With the Fire on High Page 10

  The oven timer goes off but I ignore it. Out of my control, my hand halfway reaches out to touch Malachi’s back but then I pull it to my side. I don’t want anyone in the room getting the wrong impression. Myself included. But ’Buela does it for me. She walks to Malachi, who is double her size, and pulls him into a fierce hug. She pats his back with soft thumps that sound just like a heartbeat.

  “It isn’t easy to lose a family member. Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m glad you and Emoni are friends.”

  She pulls back from him while still holding his arms. Looks up into his eyes. “But take care it doesn’t become more than that. I don’t want to see either of you hurt.”

  ’Buela has a way of letting you know she cares for you—and that she’ll also beat that ass if you act up.

  Malachi nods and then smiles. It’s not his usual lightbulb smile but it gets close, and instantly ’Buela smiles back, pats his cheek. “You seem like a good boy. I won’t get into that other one she brought here, since he helped make my granddaughter, but chacho, he wasn’t an easy one to swallow. Don’t let the pasta sit too long, Emoni; Angelica will kill you.” She heads out of the kitchen toward the sound of cheering coming from her bedroom.

  “Thanks for that,” I say under my breath. I clear my throat. “Thanks for telling us that. For answering her questions. She’s nosy.” I move to the stove and turn the heat up. To get a nice sear on the steaks I’ll need a hot pan and a quick hand before I finish the steak with the mac and cheese in the oven.

  “Is your grandmother watching a football game?” Malachi asks from the doorway. Clearly he doesn’t want to talk about his brother anymore.

  “Oh, yeah. She’s a huge Eagles fan, but since they don’t play until tomorrow, she has to get her fix with college games.”

  Malachi’s hand tickles the back of my neck and before I know it he pulls me in for a hug from behind. I stand with my hands stiffly by my sides, but when he doesn’t let go, I lean against his forearm. And I wonder if he put cologne on the inside of his wrist, because he smells good.

  “Emoni,” he whispers into my hair.

  “Mmm?” I ask. He’s about to ruin this. He’s going to try to kiss me or say something nasty. Boys are dumb like that. Always ruining the moment.

  “I think you were wrong. We are friends. Your grandmother said so. And she seems like the kind of woman that knows what she’s talking about. Even if she does have horrible taste in football teams.”

  I smile into his arm before bumping him away. I have a smoking skillet that needs my attention. And a correction to make. “The Eagles are definitely going to win the Super Bowl again this season. Just you watch.”

  Anniversary

  Angelica opens the door wide, and Malachi and I maneuver our large bags full of plastic containers and décor into the living room. The house smells of Pine-Sol and incense and I know that Angelica cleaned even though the girl is mortal enemies with the broom. I didn’t tell her Malachi was going to be with me; one of the things I’ve always loved about our friendship is how she didn’t even blink an eye when she opened the door, but the moment Malachi begins unpacking the containers in the kitchen she raises an eyebrow and cocks her head in his direction. I shrug and give her a small smile. And although we don’t say one word, we communicate everything that needs to be said.

  Angelica clears her throat. “Malachi, I tried setting the table but I think I messed it all up.” I peek into the living room where her small dining room table is. The utensils are in the wrong order and the water glass is on the left-hand side. Chef taught us in our second week how a proper table should be set. “Do you think you could fix it for me while Emoni shows me what to do with dinner? Laura gets here in twenty minutes and I know I need to preheat the oven or something.”

  “Yeah, I got you.” Malachi walks to the little table and begins refolding the napkins and arranging the knives. Angelica grabs my hand and pulls me into the kitchen.

  “What’s he doing here? I thought he was dating Pretty Leslie?” Angelica says in a mock whisper. I guess not everything can be communicated with an eyebrow and a smile.

  I put the oven on the correct setting and pull the lids off the sauces and individual portions of mac and cheese. Aunt Sarah uses three cheeses, but I added an extra-stinky one to make it even creamier. I drew a diagram of exactly how Angelica needs to place the food onto the plate and where the sauces go so she can put everything together just in time for Laura. “I don’t know. He called me today and wanted to chill. I figured it wouldn’t hurt. It’s not a date or anything and I needed the help to carry all this over.”

  Angelica gives me her “Yeah, whatever” look and opens the cabinet above the sink to pull down two white plates with vibrant green vines circling the edges.

  “Will these work?” she asks. “They were my grandmother’s plates and Mom and I only use them for Thanksgiving.” The finger she traces along the engraved vines is shaking. I take the plates away from her and set them on the kitchen counter. I hold her hand in mine.

  “Are you okay? You nervous about your mom finding out you had Laura here? I can come help you clean up tomorrow.” Ms. Jackson is one of my favorite people in the world, and she and Angelica have a great relationship, but she doesn’t care how old Angelica is or what gender she’s dating, she still runs a strict house when it comes to having people in it.

  “It’s not my mom. She knows Laura is coming over to have dinner.”

  I squeeze her hand. “What is it, boo?”

  She shakes her head as if she isn’t going to say anything, then she blurts out, “We haven’t ever slept together.”

  I keep my reaction off of my face. Angelica is always so sure of herself, of her words, of her world. I don’t recognize this girl who’s biting the polish off a recently manicured nail. I grab that hand, too.

  “Okay, and you all decided today you would?” I’m guessing here. Angelica doesn’t usually bite her nails—or her tongue—but tonight she seems out of her element. She finally looks at me and nods.

  “But the thing is, today is my first day. Ever. I mean I’ve kissed and fooled around with other girls but never more than that. What if I don’t know what to do?”

  I pull her smudged glasses off her face and clean the lenses on my T-shirt. I can tell she needs a moment without me staring at her intensely. I slide them back onto the bridge of her nose.

  “Angelica, now that you can see clearly, look at me. Laura loves you for you. She may have more experience in this arena, but I’m also sure she’ll be fine with taking it slow and you’ll figure it out together.” I smile at her. She hadn’t had these same butterflies when she had sex for the first time with a guy. She’d approached that with the full curiosity of a scientist even though it confirmed what she already knew about herself. But this is less about exploring, and more about expressing. I know how much this means to her.

  I squeeze her hand. “You don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable doing. I’m sure Laura will understand.”

  She squeezes my hand back. “I know, I know. But I want to.” Angelica smiles. “I’m just nervous as fuck.”

  I laugh. “You’re going to be fine. I promise. I’ve put a little extra magic into my recipe so I can make that promise with full confidence. Now come look at this picture I drew to show you how you’re going to plate this food when Laura gets here.”

  Angelica takes one look at my drawing and busts out laughing. I watch her shoulders drop and her body shake as she laughs. “Emoni! That is the worst picture I’ve ever seen. I can’t make out half these squiggles.”

  I press a hand to my heart and gasp. “How you going to play my art skills like that?”

  Angelica takes out a pencil and redoes the diagram as I give her instructions. When she’s done she gives me a small smile, and I can tell she’s still nervous but ready for whatever the night might bring. “Thank you, Emoni.”

  I give her one last hug and then Malachi and I are out the door.<
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  Netflix, No Chill

  “That steak you put together was everything, Santi!” Malachi kisses his fingers like an old-school Chef Boyardee commercial. “They’re going to love it, especially when she tries that mac and cheese.” There was lightly massaged kale, too. But Malachi didn’t try any of that.

  “You want to know something crazy? I don’t know if it was talking about my brother to your grandmother, but I had this memory that came out of nowhere. Of learning to make mac and cheese straight out the box. I think we spilled all that powdery orange sauce on ourselves and dropped the noodles on the floor, and when my moms came into the kitchen we had nothing to show for ourselves but boiling water and a mess.” He laughs. And I reach over to squeeze his hand.

  On the street outside of Angelica’s house he grabs the bag of empty containers from me. I begin to protest but then shut my mouth. I have to say it’s kind of nice to be able to stick my hands into my pockets and let someone else carry the dirty dishes for a change.

  “I hope so. They deserve a nice dinner. They’re a really cute couple.” I face him. “Not sure what you have planned next. I need to get home and make sure Babygirl and ’Buela are all right.”

  He gives me a nod and the dirty containers rattle inside the big bag ’Buela bought from the dollar store for groceries.

  I look at him. Bite my lip. Pull out my phone. I click it on so the time projects brightly. Eight p.m. Still early. I slip the phone back into my pocket. “Do you want to come back? Watch TV or something? There were leftovers.”

  I expect him to smirk, or raise an eyebrow, but he just gives me a slow nod and keeps following me home. I’ve always been glad Gelly and I live close to each other, but never more than in this moment.

  “I’m down to watch TV, but only if you promise we don’t watch a scary movie. I hate scary movies.” He pretends to shudder in fear, and the giggle that springs out my throat isn’t something I’ve heard in a long time. It doesn’t sound anything like me at all. I feel those first crush butterflies that I thought I’d never feel again, which I know sounds silly for a seventeen-year-old to say, but some days I don’t feel like a seventeen-year-old at all.

  “A big ole dude like you, scared of ghosts and masked killers?” I tease.

  “Yup! And like someone reminded me earlier, shame is usually someone else’s problem. I’m not ashamed of hating horror films at all!”

  When we get into the apartment Malachi sits on one end of the couch and I sit on the other with a cushion on top of my lap and plenty of space between us. We watch a Kevin Hart comedy and chat through the commercials about school and music. I tell him about the empty houses that have begun appearing on the block and how quickly they are being bought up. When the movie ends at ten Malachi gets up and puts his jacket on without my asking him to.

  “Thanks for answering my call today, Santi.” He leans down and wraps his long arms around me, and I feel warmth shoot from the middle of my back where he hugs me all the way up to my face. I hug him tightly back.

  Trouble. This boy is just straight trouble.

  Ramifications

  My cell phone rings the next morning just as ’Buela is headed out to church. “’Buela, can you get that? My hands are wet,” I call when I hear her coming down the steps. I’m at the sink washing the pans I let soak overnight. Sometimes, Babygirl and I go with her to church, but she never presses me if I’m not ready or don’t want to go. Today is one of those days where I’m looking forward to enjoying a playful and easy morning with my kid.

  The phone stops ringing and I hear ’Buela murmur into it, “Sí, one moment, Tyrone.”

  ’Buela hands me a towel and holds my phone out to me. I dry my hands and take it from her, conscious that she hasn’t left but has decided to rest against the doorframe. That can’t be good.

  I take a deep breath. “Hey, Tyrone. Wassup?”

  “Yo, Emoni, why am I getting phone calls from one of my boys telling me he saw you walk into your house with some dude? I miss one weekend with her, and you bringing other guys around my daughter?”

  I close my eyes. This cannot be what he’s calling me about. Why does he have people in my neighborhood checking for me, anyway? Furthermore, what business is it of his? Especially if Babygirl didn’t even meet Malachi?

  I ball up the dish towel but after a glance at ’Buela smooth it out. I don’t want her to see I’m upset.

  “I didn’t bring anyone around your daughter,” I say, and shoot another look at ’Buela. She raises an eyebrow and walks into the living room. “And if I have a friend from school come over to help me with a side project, that’s my business.”

  Tyrone’s voice is harsh in reply. “Working on a ‘side project’ is a funny way to say you’re someone’s side piece.”

  My breath gets short in my chest. I can’t believe Tyrone sometimes. “Tyrone, he wasn’t around your daughter. She was asleep. She never met him. And I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “Your grandmother was there?” Tyrone asks.

  I force myself to inhale deeply, then exhale the same way before I respond. I try to remember that what’s best for Babygirl isn’t always what’s easiest for me. Because right now what would be easy is to hang up on Tyrone. “Yes, ’Buela was home.”

  “Put her on. I want to ask her myself.”

  I walk into the living room and stop halfway to the couch. Nah. I don’t ask about the girls he dates and I don’t harass him when he says he doesn’t introduce them to Babygirl. Plus, we aren’t children anymore; our parents aren’t going to sign us out of trouble.

  “Tyrone, I’m not putting my grandmother on. I have never lied to you.”

  He breathes hard in my ear, then all sound drops from the call. He’s hung up on me. Babygirl is sitting in ’Buela’s lap, sucking her thumb.

  “Why don’t you get her dressed?” ’Buela asks. “At this rate I’ll have missed the procession by the time I get to the church—and I don’t like walking in late. We can go get breakfast instead. We’ll do those dishes later.”

  I know the smile I’ve forced onto my face wobbles at the edges, but I keep it pinned on and I keep my tears to myself.

  Café Sorrel

  When ’Buela, Babygirl, and I have an excursion, the getting-ready part is always a production. Toss in that my hands are still shaking from my conversation with Tyrone, and I’m moving in slow motion just to iron one blouse. By the time we have Babygirl strapped into the stroller and exit the house, it’s already noon.

  We don’t go out to eat much. When I was younger, we used to visit the local restaurants for holidays and birthdays or after going to the cemetery to visit with my grandfather or moms. But that was a long while ago, before ’Buela stopped working. Now the only time we have outside food is if I bring something in from the Burger Joint or when Tyrone and I used to go on dates. Otherwise it’s on me or ’Buela to cook.

  Today I’m surprised when ’Buela heads to the train. We go to a spot in Rittenhouse Square called Café Sorrel. The napkins are made of cloth and the flowers in the vases are real and fresh. The hostess asks if we need a booster seat, and I realize that Babygirl has never been in a high-class restaurant. When the server arrives, I notice everything he does, including the way he straightens the knife and salad fork, and how he folds our napkins into a triangle and gently holds them out for us to place on our laps, and how elegantly he pours water into our glasses.

  “This is really fancy, ’Buela,” I say when the server walks away. I trace the delicate embroidery on the edge of the tablecloth.

  “Yes, I like this place.” ’Buela takes a sip of her water. And well, that doesn’t make any sense. This place looks new, and when would ’Buela have ever had the occasion to come eat here? I open my mouth to ask but the server has circled back with our menus.

  “We have a fall special with the following dishes . . .”

  He reads off his notepad and I close my eyes when he describes how each dish is prepared. I wan
t to memorize everything.

  “You order, nena. This is all you.” ’Buela turns to the server. “My granddaughter is taking a culinary arts class. She is amazing in the kitchen.”

  “Oh”—the server raises an eyebrow—“how lovely. You’re going to have to let us know what you think of the meal.” I have a feeling he’s probably a college student at Penn or Temple and couldn’t care less what I think; he’s simply being overly friendly to get that tip. So, no, I don’t plan on giving him my opinion on anything.

  I take a look at the menu and keep my smile on my face even though the prices drop-kick me in the gut. I look for the cheapest items on the menu, then smile up at the server.

  “May I have the duck appetizer on the bed of risotto? My grandmother will have the partridge. And can we have pommes frites for this little one?” I gesture to Babygirl, who gives a huge smile and bangs on the table.

  The server removes our menus and stacks them in his arms. “Very well, your bread is on its way.”

  Buela neatly folds and refolds the napkin in her lap. “Those sounded like very nice orders. How is class going? I haven’t heard you mention any special quizzes lately,” ’Buela asks, and sips her water.

  She knows. I can see it in her face that she knows. “Who told you?”

  “Told me what, nena?” ’Buela says. She smiles at the busboy, who sets a basket of bread on the table. He has a tattoo of the Puerto Rican flag on his neck, and although ’Buela hates tattoos, she loves her island. I bet she’ll pass him a tip later. “Oh, lord, m’ijo. Bringing us all this bread! I haven’t been walking as much as I used to. This bread is going to go straight to my hips,” she says as she grabs a roll and breaks it in half. She gives the other half to Babygirl, who bites into it with enthusiasm. The busboy smiles at her.