With the Fire on High Page 12

  If he were Angelica, I would hold his hand and use my soft voice that I take on when I hurt her feelings. If he were ’Buela, I would take a deep breath and use my “I’m an adult” voice that is slow and patient. But he’s neither of those people, and I still haven’t figured out what voice to use when he’s hurt but also being illogical. So instead, I choose my words with slow care. “I’m not dating other people. But that doesn’t mean I can’t, does it? I think if you have people in my neighborhood making sure your daughter is safe, that’s good. That makes you a good father. But if you have people spying on me to see whether or not I bring dudes home, that’s going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me. And it’s going to hurt Emma most.” I feel my voice hitch in my throat. Tyrone and I have had many talks but never one like this.

  Tyrone doesn’t speak again. He stands when ’Buela comes into the room. “Thanks, Mrs. Santiago. I appreciate you getting Emma ready,” he says, taking Babygirl from ’Buela’s arms.

  He grabs the baby bag and the stroller while still holding Babygirl on his hip. I open the door for him and kiss Babygirl on the cheek, and can’t help but get a whiff of Tyrone. He smells like soap and fresh aftershave.

  “Don’t let your mom feed her too many granola bars, please? I know they seem healthy, but they are full of sugar.”

  “I won’t.” He leans in and has Babygirl plant a kiss on my cheek. It’s the closest he’ll get to offering an apology. Babygirl seems happy in his arms and doesn’t stir when she realizes ’Buela and I are staying behind.

  “I’ll have her back right on time tomorrow,” Tyrone calls over his shoulder.

  I close the door and lean against it. ’Buela begins picking up the playthings that Babygirl had spread across the floor.

  “It’s a hard path you’re walking, Emoni. But you’re doing just fine. Now, come help me clean your daughter’s clutter.”

  I shake my head at all the separate feelings inside me; sometimes I feel more scattered than Babygirl’s toys.

  Proposals

  Over the next week and a half, as part of my new role as head of the fund-raising committee, I have to submit a list of ideas to Chef Ayden that will help us raise the eight thousand dollars needed for our trip. I talk it over with Angelica, and her creative mind spins with big galas and silent auctions of her artwork. She even suggests reaching out to local rappers and asking them to give proceeds of their record sales for the trip. When I ask Malachi for his thoughts, he goes in a different direction than Angelica; like the doctor he’s told me he wants to be, he talks about the optimal results and makes a bullet-point list of how to make the most money in the quickest fashion. ’Buela taps on her chin when I ask her and thinks of a bingo game at the rec center with all proceeds going to the trip. I’ve been calling Julio more often since the storm, and he’s quick to offer his thoughts on organizing a fund-raiser. He gives me a letter template to petition our district council member and has a whole game plan outlined for me to knock on doors in the neighborhood with food samples so people will donate directly. He says the best way to move forward is to keep it grassroots; when you support the community, the community will support you.

  I make detailed notes of everyone’s suggestions and on my own I spend time in the computer lab after school looking up different ways to raise money. I feel a thrill in my body; I’m excited to put my proposal in motion. I know we can make this work. But first I’ll have to convince Chef Ayden.

  Angelica helps me write up my presentation with graphics and pie charts, and Malachi checks my numbers to make sure all the math is correct. ’Buela and Babygirl listen as I practice presenting my proposal. Although I’m the chairperson, this is my unofficial committee, and like Chef Ayden always says, sometimes you need a team to help you.

  I’m standing in front of Chef Ayden. I’ve printed out neat copies of my ideas, the timeline, and the projected amount we’ll raise.

  “As you see from my list, there are a couple of options. I know the class has thought of a bake sale and I think we should do that to raise money, but not for the class trip. I think we should use it to raise money to buy larger quantities of food to cook in class for us to sell. This very kitchen has the small café next door. Instead of using it for restaurant practice, I think we should open it up and serve lunch. We have all this food that we make but that goes to waste. Why not make larger portions and sell them for more money than we spent on the food? It would only require buying larger amounts, storing the food appropriately throughout the week, and making sure the recipes are ones we can sell. I’m sure the staff would like to have options for something other than the cafeteria food.”

  Chef raises an eyebrow. What I’m asking will mean more work for him, mainly picking up and storing bigger quantities of food weekly. “I also think we should submit a proposal to the school to have us cater the Winter Dinner.”

  I stop speaking and look down at my notes. Chef Ayden pauses before asking me, “The cafeteria staff usually does the Winter Dinner, don’t they?”

  “We all need to learn how to serve, and that would be a great opportunity. We can propose it as one of the objectives: on-the-job experience.”

  Chef cocks his head. “You’ve thought about this a lot, Emoni. I’m impressed. Except, the only class advanced enough to make acceptable food to feed to staff would be yours, and you all meet in the afternoon. If we want the lunch idea to work, people will have to come in early to cook. Do you think you can lead that?”

  I hadn’t counted on more work. But I puff up my chest. I got this.

  The Bright Side

  “’Buela?” I call from the kitchen doorway as I dry off the freshly washed dishes.

  I hear her chanclas shuffling down from her room. “M’ija? What’s going on? Baby Emma is asleep.”

  I try not to let the disappointment show on my face. “Oh, I didn’t know you’d put her down. I didn’t get to say good night.” I glance at the microwave clock. When did it get past ten?

  ’Buela rests against the doorframe. “She dozed off. You know she has all that energy, running around, and then she eats, and boom, fast asleep. Pass me a rag so I can help with those.”

  “Only a few left—I got them. I actually wanted to talk to you about something else. The trip to Spain. Even though I’m not sure if I’ll be able to raise enough to cover my portion, if I can pay for it I’m still not sure what I’ll do with Babygirl that week. I didn’t want to assume you would take on her care all by yourself.”

  ’Buela takes the rag from me and folds it up in a neat little square. “You want to ask for help from Tyrone and his family?”

  I shake my head. “Tyrone has school and his parents work complicated hospital hours. They wouldn’t be able to pick her up and drop her off at daycare.”

  ’Buela sighs. “This is a big deal. I always wanted to travel, you know? I’ve only ever seen my island and Philadelphia. I said after retirement that your grandfather and me would see the world. And then he died, and, well.” She opens her hands as if in prayer. “And here we are. You may never get this opportunity again. I can call Tyrone’s parents, and between us, we can work out a schedule. Let’s think of it as a graduation present? Emoni, nena, speaking of graduation—you know I’m so proud of you, right? But you’re going to have to figure out what happens next. Have you gotten those school applications in? And that FAFSA form thing?”

  I reach out and give ’Buela a tight hug, inhaling her familiar scent. She’s right, about all of it. I have a lot of decisions to make, but tonight I’m going to dream about cooking, and Spain, and graduation.

  Team Player

  “Emoni, can you blanch the asparagus and season it?” Richard calls from where he’s chopping onions. Amanda is absent today and I’ve been standing back less and helping out more. It’s hard to keep my hands from just doing, but Richard makes sure we stay on track, following the recipe down to the last half teaspoon.

  I set the pot of water to boil and slice through the a
sparagus the way the recipe says.

  Over his shoulder, Richard calls out the next instruction. “Oh, and the orzo, that needs to get going.”

  Again, I nod, and get the necessary ingredients from the pantry. Richard is a heavyset kid who wears an oversized jacket and has the cutest little mole over his lip. I think his family is Polish, but Richard is straight Philly, from his haircut to his sneakers. We work down to the wire with him calling instructions and me trying to ensure I don’t do anything I’m not supposed to. Today is a testing day, which means that anything we place in front of Chef will be graded, plus we need to be able to answer questions about each of our dishes. Richard and Amanda always do well and I don’t want to mess up their track record. I measure the necessary salt and grind the fresh peppercorn, and squeeze only so much lemon. The garnish is the exact amount of thyme called for.

  Across the room, Malachi has finished plating and is cleaning up his station, rapping underneath his breath. Leslie swings her hips and mimes being in front of a microphone. I look away from them, and Richard and I approach Chef. He turns the dish in several circles before sticking his fork in, closing his eyes.

  “Asparagus is good, orzo is right. Skirt steak is right.” He opens his eyes. “The dish needs a little more salt, but otherwise, well done. I knew you could pull it off.” And although he is talking to Richard and me, I have a feeling the comment was for me.

  Chef looks at me. “What’s the correct ratio of water to orzo?”

  I answer him. He asks Richard a question about the temperature to cook a steak medium rare.

  Another group stands behind us waiting to approach Chef, and I try to bite back the words bubbling in my mouth, but like a covered pot of boiling water, they spill over. “You need to change your measurement.”

  Chef looks up from his grading. “Excuse me?”

  I point to the recipe. “Your measurement of salt in the recipe, we followed it exactly. So if the dish needs more salt, you need to change your measurement.”

  He raises an eyebrow and as we walk to our station, Richard elbows me in the ribs. “Seriously, Emoni? You couldn’t just let it go?”

  I don’t answer. Call me salty.

  Coven

  “Angelica, where did you get all of this stuff?” I ask her as she bursts through the door carrying bags and bags of fabric. She’s changed her hair to a black bob but the ends are bright pink.

  Angelica really is like one of those tropical storms we keep getting warnings about on the news, swirling until she descends in a pile of mayhem. “You know that Laura works for the theater at her school. She gets access to all the extra fabric from the set. She hooked us up! And not a moment too soon, since Halloween is only a week away.”

  Angelica sets the bags down and walks to where Babygirl sits on the couch in front of the TV, where she’s been spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth. I finger a piece of gold spandex peeking out from one of the bags.

  “Oh my God. Babygirl isn’t even three yet. She’s not big enough for a costume to need this much material. What are we going to do with all of it?”

  “Make her the best damn—I mean, darn—costume anyone has ever seen.”

  “Angelica, I told you I don’t even think I can take her trick-or-treating.” I shuffle from one foot to the other. “And she needs to go to bed soon.”

  “Me and your grandmother will figure out trick-or-treating. She’s not my godbaby for nothing, right, Em?” Angelica leans down and blows kisses onto Babygirl’s feet.

  “Hola, Angelica,” ’Buela says. She’s wearing pink pj’s and her hair is up in rollers. It’d be late for any other friend to come over, but this is Angelica.

  “¡Bendición, Abuela Gloria!” Angelica sings out. She hugs ’Buela so tight that they’re swaying.

  “Que Dios te bendiga, m’ija.” ’Buela dances with Angelica for a moment before gesturing to the bags with her chin. “What’s all this?”

  “We’re going to make a costume for Babygirl. Aren’t we, Babygirl?”

  “Ah, bueno. It’s getting late and she needs to be going to bed, no? Why don’t I help? I can take measurements quicker than you two put together.”

  Angelica pulls out the measuring tape and her design notebook. She starts flipping through the book with her fuschia-tipped hair swinging.

  “I was thinking we could do a doctor! Or maybe even an astronaut! A Chiquita Banana girl with a fruit crown? It all depends on what you want. What should it be?”

  ’Buela chimes in, “A beauty queen? Or how about a movie star? Como la Audrey Hepburn.”

  I look at Babygirl, patiently spooning food into her mouth like she hasn’t a care in the world. And suddenly I know exactly what she should be for Halloween. “I think it’d be cute if she was a chef. With a little smock, and a hat, checkered pants, and a spatula. Maybe even some of those little clogs. She could be ‘cooking’ up a bowl of popcorn.”

  Angelica snaps her fingers. “Yes! That’s so cute! Maybe you can put on your chef jacket and take a picture before you go to work.”

  “A chef,” ’Buela says, a smile lighting up her face. “That’s perfect. And maybe Cheerios instead of popcorn!”

  All of a sudden the three of us are pulling fabric out, and ’Buela has grabbed the measuring tape. Angelica clicks on a playlist on her phone. We all smile at Babygirl, who shows off her teeth as if she knows she has a coven of women holding her down, and that she can be anything and everything we dream for her.

  Dreams

  I sometimes wonder what my mother might have dreamed for me if she hadn’t died when I was born. If she would have wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, if she would have been pushier to ensure I did better in school. I love ’Buela, and I’m so lucky to have her, but as supportive as she is, ’Buela isn’t the type to run down to a school and smack a counselor upside the head for discouraging me from applying somewhere. ’Buela isn’t the type to demand the school test me to see why I get so mixed up with directions or struggled to speak early on. ’Buela walks through the world with her hands palms up; she takes what’s given to her in stride and never complains or cries.

  I dream every single day for Babygirl. I see people in business suits on the bus, and I imagine Babygirl grown up with a briefcase and a nice executive office job. I watch a TV show and imagine Babygirl as a famous actress winning an Oscar. There’s so much I want for her that sometimes I think the seams of my skin aren’t enough to contain every hope I have. And I whisper it to her all the time. When I’m feeding her. When she’s asleep in my arms. When we are playing at the park. I whisper all the everything I know she can be and the ways I’ll fight for her to be them. I want her to know her entire life her mommy may not have had a powerful job or made millions, but that her moms did everything so that she could be an accumulation of the best dreams.

  From: E.Santiago@schs.edu

  To: SarahFowlkes_15@exchange.com

  Date: Friday, November 1, 8:18 PM

  Subject: Pics

  Hey Aunt Sarah,

  I hope you’re good! I’ve kept playing around with that recipe you sent me for your mac and cheese. I’ve attached a picture of it plated. I added some gruyère cheese and it was finger-licking good.

  I also attached a picture of Babygirl for Halloween. Isn’t her apron the cutest? I wasn’t able to go trick-or-treating with her, but ’Buela and Angelica took her all around the neighborhood and to the rec center, where there was a contest for best costume in different age groups. Unfortunately, she lost to an infant T’Challa, but next year we are going to plan in advance and we will win that contest, Wakanda or no Wakanda.

  I appreciate you sending some ideas for the fund-raiser. I actually need one more thing from you . . . do you think you can send me the family’s version for stuffing? I have an idea I think I could use to raise money.

  With all my love & some cinnamon dust,

  E

  Every Day I’m Hustling

  It’s been two weeks since I turned t
he proposal in, but finally Chef Ayden and the school administration have approved my fund-raising plan, and I officially have a new schedule that’s taken over my life. I wake up an hour and a half earlier than I used to, before the sun has even blinked awake, and get ready for school. The guards know two of us have special permission three mornings out of the week to be let into the kitchen early, where Chef waits to start the lunch special for the day. Although he never said anything, I know he had to argue with the principal on our behalf to reopen the small training restaurant attached to the downstairs kitchen.

  Us students rotate so no one has to show up more than once a week, but if someone can’t make it, I fill in since I’m the fund-raising lead. In the afternoons, a different student volunteers to be the lunchtime server for the three different lunch periods; each day after school for a whole week one student washes the dishes and helps Chef Ayden clean the restaurant. Since people are getting extra cooking time in the morning, it should work out that everyone ultimately learns the same number of recipes.

  I expected teachers would want the option of another food spot in the building, but I never expected the little restaurant to be full every single shift. Most days we run out of everything we’ve made and Chef has to turn people away. And at a profit of seven dollars a pop for a meal, and about ten to twelve teachers per lunch period, three lunch periods a day, we’re raising just shy of seven hundred dollars a week and have five weeks still left to go until our December deadline. I’ve done the math over and over, but it still comes out that we’ll hit about three thousand five hundred dollars by the Winter Dinner. I try not let my nervousness over how much we need to raise show when I give weekly updates to the class, but I know I have to do everything in my power to get as many people at the dinner as the gym will hold.