Watch Us Rise(62)

“No, I hate this kind,” he says. “Maybe something over there?” He points just above my head.

And that’s when I see it.

A sketchbook sitting on the shelf, face-out, with my name in the middle surrounded by jasmine flowers that are drawn in Isaac’s style.

“What—what is that? What—”

“Open it.”

I take the sketchbook off the shelf and rub my hands along the cover before opening it. I open the book, and the first page is a drawing of me with my poem “This Body” written in the background of my silhouette. I turn the page and see that the next six pages each have one of the poems we chose for the Alternative Valentine’s Day Reading List. The poems are illustrated, and each have their own bold colors and style of the words but somehow look uniform, like one whole book of art. “This is—I don’t even know what to say, Isaac.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says. “The blank pages are for you to fill up with more of your poems and monologues.”

Felipe is still at the counter, smiling even more now. “Enjoy your sketchbook. Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.

“Thank you.”

We leave the store and on our way to the train, I say, “I feel so bad. I didn’t get you anything.”

Isaac says, “You’ve been giving me your friendship since we were nine years old. That’s all I need.”





All I want to do is be outside and enjoy the first day of spring. Well, it’s not quite spring out yet, but it’s the first day without snow or rain that New York has had in weeks, and all of us have been going stir crazy. So today, I am at the park, where some of the trees are already blooming. I am standing on top of the George Washington Bridge—or the playground version of it. As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Jasmine and Isaac walked to the park with James and me so we’d beat all the elementary kids, and we have been playing all over the park ever since. James pushed me on the swing, high enough to touch the tree limbs, we made a village in the sandbox and climbed on top of the kiddie house, and now James is chasing me—James, who is not quite my boyfriend, but not quite my regular friend either.

“I got you cornered now, so don’t even try to run,” he says, lunging at me. James has me right where he wants me, or is it right where I want him to want me?

I’m so sick of myself sometimes.

“Time out,” Isaac yells up at us. “I hear the ice cream truck, and I haven’t had Mister Softee since October, so can you guys get down here so we can pool our money?”

James jumps down from the top of the play bridge—athletes are so annoying. I have to duck underneath the arch and shimmy down on the slide, which looks way more awkward than I’d like it to. It doesn’t matter since no one is looking at me. Jasmine and Isaac are basically sitting on top of each other counting money, and James is checking his phone, something that he does pretty much on the regular when we’re together.

When we’re together—listen to me—that’s not even a thing, and we’re not together. He’s just someone I hang out with, who I happen to have a massive crush on, and who I think about all the time. Lately it’s because he’s someone to talk with, to debate ideas with. We push each other in ways I didn’t think we would, and I’m really starting to like who he is, and not just what he looks like. And I think he feels the same way about me. But it’s not lost on me that I’m doing everything possible in the name of women’s rights, and at the same time I am in deep like with a guy who’s not even mine. Talk about antifeminism.

“Chocolate cone with chocolate sprinkles?” Jasmine asks. She knows me so well.

“Yes and yes,” I say, plopping down on the bench next to them. Jasmine and Isaac walk over to the truck, and I notice his hand on the small of her back. I’ve been seeing this a lot lately—little hints of something more, but neither of them has made anything official, so I’m just letting them both think they’re fooling me, which they are absolutely not.

“So, we can count that as another win for me, right?” James asks, pretending to run away from me.

“Ah, are we still playing games?” I ask, feeling bold.

He stops and looks right at me. “I’m not playing games.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really,” he says, fake dribbling a ball (which he looks so absurdly hot while doing) and fake dunking over my head, and then crashing down so he’s sitting right next to me. He puts his head on my shoulder, and I am positive that this is game playing, but I am also positive it feels so good. He jumps up suddenly and grabs his phone.

“What?” I ask. He reads a text, stands up, and grabs his book bag, starts to brush the leaves off his jacket.

“Nothing, I just gotta head out soon.” James picks up his backpack, while holding on to the SpongeBob ice cream bar he asked for, which makes for a very awkward maneuver. He looks like a kid, and acts like one, is what I think. I guess in some ways, I feel like a kid too.

“Where you going? To meet Meg?”

“No,” he says, shifting his weight, and I can tell he’s lying. “But I don’t have to go right now . . . ?I have a little more time. Where were we?” he asks, smiling down at me.

“You should go,” I say, still licking my endless ice cream cone. I want to smash it into his face or throw it down and go running out of the park, because I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to have a crush on someone like this, or feel so worthless.