She was a young Latina, maybe 30.
She had two boys in tow–a Hispanic kid of about 11, a black kid who was a little older.
She went over the train schedule with the Hispanic boy over and over–get off in White Plains, get on the local train, get off in Woodlawn. She was warm, but seemed too formal to be his mother.
The Hispanic kid nodded. He talked about his family getting a new house. He had a deep voice for a boy.
“It’s as big as…those trees,” he said of the house, nodding out the window.
“Where is it?” the lady asked.
He hesitated for a moment, digging up the answer.
“Mount Vernon.”
The black boy was mostly silent as he ate a bacon-egg-and-cheese. He wore a baggy white t-shirt, huge denim shorts, red low-cut Nikes.
She asked what they wanted to do when they grew up. The Hispanic boy said he wanted to be an actor. Both wanted to go to college: The Hispanic boy wanted to go to NYU, the black boy “down south somewhere,” perhaps Virginia Tech.
White Plains arrived. The lady went over the schedule once again, making him repeat “Woodlawn.” He got off.
The black kid didn’t say much. As the train cruised past Fleetwood, he fell asleep.