The day after Kiara walked out, Bryan came over. He lit into me about letting down our people. He had a list of the Latinas who’d been crowned Miss Universe. He went on about Jennifer, and Eva, and Zoe, and Salma, saying if they were good enough for the big screen, they had to be good enough for me. I told him that’s not how it was. I told him that I just still wasn’t ready.
I adjust my cap. “Bry, oyeme . . .”
He holds up a hand. “I know, I know. You not ready. And you ain’t got time. Pero, what you doing about your needs? A man’s got to have a girl, ¿veldad?”
Robi’s three seats down from Bryan with two folks between them. He’s still not listening.
“No te preocupes,” I tell Bryan. “I’m good.”
Bryan’s face breaks into a slow grin. “Ay, you got yourself another jévon, ¿sí? But I don’t wanna hear it’s someone from one of those Upper East Side all-girls schools.” He taps my chest. “You gotta show our island women some love.”
I don’t answer him. He can think what he wants.
“I got your back. I won’t say nothing to Julissa. Don’t want Kiara finding out. You already hurt her plenty.”
I don’t say anything to that either. I don’t like thinking about what I did to Kiara, how I wasn’t fair to her, how I should’ve stopped what we were doing a long time ago. It’s kind of like what Papi did to Mami and me, pretending for so long that everything was good even when it wasn’t.
Two old ladies get on. Bryan and I stand so they can have our seats. Crowds mob the doors. I tell Robi to stay seated where he is, but Bryan and I move to the middle of the car. I lift my hand and smile at Robi from where we stand. He waves back, but it’s not to say hello. He wants something. Only, it’s too crowded to get to him.
“¿Qué quieres?” I call out.
He doesn’t answer. He’s still making weird bug eyes at me.
“What’s wrong?” Bryan ducks to see around the people.
“No sé,” I tell him.
I lean forward and catch Robi’s face again. He’s mouthing a word at me. He jerks his head toward the entryway. “¡Ále!” Robi’s shouting at me now. He’s pointing to the door.
A girl passes the window. She’s so close to the train, all I see is blond hair reaching down her back. I can’t see her face. But it doesn’t matter. The way she holds her head, so straight and tall, gives her away. Only, she’s moving all wrong. Her shoulder dips with each step. She’s limping.
Thundering starts up in my ears. It isn’t the train—we’re still not moving. It’s my heart, sprinting, like it’s going express.
“Stand clear of the closing doors.”
“Excuse me. Permiso.” I throw myself toward the exit. I’ve got to see if she’s all right.
“Hey, watch it!” A lady with a Jamaican bandana yells at me, gesturing toward a stroller.
The doors slam before I can even get near them. I crane my neck, trying to see Isa through the window as the train pulls away. All I glimpse is her coat and golden hair.
“It was her, right?” There’s only two people between me and Robi now. Bryan’s way back where I left him. “She was standing right over there.” Robi points to where the woman steadies the stroller, her back pressed against the door. Robi frowns. “Sorry, I should have told you sooner.”
•••
“It’s OK.” I tell him. I look away so he can’t see my face. Bryan, Robi, and I spend all afternoon at the Institute. When I’m not helping run drills or walking a kid through a better swing, I’m wrapping donated gifts for underserved communities. Robi’s sixth-grade team comes in third out of four. It’s not a real game, just points added up for different technical skills. But Papi’s angry about it anyway. Yaritza joins us after her shift at the restaurant. She takes Robi home before Bryan and I finish up.
Bryan’s no fool. He doesn’t ask me anything about Isa until we’re walking out of the building, heading toward the C train. I don’t know what to tell him other than I wish I’d gotten to speak with her. I can’t stop thinking about that limp. And how last time we talked, outside the dance school, her words and her face didn’t match up—she didn’t look fine at all. When our train pulls into Ninety-Sixth Street, I tell Bryan I’ll catch him later. There’s something I need to do.
I come out on Central Park West and jog through the park not bothering to wait for the bus. I don’t slow until I reach Fifth Ave. I know better than to sprint across swept sidewalks, past sparkling glass doors Windexed every hour by men who look more like me than the people whose buildings they guard. They would draw attention too if they were running here.
I follow Ninety-Sixth until I get to Park Ave. I start on the west side of the street and walk south. Even I know north of Ninety-Sixth isn’t the same. Isa never invited me over, so I never got her exact address. But I know she takes the M96 bus.
I pass green awnings and shiny brass poles strung with white Christmas lights. Underneath them, lamps radiate orange-gold heat. Trimmed evergreen shrubs flank entrances. Some have planters of stone or iron decorated with holly branches. I’m looking for statues, a pair of lions. Isa mentioned them once. I finally find the big cats on the corner of Ninety-Third.
I had pictured full-maned Mufasas, like the ones outside the Forty-Second Street public library. These don’t look like anything Disney would draw. They’re sitting up, not lying down, one paw on each raised in salute. A man in a pilot’s hat and a matching blue-gray uniform watches me from behind the glass. He’s morenito, like me. He doesn’t come out and hold open the entrance. When I take a step forward, he points to the revolving door.
Inside it’s almost tropical. Against the wall, a tall vase sits on a marble shelf. Orchids and lilies explode out of it. The smell reminds me of DR.
“Can I help you?” The doorman’s name tag says GERALDO.
“Me gustaría hablar con Isabelle Warren, por favor.”
Geraldo’s uninterested gaze is meant to show me he has no clue what I just said. That man has an accent thicker than Mami’s and Papi’s. If he doesn’t speak Spanish, then I don’t play ball.
“Excuse me?”
Geraldo wants to play games. I don’t have time for games.
Maybe it’s not the Spanish he doesn’t understand. Maybe he doesn’t recognize Isabelle’s name.
“I’m looking for Isabelle Warren. Do you know her?” I wish I’d brought my Haeres ID. The folks in the fancy coffee shop near my school are nicer to me when I’m wearing it.
Geraldo looks me up and down, then breaks into a smile. “Estoy bromeando. You play beisbol?” He points to my AHH hoodie. “What position?”
I tell him and he asks me my stats. I tell him that too. He claps my back with an “Ey!” like we go way back.
Geraldo pretends to hold a bat and swings it. “My son, he’s not into ball. He likes music and computers. How the team is doing this year?” He nods again to my shirt.
I tell him they’re doing well. But that I don’t play for AHH anymore. I play for Haeres.