“DID YOU KNOW THAT JAMAICA has the sixth highest murder rate in the world?” I ask him.
We’re on the Q train headed to Brooklyn. It’s packed with evening commuters and we’re standing, holding on to a pole. Daniel has one hand on my back. He hasn’t stopped touching me since we left the office building. Maybe if he keeps holding on to me, I won’t fly away.
“What are the other five?” he asks.
“Honduras, Venezuela, Belize, El Salvador, and Guatemala.”
“Huh,” he says.
“Did you also know that Jamaica is still a ceremonial member of the British Commonwealth?”
I don’t wait for an answer. “I am a subject of the Queen.” If I had room to do a curtsy, I would.
The train screeches to a stop. More people get on than off. “What else can I tell you? The population is two point nine million. Between one and ten percent of people identify as Rastafarians. Twenty percent of Jamaicans live below the poverty line.”
He moves a little closer so I’m almost completely surrounded by him. “Tell me one good thing you remember,” he says. “Not the facts.”
I don’t want to be optimistic. I don’t want to adjust to this new future. “I left when I was eight. I don’t remember that much.”
He presses. “Not your family? Cousins? Friends?”
“I remember having them, but I don’t know them. My mom forces us to get on the phone with them every year at Christmas. They make fun of my American accent.”
“One good thing,” he says. His eyes are deep brown now, almost black. “What did you miss the most after you first moved here?”
I don’t have to think about the answer for very long. “The beach. The ocean here is weird. It’s the wrong kind of blue. It’s cold. It’s too rough. Jamaica is in the Caribbean Sea. The water is this blue-green color and very calm. You can walk out for a long time and you’d still only be waist-deep.”
“That sounds nice,” he says. His voice trembles a little. I’m afraid to look up because then we’ll both be crying on the train.
“Want to finish the questions from section three?” I ask.
He gets out his phone. “Number twenty-nine. Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”
The train stops again, and this time more people get off than on. We have more room, but Daniel stays close to me as if we don’t.
“Earlier today in the record store with Rob was pretty embarrassing,” I say.
“Really? You didn’t seem embarrassed, just pissed.”
“I have a good poker face, unlike someone else I know,” I say, and nudge him with my shoulder.
“But why embarrassed?”
“He cheated on me with her. Every time I see them together I feel like maybe I wasn’t good enough.”
“That guy was just a cheater. It’s nothing to do with you.” He grabs my hand and holds on to it. I kind of love his earnestness.
“I know. I called him earlier today to ask him why he did it.”
I’ve surprised him. “You did? What did he say?”
“He wanted us both.”
“Jackass. If I ever see that guy again, I’ll kick his ass.”
“Got a thirst for blood now that you’ve been in your first fight, do you?”
“I’m a fighter, not a lover,” he says, misquoting Michael Jackson. “Did your parents care that he was white?”
“They never met him.” I couldn’t imagine taking him to meet my dad. Watching them talk to each other would’ve been torturous. Also, I never wanted him to see how small our apartment was. In the end, I guess I really didn’t want him to know me.
With Daniel, it’s different somehow. I want him to see all of me.
The lights flicker off and come right back on. He squeezes my fingers. “My parents only want us to date Korean girls.”
“You’re not doing a good job listening to them,” I tease.
“Well, it’s not like I’ve dated a ton of girls. One Korean. Charlie, though? It’s like he’s allergic to nonwhite girls.”
The train jostles us and I hold on to the pole with both hands. “You want to know the secret to your brother?”
He puts his hand on top of mine. “What’s the secret?”
“He doesn’t like himself very much.”
“You think so?” he says, considering. He wants there to be a reason Charlie is the way he is.
“Trust me on this,” I say.
We screech around a long corner. He steadies me with a hand against my back and leaves it there. “Why only Korean girls for your parents?” I ask.
“They think they’ll understand Korean girls. Even the ones raised here.”
“But those girls are both American and Korean.”
“I’m not saying it makes sense,” he says, smiling. “What about you? Do your parents care who you date?”
I shrug. “I’ve never asked. I guess probably they would prefer me to eventually marry a black guy.”
“Why?”
“Same reason as yours. Somehow they’ll understand him better. And he’ll understand them better.”
“But it’s not like all black people are the same,” he says.
“Neither are all Korean girls.”
“Parents are pretty stupid.” He’s only half kidding.
“I think they think they’re protecting us,” I say.
“From what? Honestly, who can even give a shit about this stuff? We should know better by now.”
“Maybe our kids will,” I say. I regret the words even as they’re flying out of my mouth.
The lights flicker off again and we come to a complete stop between stations. I focus on the yellow-orange glow of the safety lights in the tunnel.
“I didn’t mean our kids,” I say into the dark. “I meant the next generation of kids.”
“I know what you meant,” he says quietly.
Now that I’ve thought it and said it, I can’t unthink it and unsay it. What would our kids look like? I feel the loss of something I don’t even know I want.
We pull into the Canal Street station, the last underground stop before we go over the Manhattan Bridge. The doors close and we both turn to face the window. When we emerge from the tunnel the first thing I see is the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s just past dusk and the lights are on along the suspension cables. My eyes follow their long arcs across the sky. The bridge is beautiful at night, but it’s the city skyline that astonishes me every time I see it. It looks like a towering sculpture of lighted glass and metal, like a machined piece of art. From this distance, the city looks orderly and planned, as if all of it were created at one time for one purpose. When you’re inside it, though, it feels like chaos.
I think back to when we were on the roof earlier. I imagined the city as it was being built. Now I project it out into an apocalyptic future. The lights dim and the glass falls away, leaving just the metal skeletons of buildings. Eventually those rust and crumble. The streets are uprooted, green with wild plants, overrun with wild animals. The city is beautiful and ruined.
We descend back into the tunnel. I know for sure that I will always compare every city skyline to New York’s. Just as I will always compare every boy to Daniel.