This Train Is Being Held by Ismée Williams

Author:Ismée Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2020-01-07T00:00:00+00:00

MONDAY, MAY 8

ISA

My legs and arms ache. Even my upper back is sore. The Academy does not fool around with these evening elective classes. As we were heading out into the rain, Chrissy reminded me I’ve already been accepted—I’ve got nothing else to prove. I’ll start full time once I finish at Deerwood. Merci, Monsieur Thibault. Except, I do have something to prove. I’ve got to prove they didn’t make a mistake. And when I dance hard, there’s no room to pay attention to anything else. Not massive moving boxes. Not brothers blasting music. Not even unanswered Instagram messages.

I reach for the shiny subway rail and rise up on my toes. I slide my foot behind me to stretch my Achilles. An argument between a man and a woman at the other end of the car filters through my earbuds. I turn up the volume, just like I do at home.

A hand takes my shoulder. My instincts kick in. I whirl, swinging my bag with me. There’s a soft oomph as the buckle of my backpack meets flesh. I skitter away to the middle of the car, my pulse hammering in my throat. I look to make sure I’m not being followed.

Alex stands where I stood. His eyes squint. A hand covers his nose and mouth. His other lifts in a silent hello.

The pounding inside me spikes. Alex?

Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away as I rush back. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“I didn’t mean to surprise you.” He doesn’t take his hand from his face. “I called your name.”

I motion toward the earphones hanging from my pocket. “I didn’t hear you!” My insides feel like jello. My head feels like a balloon escaped from a child’s hand. Alex is here. I let out a little laugh because if I don’t, I might actually cry. My relief at seeing him overwhelms me. “I can’t believe I hit you.”

Alex tilts his head at me, like he doesn’t know why I’m laughing either. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces. For some reason, this makes me double over.

“Sorry,” I gasp between breaths. “This shouldn’t be funny. Did I . . . ? Is your nose bleeding?” I paw through my bag for a tissue. “Can I see?”

His nose is fine. But his bottom lip is swollen and split, like the skin of a too-ripe peach.

“Oh.” I inhale through my teeth and offer him the tissue. I drag my gaze from his face, to his arm lingering close to mine. I want to ask if everything is OK with him and his family. I want to ask why I haven’t heard from him. But I’m afraid to speak. I’m afraid of how he’d respond.

He waves the tissue away. “I’ve had worse.”

“Sorry,” I say again.

He shakes his head. “Stop saying sorry. I’m the one who’s here to say that.”

The drumming in my chest quiets.

He touches his tongue to his broken lip.

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