With the Fire on High Read online

  “And what would be the point of hips if we couldn’t enjoy bread every now and then?” the busboy says in Spanish. And although this whole exchange is cute, I need him to walk away. As soon as he does, I pounce again.

  “I know you know I’ve been skipping class. It’s written all over your face. Who said something?”

  ’Buela takes a huge bite of bread and makes me wait until she’s done chewing to speak. “What is most important is that you didn’t tell me.”

  Angelica must have found out somehow. Or maybe Ms. Fuentes saw last week’s attendance sheet and called home.

  “You’ve never had an issue with attendance, not even when you were pregnant. It seems to me like you were really excited about the class for a while and maybe when it got hard you got scared about the challenge.”

  I look away from ’Buela, and use my napkin to wipe crumbs from Babygirl’s chin. ’Buela reaches across and stills my hand. “I’m not saying I don’t understand. Or that I don’t know you well enough to say that you’ve climbed higher hills. I only mean to say, I hope you didn’t sell yourself short.”

  I squeeze her hand. “I haven’t dropped the class entirely yet.”

  “So are you going to go back?”

  I shrug and look down at my plate where I’ve crumbled a bread roll into nothing but dust. ’Buela takes the hint. “Tell me about your other classes.”

  She listens as I tell her about physics and English. About the college essay I’m working on. When the food comes out the scents fill my nostrils and I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

  “What’s this with my bird?” ’Buela points.

  “Polenta,” I say, and take a bite of my risotto. I close my eyes again and savor. Basil, cream . . . and a pop of something. I take another bite but still can’t place it. ’Buela says something and I chew slowly, trying to hear her past the rush in my ears.

  “What’d you say?” I ask, when I come back to earth.

  “I was saying, this is really good. How is yours?”

  “Too good. I can’t wait to try it at home.” Babygirl murmurs agreement through a mouth full of fries.

  “So how was it, miss?” the server asks as he takes away the plates.

  “Really good.” And although I said I wasn’t going to say anything, I can’t keep the question to myself. “There was something in the risotto. Not the basil or cream or mushroom but something else?”

  The server shakes his head with a puzzled look, crinkling his forehead. “I’m not sure. No other ingredients are listed on the menu.”

  I hope my annoyance doesn’t show on my face. “Oh. Okay.”

  ’Buela smiles. “May I have a coffee and the check?”

  “Very well,” the server says.

  “Yumyumyum.” Babygirl hums under her breath and I offer her water. She takes a sip and lets it dribble down her chin and grins.

  “Emma!” I look up when I feel someone behind my shoulder, hoping it’s the server so I can ask for another napkin, but my eyes land on a buttoned-up white jacket, a woman’s smiling face beneath a chef’s hat. “Everything good here, ladies?”

  ’Buela and I nod. “Very good. I enjoyed the polenta!” ’Buela says, and holds up her forefinger touching her thumb. I try not to groan at how excited she sounds.

  “I heard there was a question about the risotto?” The chef looks at me.

  My mouth goes dry. Even though I don’t know this lady, I’m starstruck by the jacket, by the Crocs and checkered pants. By the food that melted in my mouth and looked almost too pretty to eat. Chefs rarely leave their kitchens so I know it’s a big deal she decided to answer me in person.

  “Umm.” Get it together, Emoni! “I tasted the basil, and cream. What might have been cremini mushrooms? But there was something else. At the back of my tongue . . . I couldn’t place it,” I say, and blush. I sound as silly as ’Buela.

  “Ah, probably the orange zest. It’s just a hint. Most people can’t even taste it but it adds a bright note.” She cocks her head to the side.

  “Oh! Orange zest.” I close my eyes and run my tongue along my teeth. Try to remember the flavor. “Yeah, that feels right. Orange zest.”

  My eyes pop open. The server comes back and hands the check to ’Buela, who immediately swoops it under the table so I can’t see it.

  “Chef, did the young lady tell you? She’s taking a culinary arts class,” the server says, and takes the check back from ’Buela with her payment.

  “Are you? At the Institute?”

  I shake my head. “At my high school. It just started this year with a new instructor.”

  Her eyes sharpen on my face and I almost lean back from the intensity of her look. “Wait a minute, a friend of mine just started teaching a cooking class at a high school. You don’t go to a charter school near here, by any chance?”

  Before I can answer ’Buela chimes in. “She does! Emoni goes to Schomburg Charter School about fifteen minutes from here on the bus. Is your friend Chef Ayden?”

  The chef claps her hands together and laughs. “What a small world—one of Ayden’s students coming into my restaurant. You have a good instructor; Ayden is one of a kind. . . . Kind of a hard-ass, but he’ll teach you a lot.” Her eyes twinkle when she says it and I can tell she and Chef Ayden must know each other well.

  And just in case they are friends, I keep my mouth shut about his hard-ass-ness.

  She smiles at me again. “You have the taste buds, and married with the technique and work ethic you’re learning in class, you’ll acquire the holy trinity to make it in this industry. I need to get back to my kitchen, but don’t worry about today’s bill.” She waves at the server to bring the bill back. “It’s on me. Let Ayden know it was a pleasure to meet one of his students.”

  I hear her chuckling under her breath as she walks away.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Date: Sunday, October 6, 10:31 PM

  Subject: re: recipe

  Hey Aunt Sarah,

  I’m glad to hear that by the time the storm touched down near you it was mostly rain and nothing too bad. I kept my eye on the news all week and kept hoping the family would be okay. My father says the worst of the storm missed them, but I know there were power outages on the western side of the island. It was nice of you to ask how you could help; my father says they are accepting donations of boxes of canned food and bottled water. I’m attaching the information link at the end of the email.

  Thanks for your last recipe for fried green tomatoes. The story of how you and my momma used to eat the green tomatoes straight from the vine made me smile. I can’t believe it was so easy for you to just walk into your backyard and pick them, especially since I struggled to find them in my neighborhood! The vendors at the vegetable stands kept looking at me like I was stupid, but I finally found some at a farmer’s market on the other side of the city.

  But, let me tell you, the journey was worth it! Them things were delicious! I fried them like you said, but I used a little bit of panko breadcrumbs in the dredge. Then I paired them with queso frito and some basil, and it was like a homestyle take on caprese salad.

  I’m going to try the recipe again this week and I’ll send you my remix once I have it exactly right. Thanks again for the invite to come down during Christmas break. I don’t think I can travel down on the bus with Babygirl by myself, and I wouldn’t want to leave her, but I hope to make it down sometime.

  With love & cinnamon dust,

  E

  Taste Buds

  Although my Sunday was transformed from a clustermess into a nice memory, Monday rolls around and I’ve overslept, Babygirl is late for daycare, and ’Buela keeps chewing my head off about the smallest things, and by the time I make it to the bus stop I’ve missed Angelica and Advisory. And what doesn’t help my bad mood is that I still haven’t made a decision about Culinary Arts. I have one period after lunch to decide whether I’m going to go or not, and I know th
at if I tack on too many more absences I’m going to have to drop the class simply because I’ll be failing it. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but luckily lunch rolls around and I have Angelica to take my mind off any decisions.

  By the time I meet up with her at our table she’s visibly trembling with excitement.

  “You don’t understand, Emoni. It was so perfect.”

  I nod and smile. “Tell me everything. Why was it so perfect?”

  “So it was perfect not just because of the movie Laura streamed, which was funny and romantic. Or the deep conversations we had, or the wine Laura brought from her father’s house. I was so nervous I was giggling and Laura just reached out and . . . well, that part was perfect, too. All of it.”

  Something inside me stops laughing at her dreamy expression. My girl is truly in love and I’m choked up at having been a part of making that night special for her.

  “Emoni, the food? I’ve had your cooking a dozen times, but there was one point where Laura and I both put our forks down and just grinned like little kids because we were so happy. And I think the meal had something to do with it because I had some of the leftovers last night and I just felt all warm and fuzzy and loved inside. If I ever have that chimi-chimi sauce again, I’ll think of that night.”

  I laugh. “It’s chimichurri sauce, Angelica. And I’m glad you liked it. I told you I put a little extra heat in it, and it sounds like you added more than enough spice to the rest of the night.”

  And then I’m struck stupid because in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Angelica blush. But she does. Her brown skin warms up with a tinge of pink in the cheeks as she snorts on her sandwich.

  New Beginnings

  When the bell rings for my last class before Culinary Arts, I’m out the door with the quickness. I want to get there before any of the other students. By the time I arrive at class I’m out of breath and huffing, but I still make sure not to slam the door behind me.

  Chef Ayden looks up with a start when he hears my heavy breathing. I can’t read the look on his face. Inscrutable, Ms. Fuentes would call it.

  “Emoni, long time.” Chef Ayden closes his laptop with a soft click. He stuffs his hands into his soft, checkered chef’s pants. “We missed you last week.”

  “I just . . . I’m not a quitter. I didn’t understand why you were asking me to throw away food or follow the recipe exactly even though my instincts told me it would taste better differently. I didn’t get it. But I think I do now. And I wanted to say . . .”

  What did I want to say?

  Chef waits. The moment stretches into the yard beyond awkward and enters the goal post of embarrassing. He raises his right eyebrow.

  I clear my throat and I know my face is burning. “I wanted to say, I promise to work hard. To try my best to follow directions. Because I think about creating food all the time and even though I know a lot . . . I can learn more. I went to a restaurant over the weekend; the head chef says she knows you? It was Café Sorrel. Seeing her in her coat, and tasting her food, it not only made me realize I want to keep getting my technique down in this class, it made me realize I can be like her one day—an executive chef.”

  Chef doesn’t say anything. He just keeps blinking at me with his head cocked. My chest deflates. I don’t think he can kick me out of class, not with only four absences. But I also don’t want him to hate me. I swallow back a knot that collects in my throat. Look down at the long metal table where we present our dishes. I missed being in class, and I didn’t know how much until this moment.

  “Lisa is an excellent chef. I’m glad you were able to try her food. As for your absences, we’ve been looking for someone in class to lead the fund-raising campaign for the trip to Spain. One day you might own a restaurant, or be head chef, and honing your leadership skills now will be useful. Would you like to head that committee?”

  I hear everything he’s saying, but it’s like each piece of information is a bit of colored glass and I need hold it up to the light to see how it shines. Chef Ayden isn’t angry with me. Chef Ayden thinks I could own or be head chef of a restaurant one day. Chef Ayden wants me to lead a fund-raising committee.

  I’ve seen chefs on TV time and time again say they had to pay their dues. And I never knew exactly what that meant but now I think I get it. It’s about doing the grunt work behind the scenes, washing dishes, folding napkins, taking stock, before you ever touch a recipe. It’s about being the creative mind behind raising a shit-ton of money so you can go on a trip abroad.

  I hold my hand out. Chef looks at it and shakes it, super serious.

  He pats me on the shoulder. “You’ve got what it takes, Emoni. I don’t doubt that if you keep yourself focused and your knives sharp, you’ll be running a kitchen one day. I won’t treat you any different from anyone else just because you have something special, but let’s both take a moment to acknowledge that you’ve got what it takes.”

  I put on my jacket, my scarf, and my game face. I’ve got what it takes.

  Guess Who’s Back?

  When the rest of the class walks into the room, most of the students don’t seem surprised to see me—they must have just thought I was absent. Malachi raises an eyebrow and his lips perk up on one end. We haven’t talked since Saturday. We texted a little on Sunday, but after the phone call with Tyrone, talking with Malachi lost some of its glow. I look away from him to where Pretty Leslie cuts her eyes at me then inspects her nails. Passion-fruit purple, I’d name them. I go to my old station but Chef flags me down.

  “Over here, Emoni. You will work with Richard and Amanda. As a trio. I think you’ll work better as part of a team.” He claps his hands together. “Okay, everyone, your recipes are on your boards.”

  I walk over to Richard and Amanda and offer a weak smile. Richard smiles back and Amanda tightens her cap. I run a hand down my jacket front; it feels good to be back in uniform. The next hour passes by in a blur. I spend the majority of the time listening to Amanda and Richard as they ask me to dice, chop, and sauté root vegetables. I pay more attention to the little details than the overall dish. By the time everything is plated I’m surprised at what it actually is. The chicken breast is perfectly cooked, and the thinly sliced carrots look beautiful underneath it, and although I didn’t have anything to do with the seasoning or the plating, I’m proud of how the whole dish came together. Even if I would have used a bit of balsamic vinegar in the sauce.

  We place the plate in front of Chef and he scoops a clean fork from his bowl and tries it. “Very good. Very, very good. Well done, team.”

  I roll my eyes at him and he winks at me as he shoos us away so the next group can be graded. As class lets out I glance at Malachi’s station, but he’s already gone. I’m halfway down the hall when an arm comes around my shoulder and with a loud smack a kiss is placed on my left temple.

  “Glad to have you back, Santi,” Malachi says with a grin that I return.

  “Glad to be back.”

  Visitation

  The rest of the school week goes by quickly and before I know it, it’s Saturday morning.

  “Babygirl, hold still,” I say, tugging her little Jordans onto her feet. She keeps wriggling around, trying to climb up to Tyrone. “Can you help, please?”

  I’ve been trying to get her dressed for more than five minutes, and he’s just been sitting across from me like a dodo bird. Fine, he’s still mad about the Malachi thing, but lord knows he has all kinds of girls up in his house, so why he’s hung up on my friends is beyond me. He didn’t even say hello to ’Buela, and she has nothing to do with this. As much as his mother loves sticking her nose in the air, some days Tyrone has no damn home training.

  Finally he lets go a long sigh. “Emma, let your mom put your stuff on.” But Emma tugs her foot, flipping the sneaker up, and it bangs me in the nose.

  “Ouch! Emma!” Babygirl looks up, startled at her government name springing from my lips, and starts to cry.

  “Here, let me
help,” ’Buela says, and picks up Babygirl and the sneaker. “I’m going to take her onto my bed; it might be easier to get her dressed there.” She raises an eyebrow and gives me a pointed look. I know what she’s thinking: She doesn’t like it when Tyrone and I are mad at each other. She says it’s bad for Babygirl because she gets stuck in the middle.

  I stop rubbing my nose and take a deep breath. “You still feel some type of way? Let’s just go ahead and talk about it.”

  Tyrone readjusts the brim of his fitted. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  Which is clearly a lie. Tyrone knows so many words to sweet-talk a girl, but when it comes to talking about his feelings he always swears he has nothing to say. “You turned eighteen a couple of months ago, which means you’re an adult. We can talk like grown-ups. So, why are you angry? You date girls all the time. And this wasn’t even a date. He’s just a friend.”

  He shakes his head. “Maaan, ‘a friend,’ who I don’t know, who was around my daughter.”

  “Is that why you’re actually angry? You tell me about every girl who meets you at the playground when you have Babygirl with you? Or the shopping-mall trips you go on that aren’t dates, but somehow, photos get posted on social media of you and girls and my daughter asleep in a stroller? Thing one, he’s new to Philadelphia, so you’d have no reason to know him. Thing two, Tyrone, we have a child. We can’t play silent-treatment games. For the rest of our lives, God willing, we’ll have a child. So, I can’t afford to act like one and neither can you.”

  And it must be true when they say you become your parents, because that lecture could have been stolen straight from ’Buela’s script.

  Tyrone tugs his fitted down so it covers his eyes and I know it’s not because the light slanting in through the window bothers him. He looks like a puppy that got in trouble for peeing on the rug. “We decided we weren’t going to stay together for the baby. Fine, I get that. But you said you weren’t going to date other people.”