She stops in front of me. Her pupils shift, looking into one of my eyes and then the other. Flecks of gold dot the light brown of her irises. An escaped wisp of blond crosses her temple. She doesn’t smell of alcohol. She smells like the flowers that grow in Mami’s hometown. Like plumeria and jasmine. I can’t help but breathe it in.
“Hi, Chuck.” She smiles.
I don’t have time to wonder about the name.
She reaches for my face. She’s taller in the shoes. But not tall enough. I meet her halfway.
Her lips are warm. And soft.
I’m still holding the pencil. I slip it into my pocket. I take her elbow. My hand is behind her head. I crush her against me.
Heat floods my chest.
The doors are open. Passengers getting out bump us. I feel like I’ve been drinking.
Isa’s breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, black eclipsing the gold. The fingers that were on my cheek are on my collar. She gives my chest a gentle pat. I want to grab her hand and keep it there.
“Sorry about that.” She taps me once more. “Thanks for . . . being a sport.” She pulls away. The fringe of her skirt is clumped together, showing almost her entire thigh. I want to fix it for her. But I don’t know how.
“Your costume . . .” She brings the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding another grin. “I like it.” Her chest rises as she inhales. Silver beads curve around her. Like water over pale sand. “You look good as a baseball player.”
She walks to Chrissy. She teeters on her left heel twice, on her right heel three times. Chrissy jumps up and down. She’s clapping.
A clawed hand grabs my neck. “Montro, what the hell was that?”
Kylo Ren gives me a fist bump. “Qué heavy.”
“Seriously, who was she?” Bryan keeps looking from me to Isa who’s laughing with her friends.
I shrug. I dig my hands into my pockets. My fingers close around the pencil.
Julissa takes a napkin from her bag. “Ven.” She motions for me to bend down. She wipes my mouth. Red lipstick stains the tissue. Julissa whacks my side. “You look like Alex Rodriguez. You play ball like Alex Rodriguez. Now you’re acting like him too, huh?”
She puts an arm around Kiara. Kiara’s bottom jaw juts out. She pulls her jacket closed over her sports bra.
I trace the edges of the pencil in my pocket. I don’t owe Kiara. All we’ve done is talk. I don’t have time for more than that. I glance back. Isa’s long leg, the slope of her shoulder, the tilt of her chin as she sneaks a look at me . . . I press my thumb into the sharp point of the lead until it breaks.
Kiara glares at me.
“Who was she supposed to be anyway? Madonna?” Julissa asks.
“Madonna has blond hair.” Danny’s voice is muffled through his mask.
“No.” Julissa holds up a finger. “Not all the time she didn’t. In the beginning, it was black I think.”
There’s an express waiting for us at Seventy-Second.
“¡Tu ’ta loco! You know that, right?” Bryan smacks my arm as we get out.
I touch my mouth. I give a slow shake of my head and try not to grin. Our trains pull away.
Isa’s silver dress winks through the window.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24
ALEX
I carry a platter of roast pork back to the kitchen. The apartment smells of garlic and lime, crisped meat and baking. Brown grinds spill to the counter as I set the espresso maker on the stove. I clear rice and beans, fried yuca and mashed potatoes, turkey breast filled with olive and pimiento stuffing—Mami’s version of the American holiday dish. I don’t let Mami up from the table. She woke when it was dark to cook. She was still cooking when I came back from Papi’s mandatory workout, a six-mile run with push-ups and pull-ups and crunches.
I leave her to talk with Sra. Hernandez, our neighbor whose family is all in DR. I store leftovers in old take-out containers, putting aside portions for Sra. Hernandez. Her arthritis makes it hard for her to cook. She made her tres leches cake anyway. It sits on the table, proud, next to Mami’s pasteles de guayaba. I bring out cafecitos, heavy with sugar, just how they like it. Mami pats my back. She demands un besito and tells me she loves me. She piles sweets on my plate and scoffs at my fake look of horror. She knows I’ve got Yaritza’s Thanksgiving dinner too. She’s already packed a bag for them—for Yaritza and Robi—with her famous pasteles. They’re one of the only things Yaritza doesn’t know how to make.
Mami takes Sra. Hernandez back to her apartment. There’s no way the old woman can carry all the food by herself. Mami returns to a clean kitchen and a dining table folded against the wall. She finds me in the living room, by the built-in above the radiator that knocks and hisses. Her scrubs are a light green with ducks on them. Her ID is already around her neck. I wish she didn’t have to work. I wish she’d take the rest of the day to relax. She’s told me a thousand times she’s happy to go. She doesn’t say what I know she feels. That it’s better than an empty apartment.
“¿Qué busques?” she asks.
“Nada,” I answer. But I tug out The Geriatric Patient and Street Maps of New York to get to a smaller book. The cover is a faded blue, the color of a baby’s room. I show it to her, holding on to my unasked question.
Mami rubs my back again. “Books are for everyone.”
On the train, I take out Mami’s book by Pablo Neruda. I run my finger along the edge of the inside border. Unlike the cover, it’s the vibrant blue of a Caribbean sea. I read the inscription that starts, Para mi amor. I flip to the first page.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,
Silent, starving, I prowl through the streets.
Neruda’s words are music and color. I read until voices fighting for attention interrupt me. I put the book in the bag with Mami’s pasteles.
“Dímelo. Aver—where we meeting Caco?” A group of guys huddle at the other end of the car. Each wears a Yankees cap and a jersey. Two have red bandanas on the arms of their jackets. There’s not enough passengers for them to not notice me.
“¿Qué lo que, chan?” One raises a hand to me. He goes by Pinchón. As they walk toward me, I shift back in my seat. There’s five, not four, of them. The fifth one, hiding under his cap, is Danny. I keep my face still as I nod at him. I make eyes like Papi’s, hard and disapproving.
“Alex, right?” Pinchón slouches into the seat next to me. “What you doing here?” He holds up his fist. I can’t refuse him. We touch knuckles once, twice. Pinchón thumps his chest. I don’t.
“Heading to see my papi’s family. ¿Y tú?” My gaze shifts to Danny.
“We going out. Got us some things to tend to.” Pinchón leans back. He puts his hands behind his head. He tips the brim of his cap up. “You ate?”
I nod.
“Second Thanksgiving, huh? Qué suerte. Some of us don’t get even one. Ain’t that right, Dannylito?”
It’s been just Danny and his abuela since his brother landed in jail three years ago. Danny took it hard. You’d think that would have taught Danny not to get mixed up in this ratrería.
“What, your abuelita doesn’t do Thanksgiving no more?” I ask him.