It’s really not my job to train people on catching themselves.
It’s really not my job to reprogram people so they not only don’t say something stupid, but that they don’t think it.
But I want Arthur to be better. To be worthy and see that I’m worthy.
I look around at all the other people around us, couples or family or friends or strangers, and I wonder how many of their days are going south because of nonsense coming out of someone’s mouth. I stare at the ground because I can’t look Arthur in the eyes right now.
“I used to wish my last name was Allen,” I say. “Alejo was too hard for people, and teachers would never mispronounce Allen. My second-grade teacher kept calling me ‘Uh-ledge-oh’ until my mother shut it down.” I can’t explain, but without even looking at Arthur, I feel this thickness around us like he’s realized what he said. “Not looking the part of Puerto Rican messed me up. I know I get some privilege points from looking white, but Puerto Ricans don’t come in one shade.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And not every Puerto Rican is going to run down the block for churros or speak Spanish. I know you didn’t mean anything bad, but I like you and I want to trust you like me too for being me. And that you’ll get to know me and not just think you know me because of society’s stupidity.”
Arthur scoots closer to me and rests his head on my shoulder. “If I could time travel, I’d rewind five minutes and not be so stupid. I know that’s an empty gesture because this is a make-believe scenario, but I really would. I would even give up the opportunity to cowrite Hamilton with Lin-Manuel, which, let’s face it, I have no place being anywhere near that anyway. But I really don’t like hurting you or making you feel bad, and I know I’ve done that a few times now.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. It’s really not. I’m really sorry, Ben.”
“I know you didn’t mean any harm. I just want to put it out there. I love being Puerto Rican and I want to feel as Puerto Rican around you as I do at home because that’s who I am.”
“So I’m not getting the boot?”
“Nope. I take your time-travel answer to heart. Sucks that you won’t get to hang with Lin-Manuel though. Guess you’ll have to settle for another Puerto Rican.”
“Good. I still have a lot to learn about you anyway.”
“And you probably know everything there is to know about Lin-Manuel already, right?”
“I know nothing of Pulitzer Prize–winning Lin-Manuel Miranda, who was born on January sixteenth and attended Wesleyan and named his son after the crab in Little Mermaid.”
“I’m walking away from you.” I take the basket of churros. “And you’ve lost your churro privileges.”
Arthur gathers up his shopping bag from the Strand, where he bought magnets, postcards, and a Strand shirt, and now we’re riding the train uptown to his place on the Upper West Side. I know the neighborhood well. I used to go up there all the time with Hudson because of the skating rink, and yeah, he had a thing for the Hudson River too. Acted like it was named for him. Arthur wants to share his view of the Hudson River and just sit there with me, and I’m not bringing up the times I sat there with Hudson because what am I going to do, not go anywhere I’ve been with Hudson? Not happening.
Besides, our options are kind of limited. I can’t bring him home without feeling too exposed—and it may be too soon to meet the parents. I wouldn’t mind, but I can’t force it the way I tried with meeting Hudson’s mom. That was a fail on my part.
Arthur and I are tired now though. I’m probably better off just going home and sleeping, but I don’t want to leave him. By the time I wake up, I would only be able to text or call or FaceTime him and I’ll miss hanging out in real life.
“Too bad we can’t charge ourselves like phones,” I say.
“We can. It’s called sleep,” Arthur says. “It’s just that phones don’t take eight hours to charge.”
“I like sleep. A lot. Summer school is costing me enough sleep, and now you? Betrayal.”
The train is going local since it’s Saturday, which means we might be sitting tight for thirty minutes. Maybe forty or fifty minutes if someone has pissed off the MTA gods.
“I’m going to power nap,” I say.
“Can I join you?”
I wrap my arm around him and he comes closer to me. The car isn’t packed and I’m able to spread my legs a bit to get more comfortable. “I can’t sleep without sound. Mind if I put one earbud in?”
“What do you listen to?”
“I just put my songs on shuffle.”
Arthur whips out his phone and boom, the Hamilton soundtrack. He plays it from the beginning as we close our eyes, cuddled up against each other. It’s like everything I imagined for myself last night while I was alone in bed and Arthur was on the phone listening with me, except we’re really together this time. This kind of freedom is enough inspiration to go away to college and live in a dorm room where I can hang out with whoever I want whenever I want.
I’m half-asleep, but awake enough that when our stop comes up, I’ll be able to jump up and drag Arthur out of the train before the doors close. Someone kicks my foot and I open my eyes to apologize for stretching out because I’m definitely on some inconsiderate shit, and this guy is hovering over us. He’s holding a little boy’s hand.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No one wants to see that,” the man says, gesturing at me and Arthur with his newspaper. He keeps standing there. Other passengers pay attention.
“See what?” I sit up and Arthur opens his eyes; I get this feeling like he wasn’t really asleep.
“Just keep it at home, okay? I got my kid here.”
“Keep what at home?” I say.
“You know what you’re doing,” the man says. He’s getting red in the face, and I don’t know if he’s pissed or embarrassed because I’m not taking his shit.
“Yeah. I’m hanging out with a guy I like.” I stand up. My heart is pounding because I don’t trust this guy to not do something stupid. But someone is filming him, so if this really goes south, I have hope this will go viral so I can share it with the police so this guy won’t harass anyone else.
“I don’t need my son seeing shit like this on the train when we’re just trying to go home.”
His problem is not a real problem. I’m losing the courage to tell him this. Even though my shoulders are high, my knees are shaking. This guy is going to lay me out any moment. Arthur stands up and I push him behind me.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Arthur says to the man. “We’re not going to do anything else.”
“Screw this guy,” I say. I really wish Dylan were here to back us up.
The man’s son starts crying, like I’m the real aggressor here, like I provoked his asshole father because I was resting with another boy in public. I really feel for this kid and the tough road he may have ahead of him if he likes anyone who isn’t a hetero girl.
The man picks up his son. “You’re lucky I don’t want to pop you in front of my kid.”
Arthur tries dragging me away, and I only step back because he’s begging me and my name is a choked breath and he’s crying and he’s probably more scared than that five-year-old kid. Some guy with a gym bag steps in front of the man and tells him to keep it moving, that it’s done and over.
Except it’s not over, because Arthur and I have to carry this around.
We get off at the next stop and Arthur loses it. I hold his shoulders, like Dylan wants me to do when he’s panicking, but Arthur shakes me off and looks around the platform. “I thought New York was cool with . . .” He takes a deep breath and wipes the tears from his cheeks. “Gay bars and Pride parades and same-sex couples holding hands. What the hell. I thought New York had it together.”
“For the most part, I think. But every city has its assholes.” I want to hug him, but he doesn’t want to be touched right now. Like any affection is going to become a target sign on our backs. Like we’ll get punished because our hearts are different. “Are you okay?”