fruit drape her hips. She doesn’t do girly outfits like that either. Frayed jeans are more her style.
I tighten the towel around me. Mami knew I was showering. There’s no way she would have sent Kiara in here.
“I told your mami I needed to freshen up. She said I could use her bathroom. If she catches us, I’ll tell her I got lost. I wanted to give you your Christmas present early.” Kiara’s ankles uncross. Her legs are covered in some sort of black lace.
Coño. Does she really think that’s what I want? Does she think she owes me something?
I look away from her and my breathing cuts off. My notebook is out. I left it open to the poem.
Kiara follows my gaze. She rises onto her elbows. “Did you get me something too?” I move for my desk. Kiara’s already off the bed. Her dress swishes behind her as she scoops up my writing. My back, my arms, my neck jerk tight.
“Look at you, Mr. I Don’t Want a Girlfriend.” Kiara’s smile softens as she reads. My stomach is tangling knots. She places the notebook back on the desk. She climbs into my chair, tucking her feet under her. She turns page after page.
I slide a pair of boxers off my dresser. Kiara doesn’t look up when I slip on my pants. I go to my closet. My heart drums like fists against bars.
I grab a T-shirt. I’m pulling it on when hands tipped with pointed, glittery nails stop me.
“‘Pérate.” Kiara presses up against my still-damp skin. She paws at my neck, draws me down to kiss her. Her fingers loop around my belt. She tugs me toward the bed.
“I didn’t know you could write like that.” The words are gasps in my ear.
I kiss her back even though it feels wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t see a way out of this cage.
Kiara has never made me forget. I don’t think anyone can. But I don’t want to hurt her.
“Tell me,” she commands. She nips at my jaw. I let her put her mouth on mine. She pulls away, her smile sly. “Tell me I’m your musa.”
Her body, pillowy and soft, climbs over me. But when I close my eyes, she is not who I see. I see my hand tracing the length of lean, graceful limbs. I feel muscle, taut and trembling against mine.
Kiara kisses me again, her mouth greedy. My eyes clench shut. I don’t know what else to do.
My fingers drop from her waist where she put them.
She breaks away. “Tell me you wrote those poems for me.” There’s worry in her voice. “They’re about me, aren’t they?”
All I have to do is nod.
Kiara glances at my hands, fisted at my sides. I’m still not holding her. I can’t.
Kiara shuffles off the bed. She snatches up the notebook and starts to read a poem out loud. The one I just wrote. Her voice catches over the last line. Her eyes lift from the wrinkled paper. They’re wet, but there’s challenge in her glare.
I grab another shirt from the drawer. I reach to take the notebook back.
“No!” She doesn’t let it go.
I pry her fingers from pages that rip.
“Mamagüevo,” she hisses, as I tear the book loose.
She slaps my chest. My cheek. I let her. I deserve it. She yanks at my shirt. She slashes at it with her nails. I deserve that too. Her groan becomes a shriek. “Maldito hijo de la porra, vete al diablo.”
I hold the notebook high. It’s all I care about. The only thing I won’t let her get.
“Lo siento,” I say even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean for you to find this.”
Kiara scratches and slaps at me more. Her face is redder than her dress, her bun a loose tangle down her back.
“¿Ále?” Mami’s concern comes through the door.
“Don’t you ever—EVER—come near me again. You sorry, sorry excuse for un hombre.” Kiara backs toward the hall. Her hands are shaking. “You know, I feel bad for you. She dumped you, ¿recuerdate? But you’re still dreaming about your blanquita girlfriend, panting after her como un perro.”
Kiara’s right. Isa doesn’t want me anymore. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still think about her. Being with Isa was the most remarkable thing that ever happened to me. I’m good at ball. I’m good at writing poems. But loving her? I was great at it.
Kiara spits out a laugh. “I was so stupid. I didn’t believe what people say about you. I thought, there’s no way someone so fine and so good at everything, someone who’s so proud of his mami y papi, could be a hater. But apparently everyone else knows you better than me.” She aims a finger at my face. “You’re never gonna be one of them. You know that, right? No matter how many fancy schools or fancy teams you join. No matter how many blondies you get with. You’ll always be a moreno . . . un dominicano. You got to stop hating yourself for that.”
Kiara launches from my room. The front door slams like a thousand lockers.
I count to ten before I breathe. I wish she’d kept hitting me. Her hands hurt less than her words.
I love my family. I love the island they came from. I don’t love that I tense up every time a cop passes. I don’t love that strangers look at me like I’m someone who’s going to hurt them instead of help. Do I wish I were different? Yeah, sometimes I do. And I hate myself for it. But that wasn’t why I was with Isa. It’s maybe why I’m not with her, though.
Mami stands in the hallway. Her eyes are so wide, the whites of them show. She glances in, sees me standing there. The notebook is still in my hand. She frowns in concern. When I shake my head slightly, she ducks her head and hurries toward the kitchen.
I want to tell her I’m OK. But I don’t want to lie.
I shut my door. I put the notebook down. I pull on a new shirt and sit at my desk. I turn page after ripped page. Carefully, I tear the ruined ones from their binding. I transcribe poems until Mami calls me for dinner.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 10
ISA
I smooth out layers of tulle and reach for my tiara, checking it’s secure. The tempo of the music shifts. I extend my arms, flutter my hands like snowflakes. The first three dancers prance out. Three more come on from the other side. They leap and spin and—just as quickly—exit. I tilt my head, flicker my fingers faster, then dash on stage.