With the Fire on High Read online

  Dedication

  For the women in my family,

  who have gathered me when I needed gathering

  and given me a launchpad when I needed to dream.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: The Sour

  Day One

  Emma

  Sister Friends

  Magic

  The Authors

  That Girl

  Immersed

  Kitchen Sink Conversations

  Chefdom

  The New Guy

  On Loss

  Farewells

  Lovers & Friends

  Returns

  Mama

  New Things

  College Essay: First Draft

  An Art Form

  Malachi

  Black Like Me

  The Read

  Salty

  Tantrums and Terrible Twos

  Fickle Fatherhood

  Exhaustion

  A Tale of Two Cities

  Fail

  Catharsis

  Pudding with a Pop

  Living Large & Lavish

  Impossibilities

  Santi

  Three’s Company

  Phone Calls

  Julio, Oh, Julio

  School

  Going Places

  Basura

  Home Is Where

  I Been Grown

  Hurricane Season

  Part Two: The Savory

  Skipping

  Forgiveness

  Sisterhood

  Invitations

  Sous Chef

  Anniversary

  Netflix, No Chill

  Ramifications

  Café Sorrel

  Taste Buds

  New Beginnings

  Guess Who’s Back?

  Visitation

  Proposals

  The Bright Side

  Team Player

  Coven

  Dreams

  Every Day I’m Hustling

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Crunch Time

  To the Bone

  Winter Dinner

  A Numbers Game

  Hook, Line, and Sinker

  Complications

  Pride

  On Ice

  Side by Side

  Chivalry

  When It Rains

  It Pours

  Blood Boil

  Holidays

  New Year, New Recipes

  Money Talks

  Flash

  Spain

  Arrival

  Roommates

  The First Night

  Chef Amadí

  Cluck, Cluck

  Game Time

  Winning

  The Roots

  Check-In

  Gilded

  Histories

  The Chase

  Children

  Smooch

  Cozy

  Ugly Leslie

  Settled

  Boys Will Be

  Heart-to-Heart

  Ready?

  Last Day

  Duende

  Home

  Acceptance

  Surprises

  Just Fine

  Next Steps

  Love

  Part Three: The Bittersweet

  Stuck

  Accepted

  Prom

  The Rising

  Promotion Ceremony

  Moving Forward

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Elizabeth Acevedo

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  The Sour

  EMONI’S

  “When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemon Verbena Tembleque”

  RECIPE

  Serves: Your heart when you are missing someone you love.

  Ingredients:

  Two cans of coconut milk

  Handful of white sugar

  Four shakes of cornstarch

  Pinch of salt

  Bunch of lemon verbena leaves

  Bunch of vanilla beans

  Cinnamon, enough to garnish

  Directions:

  1. In a saucepan, heat coconut milk until it comes to a boil. Muddle a bunch of lemon verbena leaves and vanilla beans and add to the heated coconut milk. Let steep.

  2. After fifteen minutes, mix the infused coconut milk, salt, sugar, and cornstarch. Stir the mixture until the cornstarch is completely dissolved. Let the combined ingredients come to a boil and keep stirring until the mixture begins getting pudding thick.

  3. Pour into a big cereal bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Place in the refrigerator for five hours.

  4. After removing the mixture from the cereal bowl mold, sprinkle with cinnamon.

  *Best eaten cold while daydreaming about palm trees and listening to an Héctor Lavoe classic.

  Day One

  Babygirl doesn’t even cry when I suck my teeth and undo her braid for the fourth time. If anything, I’m the one on the verge of tears, since at this rate we’re both going to be late.

  “Babygirl, I’m sorry. I know it hurts. Mommy just doesn’t want you looking a hot mess.”

  She seems unfazed by my apology, probably because thing (1) I’m not braiding tight enough to actually hurt her (which is why her hair is all loosey-lopsided!), and thing (2) Babygirl is watching Moana. And she loves Moana. So long as I let her watch Moana she’ll let me play with her hair till kingdom come. Thank goodness Angelica lets me use her Netflix account. I lean a little closer to the edge of the sofa so I can snatch up the baby hairs at the front of her head. This is the hardest part, and I have to start the braid tight and small to get it right.

  “Emoni, vete. It’s time for you to head out. I’ll fix her hair.”

  I don’t even look over at ’Buela standing by the staircase that leads to the two bedrooms upstairs. “I got it, ’Buela. I’m almost done.”

  “You’re going to be late for school.”

  “I know, but . . .” I trail off and it turns out I don’t have to say it, because in her way ’Buela always understands.

  She walks over and picks up the comb from where I set it on the couch. “You wish you could be the one taking her.”

  I nod and bite my bottom lip. I worked so hard to get Babygirl into a good daycare, and despite a long wait list I kept calling and stopping by Mamá Clara’s, the woman who runs the childcare, until she snuck us into an opening. Now that Babygirl is actually going I’m freaking out. In her entire two years on earth, Babygirl has never not been with family. I braid to the very tip of her hair. The design is simple, some straight backs with a pink hair tie at the end that matches Babygirl’s outfit: little white collared shirt and pink pullover. She looks adorable. I wasn’t able to buy her more than three new outfits for daycare, but I’m glad I splurged on this one.

  I pull Babygirl’s chair around so we are face-to-face, but I catch her trying to sneak a peek at Moana from the corner of her eye. Even though my chest is tight, I giggle. Babygirl might still be young, but she’s also learning to be real slick.

  “Babygirl, Mommy needs to go to school. You make sure you’re nice to the other kids and that you pay attention to Mamá Clara so you learn a lot, okay?” Babygirl nods as if I just gave her the most serious Jada Pinkett Smith success speech. I hug her to my stomach, making sure not to nuzzle her too tight and fuzz up the braids I spent an hour doing. With a final kiss on her forehead, I take a deep breath and grab my book bag off the sofa, making sure to wipe down the plastic cover so ’Buela doesn’t get annoyed with me.

  “’Buela, don’t forget her snacks. Mamá Clara
said we need to supply them every day. Oh, and her juice! You know she gets fussy.” As I walk past ’Buela, I lean in real hush-hush. “And I also packed a little bottle of water. I know she doesn’t like it as much, but I don’t want her only drinking sugary stuff, you know?”

  ’Buela looks like she’s trying to swallow a smile as she puts a soft hand on my back and guides me toward the front door.

  “Look at you trying to give me lessons on parenting. Nena, please! Like I didn’t raise you! And your father.” ’Buela gives my back a squeeze, smooths the hair bunned up high on my head. “She’s going to be fine, Emoni. You make sure that you have a good first day of school. Be nice to the other kids. Learn a lot.”

  I lean against her for a quick second and inhale her signature vanilla scent. “Bendición, ’Buela.”

  “Que Dios te bendiga, nena.” She swats me on the booty and opens the front door. The sounds of West Allegheny Avenue rush in to greet me: cars honking, buses screeching to a stop, rapid Spanglish yelled from the corners as people greet one another, and mothers calling out last-minute instructions to their kids from open windows. The door closes behind me and for a second my breath catches in sync with the lock. Every simple love in my life is behind this one wooden door. I press my ear against it and hear a clap of hands, then ’Buela says in a high, cheery voice, “Okay, Baby Emma! Today you’re going to be a big girl!”

  I pull the straps of my backpack tighter. Give myself that same pep talk as I race down the stairs: Okay, Emoni. Today? Time to be a big girl.

  Emma

  I wanted to give Babygirl a nice name. The kind of name that doesn’t tell you too much before you meet her, the way mine does. Because nobody ever met a white girl named Emoni, and as soon as they see my name on a résumé or college application they think they know exactly what kind of girl they getting. They know way more about me than they need to know, and shit—I mean, shoot—information ain’t free, so my daughter’s name isn’t going to tell anybody any information they didn’t earn. That’s why I fought Tyrone tooth and nail to name her Emma.

  “You just want her name to have the same letters as yours.” Tyrone is a whiner.

  “No. I want her name to sound less like either of ours,” I said, and I don’t remember if I kissed Babygirl’s infant cheek or not. But I know in that moment I felt this huge emotion; I wanted to do whatever I could to give my daughter the best opportunity in the world. And although our names do have similar letters, mine is full of silverware-sharp sounds: E-Mah-Nee. Hers is soft, rolls off the tongue like a half-dreamed murmur.

  Anyhow, Tyrone was late on the day I filled out the birth certificate, so Emma it was. I know a name alone can’t guarantee new opportunities, but at the very least it’ll give her a chance to get in the room, to let other people realize she’s someone they want to learn more about.

  Sister Friends

  Angelica waits on the corner for me the way she has since elementary school. Her long dark hair has streaks the same bright red as her lipstick. She shuffles from foot to foot in the tightest leggings I have ever seen on a body.

  I stop halfway to her and pretend to do a double take. “Girl, you about to give these boys a show! And it’s only the first day,” I say as she swoops her arm through mine and we walk in the direction of the bus stop.

  “Girl, you know I ain’t concerned with those boys. The ladies, on the other hand? I was social-media creeping and the summer did wonders for a lot of these jawns!”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Does Laura know what she’s gotten herself into?”

  Angelica smiles and for a second she looks like the angel she’s named after. “Aww, my boo knows I only look and don’t touch. I just want her to know I can leave if I want to. I got options!”

  Angelica officially came out last year and once she’d dusted the closet lint off her Air Maxes, she never looked back. A couple of months after coming out at home and at school, she met Laura at a graphic design workshop held for teens at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Her girl Laura is built like the Vikings she says she’s descended from: tall, thick-shouldered, and with an artist’s gentle hands that I knew would take care of my best friend’s heart.

  “Man, whatever. I see all your posts about Laura. If you and that girl take another cutesy kissy picture, I’m going to delete my account. Actually, I’m going to hack in and delete yours!”

  “Don’t hate, Emoni. Is Tyrone still being a dick?”

  I swat her on the arm. “This is why I don’t let you around Babygirl; you have such a potty mouth.”

  “And you don’t?” She gives me one of her pursed-lips looks.

  “Yes, but I picked it up from you. And I’ve been working on it.” I accidentally slipped in front of Babygirl a few weeks ago and almost died when I heard her saying “sh-sh-sh” as if practicing the word. I’ve cut out my cursing since.

  “How is my niece? I haven’t seen her since . . . when? Saturday?” We laugh. Despite her potty mouth, Angelica is great with Babygirl and always comes in clutch when either ’Buela or I can’t watch her. Now that Babygirl’s two, ’Buela insists that I have to take on more responsibility in raising her. Which I don’t mind, since Babygirl is the coolest kid on the block. It’s just hard juggling work, her, and now the new school year, without ’Buela taking on the big role she took the first two years of her life. And although I don’t say it, I don’t have to; Tyrone is still being a dick—an ass—a prick. Who uses the word prick?

  “Hello! Emoni, are you listening?” Angelica snaps her fingers in my face.

  “Sorry . . . I spaced out for a second. What’d you say?”

  Angelica sighs dramatically. Anytime Angelica sighs, it’s dramatically. “You never listen to me anymore.”

  I unhook my arm from hers. “Get out of here with that mess. All I do is listen to you.”

  “I was asking about the dinner you left for me and Babygirl when I babysat. What’d you call it?”

  “Pollo guisado—stewed chicken. Was it good?” Angelica’s been eating at my house since we were little girls, but since I always tweak what I cook, it’s never the same thing twice. “I thought I might have messed up when I added in the collards at the end. They weren’t in the original recipe.”

  “It was so good. I was wondering if you could make it for Laura and me. Six-month anniversary coming up in a month! I was thinking we could do a romantic dinner at my house since my moms is going to be out of town.”

  “Dinner at home is never romantic, Gelly,” I say. The bus pulls up and we climb on with the rest of the people who, like us, are going to school and work near Yorktown and Fairmount and even farther south into Center City.

  “Dinner at home will be romantic if it’s catered by you!” We find a place to stand and hold on to the straps above us as the bus begins the jerky ten-minute ride.

  “Now I’m a caterer? You’re lucky I love you.”

  “No. I’m lucky you love to cook, and you never turn down an opportunity to practice on your friends. Chef Emoni Santiago, next Chopped champion!”

  I laugh and pull my phone out to take notes for Gelly’s dinner.

  Magic

  If you ask her to tell it, ’Buela starts with the same story.

  I was a little older than Babygirl is now and always following ’Buela into the kitchen. I would sit at the kitchen table eating bootleg Cheerios or rice or something I could pick up with my fingers and shove into my mouth while she played El Gran Combo or Celia Cruz or La Lupe loud on her old-school radio, shimmying her hips while stirring a pot. She can’t remember what made that day different—if my pops, Julio, had been late in arriving on one of his yearly visits from San Juan, or if it’d been a time she’d gotten reprimanded at work for taking too long on someone’s measurements—but this particular day she didn’t turn the radio on and she wasn’t her usual self at the stove. At one point, she must have forgotten I was there because she threw the kitchen rag down on the floor and left. She just walked straight out of
the kitchen, crossed the living room, opened the front door, and was gone.

  We can’t agree on what it was she’d started cooking. She says it was a stew and nothing that would burn quick, but although my own memory is childhood-fuzzy, I remember it being a pot of moro—the rice and beans definitely something that would soak up water. ’Buela says she just stepped out onto the stoop to clear her head, and when she came back ten minutes later I had pulled the step stool to the stove, had a bunch of spices on the counter, and had my small arm halfway into the pot, stirring.

  It goes without saying: She. Had A. Fit. Thought I had been about to burn myself, dinner, or worse, the house. (’Buela would argue that’s not the right order of things, and I know she would have definitely been upset if I hurt myself, but if I burned the house? Girl, there’s no coming back from that.) All that to say, nothing charred. In fact, when ’Buela tasted it (whatever “it” was) she says it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. How it made her whole day better, sweeter. Says a memory of Puerto Rico she hadn’t thought about in years reached out like an island hammock and cradled her close. When she tells the story, it’s always a different simile, but still sweet like that. All I know is she cried into her plate that night. And so at the age of four, I learned someone could cry from a happy memory.

  Ever since then ’Buela is convinced I have magical hands when it comes to cooking. And I don’t know if I really have something special, or if her telling me I got something special has brainwashed me into believing it, but I do know I’m happier in the kitchen than anywhere else in the world. It’s the one place I let go and only need to focus on the basics: taste, smell, texture, fusion, beauty.

  And something special does happen when I’m cooking. It’s like I can imagine a dish in my head and I just know that if I tweak this or mess with that, if I give it my special brand of sazón, I’ll have made a dish that never existed before. Angelica thinks it’s because we live in the hood, so we never have exactly the right ingredients—we gotta innovate, baby. My aunt Sarah says it’s in our blood, an innate need to tell a story through food. ’Buela says it’s definitely a blessing, magic. That my food doesn’t just taste good, it is good—straight up bottled goodness that warms you and makes you feel better about your life. I think I just know that this herb with that veggie with that meat plus a dash of eso ahí will work.