I think about that time Alex found me on the subway, to apologize for leaving the dance performance and to tell me he missed me. What I did to him with the concert was so much worse than that.
“Thanks,” I tell Merrit. “But this is something I need to do face-to-face.”
I take out my phone. I log onto the free Wi-Fi when we stop at 157th Street. I unblock Alex, then send him a message:
Can we talk? I don’t know if he’ll answer. He has every reason not to.
Merrit pretends he wasn’t just reading my cell. He bumps my shoulder and smiles.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23
ALEX
The snowflake decorations strung over Broadway are all lit up. Real snow floats around them. I pull on my hood, yank the strings tight, and tilt my face skyward. My tongue tastes the tiny slivers of ice. The bakery with those carrot muffins as big as my hand is on the next block. I’ll bring a whole box of them to Yaritza. Tomorrow, she’ll be cooking for Nochebuena. I don’t want her to have to worry about breakfast too.
At the corner, a skinny dude in a Santa outfit swings his arm up and down, jangling his bell. Only a few people drop change into his bucket. I get stuck by the light. I pull out my wallet and drop a ten-dollar bill inside. Santa tells me gracias and that God blesses me.
Someone bumps into me. He sprawls to the sidewalk, into the dust of snow.
“Ay, sorry.” I put out my hand to help the guy up. Danny blinks from deep inside his jacket. “¡Oye!” I shout. I yank him to his feet. “Where you been?” I hate that he doesn’t return my calls. I’ve got a thing about it now. “Mami invited you and your abuela to dinner para Nochebuena. Your abuela, she said she don’t know your plans.” I put my arm around him. “I told Mami I’d find you. You’re coming, right? You don’t got nowhere else to be? Not on Christmas, ¿veldad?”
Danny looks behind him. “Yeah, yeah sure. Hey, where you going now?”
I point to the bakery. He lifts a hand and follows me inside.
I ask about school and his abuela and his visit to his brother over Thanksgiving. Danny’s answers are mostly nods, an occasional word. He leans against the display case as my order is wrapped. He stays facing the door, watching the sidewalk. I keep on talking like normal though I know something’s up.
Outside, the snow has thickened into a screen of white. Light from lamps and Christmas bulbs stays trapped around us. Half a block up, four guys draw designs in the snow on a parked car. A flag. A gun. A face with an X across it. They step onto the sidewalk next to us.
Danny shoots me a look of hunger and thirst and every type of desperation there is.
“This him? ¿El Cuchillo?” one of them asks.
“Sí,” says another. “But who’s this?” He motions to me.
The smallest one moves forward. He’s got feathers instead of a beard on his chin. “I seen him around. He’s one of ’em too.”
Cold locks around me like a rope wound too tight. He thinks because I’m with Danny that I’m with Pinchón too?
Feather-beard grins. He slides sharp steel from his pocket.
Danny grabs my arm. “Go!” he shouts. His voice is my coach, an ump, the crack of a ball on a bat.
We bolt. The cars on Broadway are driving slow. Slower than us. Still they honk with surprise. Shouts of anger rise above it. And the squealing of brakes. Wheels spin. There’s a crunch and a horrible thud. The outline of a truck comes out of the falling snow. Its rear swings toward me. Hands on my back push me hard. I land on my knees in the slush.
“Come on!” Danny’s fingers sink into my shoulder. He drags me up by my coat. We fly, skidding, down 165th. Danny glances behind us. He jerks his head left. We duck onto Audubon Avenue. We hug the buildings. Dive into a parking lot. Run doubled-over between cars growing fat with snow. Danny finds a break in the chain link and slips right through. We come out onto 168th. Danny aims for St. Nicholas. His shoes kick up white clumps. I grab him and pull him into the subway.
“Come on,” I grunt at him. “We can go to Brooklyn.” They don’t really know who I am. They don’t know my papi lives there.
Danny’s gasping. He can hardly breathe. He hasn’t been training like me. Even with all the training, my heart is an engine, churning and burning with smoke.
I make for the A train. Danny’s hand finds my arm.
“The 1,” he pants. “The platform’s darker. More places to hide.” He takes off for the elevator. He doesn’t check to see if I follow.
I tear through the tunnel behind him. I stick close to the wall. I try not to bump anyone. Still, people cry out as if I might scald them.
The elevator to the 1 is just closing. Danny sticks his hand in the gap and wrenches the doors open. We tumble inside. The few passengers scatter out of our way. Danny jams at the button until the door finally shuts. His phone is out. He texts with fury, trying to send a message before the signal is swallowed.
I tip my head against the wall. Drips patter as fast as my heartbeat into a puddle of melting snow. That guy had a knife. A really big one. They all did, I’m sure.
Danny pockets his phone. His eyes dart through the elevator then land on me. A smile ghosts over his lips. “It’s OK.” He says it as if it’s true. I love him for trying. But those guys, they’re looking for blood. I wouldn’t have let Danny face them alone. I would have made myself a part of this. What scares me is they didn’t give me a choice. They pushed me into it because I look the part.
The doors let us out deep underground. We take the stairs for the downtown track. I’m about to head toward the back of the train. Behind me Danny hisses, like he’s talking to a cat. He squeezes beneath the overpass to the uptown platform.
“¿Qué—?”
He waves a hand to cut me off. His eyes are white in the darkness. Across the tracks, a guy with a blue bandana paces.
I dodge under, squatting beside Danny. I fold myself into the shadows. The guy walks the length of the platform three times. He crosses back over to the downtown side. Danny creeps out as the guy heads to the rear of the train, toward the same car we wanted.
We take slow, casual steps to the uptown tracks. Danny doesn’t seem worried we might get trapped on this side. There are only two ways out, two overpasses leading to the downtown trains and the elevators to the street. Danny walks to the other end of the platform, as far from the other guy as we can get. He stops at the white-tiled pillars. He slides around the edge of one, motioning for me to take another. A South Ferry–bound train rushes in. It blocks us from view. We should’ve stayed on the other side. We could’ve boarded that train, be on our way to Brooklyn.
Danny’s up against a column. He stares at the tiled walls that turn to arches over our heads. He doesn’t scan the rest of the station. He doesn’t see the train pull away. Or the four guys rush out from the elevators, coats and pants damp with snow. They throw out their arms at the departing train. The one who was pacing the platform joins them. All five come onto the overpass. They come down to the same platform as Danny and me.
I whistle at Danny. He hears me too late. The guy who showed us the knife sees us.
The uptown train is coming. “Should we get on it?” I ask. Maybe they’ll be less likely to fight with other people around. Only, I remember last year. Thanksgiving. The subway car didn’t stop them then.