He hasn’t taken that hat off since Dad found it in the decorations box last weekend. Merrit didn’t put a single ornament on the tree. He just sat on the couch with my foot in his lap, holding an ice pack against it, repeating the words Ho ho ho when Dad asked about his Christmas spirit. I handed the glass balls that were my favorites to Dad—they couldn’t all fit because the tree is so small. Mom never came out of her room, so the afternoon was pretty calm. When Dad left to buy eggnog, I considered talking to Merrit about the note he left me. But part of me likes keeping our secret unspoken.
Merrit lopes onto the train. He sinks into a seat beside me and pushes the hat onto the top of his head.
“You OK?” I ask.
He nods. “Just tired.” He closes his eyes. As we’re pulling away from 110th, he rests his head on the side of mine, almost like he’s trying for a nap. I pat his arm and shift to make myself more comfortable for him. Across from us a little boy runs a toy fireman’s truck over the seats and up the wall. The red light of his truck whirls round and round and the siren’s pretty loud. His mother tells him, “Tranquilo” and points to Merrit. “Santa, pow-pow,” she says. The boy stares hard at Merrit, his little mouth drawn with angry suspicion. The mom smoothes his hair, a smile on her face. He pushes her away and points the fire truck at her, the lights and sirens coming back on.
“I saw some guys using reMAKE,” Merrit says.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about his app. It went public just before Thanksgiving. He’s been staying up late, tracking the sales.
“Really? That’s great. Where?”
“At Ninety-Sixth. They were waiting for the train.”
“Well?” I ask. “Did they like it?”
Merrit’s still leaning on me. I can’t see his face, but I feel the shrug of his shoulder. “Seemed to,” he says. “They were passing the phone back and forth, changing up the words in the video.”
“That’s great, right?” I come out from under him. I want to see his expression.
“Yeah. It is great.” Only, Merrit looks sort of deflated.
“You sure you’re OK?”
He shakes his head. “It’s just . . . I don’t feel anything. Something like this should make me feel something. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, sometimes the anticipation is greater than what you feel for the actual event. Like going on vacation, especially when it comes to our family.” I’m trying to get him to smile but I’m not just joking. Chrissy talks about this sometimes with dance. That the lead-up to a performance is so intense that afterward you feel sort of down.
Merrit only looks away. His words make me worry. They remind me of what he said when he talked about his accident with the pills. “Maybe you should tell Dr. Peterson?” I suggest. We’re on our way to meet with Merrit’s psychiatrist now.
Merrit doesn’t respond. He stares through the window into the darkness beyond.
The subway soars from the tunnel, rising on the elevated tracks toward the 125th Street Station. Tiny white wisps drift down around us, bright against the smudgy gray sky.
Merrit startles me by standing. He rips off his hat. The little boy’s fire truck crashes to the floor. The siren whines. Merrit dashes for the doors as they open.
“Merrit!” I move as fast as I can with my limp. My heart clatters like we’ve jumped the tracks. This isn’t our stop.
Wind dives into my eye sockets, chilling the bones of my cheeks. Merrit’s running down the platform toward the back of the train. Flurries swirl wildly around him. As soon as he’s out from under the rooftop shelter that spans most of the platform, he slows and opens his arms. I hobble after him, thankful he didn’t take any of the exits down to the street. I couldn’t have kept up on those stairs.
Merrit lifts his face to the snow as the train pulls away. He turns for the railing, the barrier that prevents passengers from falling off, down to Broadway below. I hobble faster. A small dusting of white covers the concrete, enough to leave prints. Enough for my foot, with the awkward brace, to slip. Pain, like a knife, stabs through my leg. I’m panting by the time I reach him. He’s standing, hands clamped to the top of the waist-high barrier. His eyes are squeezed closed. He’s leaning forward, mouth open, as if to gulp the flakes streaming by.
I grab on to the bar. Teeth of cold metal sink through my gloves. Below us, the street comes into focus. A fire truck, as small as the boy’s toy, whizzes by, lights off, silent.
“Merrit—” I start.
“Just . . . just let me stand here.” His hand lands on my shoulder, anchoring me to him. “You can stand with me too. It’s just . . . I need to feel this. I need to feel something.” He didn’t see me trip. He doesn’t see the tears of shock and fear running down my ice-cold face.
I press against my brother, swallowing down a sob. I don’t know what to do. About Merrit or my ankle. I don’t want to think about what any of it means.
The snow changes, flakes growing fatter and heavier, like enormous balls of cotton. Cold, wet clumps of it stick to my skin and melt. The droplets of soft ice come faster, rushing against my eyelids, reminding me of Alex’s poem.
“His name is Alex. The boy who wrote me those notes.” The words escape from my lips as though they’re not mine. I don’t know if Merrit turns to look at me. I don’t know if what I said breaks through to him.
Merrit squeezes my shoulder. “Tell me more,” he says.
•••
We’re back inside the train, inside the tunnel heading to 137th. I shiver against my brother, my face wet more from snow than tears. My fingers and feet, thank God, feel numb and the pain in my ankle is a distant pulse.
Merrit listens to what I tell him about Alex. He asks me questions about Alex’s family, his two moms, his little brother, and his dad. He can’t believe I’ve never been to one of Alex’s games. Especially since Alex had come to see me dance. He pulls out his phone to look up the Haeres spring baseball schedule.
“I get why you were nervous to introduce him to our family,” Merrit says. “Mom can be such a bitch. Samantha hated her too. Here—” He leans over to show me his phone. “Alex’s first game is March twenty-third. I’m sending it to your calendar.” He taps at his screen. He sets the phone on his leg, his fingers drumming his jeans. “Hey, um—I’m sorry. If I was part of the reason you kept Alex away.”
I press my hand on his arm. “No, it wasn’t you.”
He only nods and looks away. Maybe I’m not such a good liar after all.
“Listen, I meant what I wrote.” He lifts his palm, curling his thumb and pinkie together like he did when he was a Cub Scout. “I promise I’ll act normal around him. I’ll keep taking my medicines. I’ll try really hard not to embarrass you.”
Now it’s my turn to rest my head on his shoulder. I don’t tell him that Alex will probably never come over. I don’t tell him that Alex has already moved on. Baby steps.
“You know,” Merrit says. “I can help you make a video with the app. You can explain why you asked for a break and why you’ve been keeping so much from him. You can just send it to him on Instagram.”