With the Fire on High Page 2

  And that if everything else goes wrong, a little squeeze of lime and a bottle of hot sauce ain’t never hurt nobody.

  The Authors

  “All right, girlie, see you at lunch?” Angelica says as we stop outside my advisory. Advisory is Schomburg’s fancy name for homeroom.

  “Yeah, save me a seat by the windows if you get there first. Oh, and grab me—”

  “Some applesauce if they look like they’re running out. I know, Emoni.” Angelica smirks and walks away. And she does know me. I love the school applesauce—extra cinnamony.

  Ms. Fuentes has been my advisor since my first day at Schomburg Charter, and her classroom has never changed. Lady still has the same motivational sign above her door: You’re the Author of Your Own Life Story. That sign has stared at us twenty advisory students from the time when we walked in as little-bitty freshmen. And even though it doesn’t make me roll my eyes anymore, I still think it’s corny. Nonetheless, Advisory is my favorite class period of the day, even though it’s also the shortest; it’s where Ms. Fuentes takes attendance, makes announcements, and gives us college prep and “character-building” exercises. But most important, it’s the only class that has had the same students in it since freshman year. So we can talk here the way we can’t in any other class.

  Ms. Fuentes looks up from the classroom window shades to see me staring at her inspirational sign. “Ms. Santiago, how was your summer?” she says as she adjusts the shades so they let in more light. She does that, the Mr. This and Ms. That. Has since we walked into her classroom at fourteen. I sit at my desk in the second row, closest to the door. It was clutch when I was pregnant and had to rush to the bathroom every five minutes, and I haven’t switched seats since.

  I shrug. “Good. Got a job. Yours?”

  Ms. Fuentes stops mid-shade-fussing to side-eye me. “You’re always so loquacious. It’s refreshing to have a student who believes in something other than monosyllables.” But she’s smiling. She’s never said it, but I know I’m one of her favorites. Other students begin trickling into the room.

  I smile back at her. “Aw, Ms. Fuentes, I see you worked on your sarcasm this summer. It’s gotten so much better.”

  She stops messing with the windows and walks closer to my desk. She says softly, “How’s Emma? Where’d you get a job?”

  “She’s real good, Ms. Fuentes. And the job is at the Burger Joint.” Which, although it’s spelled all official, I still pronounce “jawn.” They think just because the Temple area has changed some that they gotta be fancy, but a burger jawn is a burger jawn regardless of how you spell it. “You know the spot near the university? I work there after school two days during the week and four hours every weekend.”

  Her pretty, manicured nails tap on my desk and I imagine she’s tracing her finger along a mental map of North Philly.

  “Yes, I think I’ve passed it before. Are you going to be able to juggle everything while also working there?”

  I drop my eyes to my desk. “I should be okay. It’s not that many hours.”

  “I see. . . . I know senior year is already stressful; try not to take on too much.”

  And I don’t know what to say. It’s not that many hours; in fact, I wish it were more. The cash I get from those little checks helps with groceries, Babygirl’s expenses, and whatever ’Buela’s disability money doesn’t cover.

  My silence doesn’t faze Ms. Fuentes at all. “I have a surprise for you when the bell rings—a class I think you would love.”

  She squeezes my shoulder before giving her attention to Amir Robinson from the Strawberry Mansion area. “Welcome back, Mr. Robinson! Jesus, but you grew over the summer!” Ms. Fuentes walks away, calling out, “Ms. Connor, I dusted off your favorite seat in the back row just for you. . . .”

  That Girl

  Yup. I was that girl your moms warns you about being friends with. And warns you about becoming. Not even done with freshman year of high school and already a belly that extended past my toes. It’s a good thing Babygirl was born in August since I probably would have failed out if I had to go to school the last month of my pregnancy. And the thing with being pregnant as a teen is that your body isn’t the only thing that changes. It wasn’t just that I always had to pee, or that my back always hurt. It wasn’t only that my feet ached and I cooked the funkiest meals (they were still so good they’d make you twerk something, but definitely off the wall: macaroni jalapeño burgers and Caribbean jerk lamb tacos).

  The biggest changes weren’t the ones that happened to my body at all.

  It was that ’Buela had to scrounge up more sewing jobs to supplement the money she gets from disability, that the viejos playing dominoes on the corner shook their heads when I walked past, that dudes on the train smirked at my swollen boobs but wouldn’t give up their seats; that I had to take a million make-up tests for the days I was at doctor appointments or too morning-sick to make it to school.

  When they first learned I was pregnant, Principal Holderness and the guidance counselor called a special meeting in the main office. ’Buela had to come into school and they called in Ms. Fuentes, too. Principal Holderness and the counselor offered to transfer me to an alternative high school program specifically for pregnant teens. But Ms. Fuentes didn’t play that. She said switching me midyear into a new school would be a hard adjustment, and that since the program had a decelerated curriculum it would affect my graduating on time. I know she called ’Buela beforehand to discuss it, and they must have come up with a plan, because ’Buela was quick to chime in, saying my staying at Schomburg Charter would be “pivotal for my retention and matriculation.” The sentence sounded as if she’d rehearsed it, circling her mouth over those words in the mirror to make sure she got it right, and I know it was Ms. Fuentes who had explained to ’Buela what that meeting would be about. I didn’t even know what those words meant at the time, but I know now Ms. Fuentes was fighting to help keep me a regular kid for as long as possible.

  I’ve always been small: physically petite, which made people think I had a small personality, too. And then, all of a sudden, I was a walking PSA: a bloated teen warning, taking up too much space and calling too much attention.

  Immersed

  “I’ve got two announcements,” Ms. Fuentes says.

  “Ms. Fuentes,” Amir calls out without raising his hand. “You better not say you leaving.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that, Mr. Robinson,” she says, and we all slump a bit in relief. “The first announcement is that there are going to be changes to the schedule. In August some new faculty members were hired, and needless to say, it has affected class schedules. There are new elective courses being offered for seniors, and I’m going to pass around the new course listing. The second announcement is about a new student.”

  We all groan. In almost every class I’ve ever had, students come and go throughout the entire year and nobody cares. But Advisory is different. Nobody wants to talk around no strangers that aren’t going to last long.

  “I know, I know. I’ve fought the administration tooth and nail to keep Advisory small and with the same students, but there just isn’t room anywhere else. I’ve met the student and I think he’ll be a great fit. He’s registering today, but when he comes in tomorrow make sure you’re all on your best behavior. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Now, let’s talk about electives.”

  Ms. Fuentes smiles and slides a handout onto each of our desks.

  “Look carefully at this list, think about what class is the best fit, and get back to me tomorrow.”

  We all pick up our bags at the ringing bell. I wave to Ms. Fuentes on my way out, looking at the long list of electives. The old favorites are still there: Photography, Creative Writing, Woodshop, Dance. And there, tucked at the bottom of the list:

  Culinary Arts: Spain Immersion.

  The class title balloons and rises above the rest, growing in my vision until I can’t make out the other words. In all my time at Schomburg Charter there has n
ever been a culinary arts elective—even though the school has both a classroom kitchen and an unused café from years past. I imagine this class is going to fill right up.

  And for a second, excitement bubbles inside me like a simmering pot. I can finally take an official cooking class, and one with a specific regional focus. And then I remember, it’s senior year. The responsible thing to do would be to stay with my current schedule and keep my study hall. Not add another class or more work. I turn down the simmer of excitement until it dies.

  Two periods later, I meet Angelica at the cafeteria entrance and she eyes the line as if she’s trying to find someone who will let us cut. “Did you see the graphic design elective? You should take it with me!”

  I shake my head. Girl knows I’m not doing no damn—dang—graphic design. “Angelica, we both know I can’t even stick-figure draw.”

  She stops craning her neck and we get on the back of the line, where I rummage through my bag.

  “Your stick figures are beautiful. Don’t hate on yourself. But no class can compete with the culinary arts class, right? That class was made for you.”

  When she sees me pulling out my phone, she presses her hand to lower mine. “Girl, what are you doing? The summer must have canceled your brain. You know your phone will get taken if a security guard sees you pull it out. They live for that shit.”

  “’Buela has a doctor’s appointment at four thirty and I may not have time to check in later. I just wanted to send a quick text to see how Babygirl’s drop-off went.”

  Angelica changes sides with me to cover my body from any security guards or teachers who might be watching. The cafeteria ladies see me, but the only thing they care about is lunch portions and keeping the line moving. I check to make sure no one from the daycare called, send a text to ’Buela, and drop my phone back into my bag.

  “Thanks for covering me.”

  “I’m going to need to you do the same thing when I send this thirst trap pic to Laura.”

  I shake my head with a smile. We pay for our lunch and make our way back to the table by the windows. One thing about Angelica: she’s a pit bull once she sinks her teeth into an idea. And she’s right back on discussing electives as soon as we grab a seat.

  “Emoni, I see you doing that thing.”

  I groan and take a bite of my sandwich. I want to save my yummy applesauce for last. “What thing?” I say around a mouthful of turkey. If they put a little chutney on the bread, or a nice garlic spread and toasted it, this sandwich would be bomb. My fingers itch to take out my phone to write down a recipe idea.

  “That martyr thing you do when you want something but convince yourself you can’t have it because of Babygirl, or ’Buela.”

  I swallow. Is she right? Is that what I’m doing? Sometimes your girl reads you better than anyone else. “I just wish I had it figured out like you, Gelly. The girlfriend, the art school dreams, the grades.”

  She points her spork at me. “You’re stronger than anyone I know, Emoni Santiago. It’s senior year, the last time we get to just be teenagers. If you can’t try something new now, when can you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d like to learn how to cook food from Spain.”

  Behind her glasses, Angelica’s eyes get wide. “Girl, you know it’s not just learning to cook food from Spain, it’s learning to cook food in Spain. My advisor told me there’s a weeklong trip in the spring.”

  Schomburg has offered immersion classes before. A pre-Columbian history class that took students to an archeological site in Mexico, a fashion design class that took students on a tour of old textile mills in New England. There’s never been a class I wanted to take, or a trip I thought I could afford.

  And you have no business taking this class when you could have a study hall, and you can’t afford this trip either, Emoni. But I don’t say anything out loud to Angelica. I just take another bite of my sandwich, close my eyes, and savor, because I can’t think of a single way to make my life more how I imagine it, but I can imagine a hundred ways to make this sandwich better. And sometimes focusing on what you can control is the only way to lessen the pang in your chest when you think about the things you can’t.

  Kitchen Sink Conversations

  “Babygirl! You already look like you’ve grown!” I pick her up and twirl her around the living room.

  ’Buela swats at my butt with a dustrag. “Ay, Emoni, set her down. She just had some crackers.” At that threat of throw-up, I settle Babygirl on my hip, even though she’s getting heavier and I’m not getting any bigger.

  “Did you learn a lot, Babygirl?” She nods and snuggles into my neck, still cradling her juice cup. I run my finger down her chubby cheek. My favorite silent game to play is to try and find my family in her features. Her big brown eyes and long lashes have to come from me; ’Buela has the same eyes. Her lips are the same shape as her father’s. Aunt Sarah has shared some baby pictures of my mother and her as children, and I like to think I can see that lineage in her button nose, the seashell of her ears. And then there’s the pieces of Babygirl that belong to her alone.

  She pulls back from my neck suddenly and lowers her juice cup. “Chugga, chugga, choo-choo train!” she says. I look at ’Buela with a raised eyebrow.

  “They read a book in daycare about trains. Mamá Clara says that Emma was very interested.”

  I nod at Babygirl as she garbles out a summary of the choo-choo trains book. At least, I assume that’s what she’s telling me.

  “Don’t you have a doctor’s appointment?” I ask ’Buela when Babygirl is finished. “I thought I would find you running out the door. What’s it for again?”

  ’Buela dusts off the family photos on the mantel. “My appointment got pushed back fifteen minutes, so I have a bit of time.”

  I notice she didn’t answer the whole question, but unlike Angelica, I know when someone wants a subject dropped. It was probably the gynecologist or something. And while ’Buela and I talk about everything, I’d really rather not know about her vagina. “Well, that’s great. Babygirl, ’Buela or I will read to you tonight before bed. I think we have a choo-choo book around here somewhere.” I set Babygirl down.

  “No, not ’Buela. Tonight is bingo at the rec center. It’s all you, Mommy.”

  I walk over and hook an arm across her shoulders. “Gonna go flirt with the cute bingo men?”

  She shrugs my arm off and pokes me in the rib. “You always thinking about boys,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s serious or not, even though we both know that’s not true. I ignore the tightness that immediately takes up space in my body. Although ’Buela never said anything to make me feel ashamed, I always wonder if she thinks I’m fast. If she secretly resents me for Babygirl.

  ’Buela must notice my stillness, because her face softens. “What are you going to make for dinner?”

  The thought of cooking helps me let go of the mixed-up feelings inside. “I swear, you only keep me around for my cooking.”

  ’Buela nods. “The only reason, of course. Glad you finally realized.” But then ’Buela reaches out and grabs my hand. “Look how much you’ve grown,” she says. “Did you learn a lot today?” That’s ’Buela. Always cutting up the way only a Puerto Rican transplant to the hood can.

  “You know how it is senior year; they’re just trying to get us all through the door. Most exciting thing that happened is we get to pick new electives.”

  I turn on the TV to PBS and sit Babygirl on the couch with some toys and picture books. Take my shoes off and walk into the kitchen. The fridge is stocked—’Buela must have gone grocery shopping this morning after dropping Babygirl off. We have iceberg lettuce (yuck) and bell peppers (yum), ground beef, onions. An idea begins taking root. I pull out the ingredients I need and rinse off my cutting board.

  ’Buela comes into the kitchen and places her good hand against the counter so she’s in the perfect position to watch me cook and also to peek into the living room and check on Babygirl.


  “And so what class did you decide to take?” she asks me. I glance at her, unsure of her tone. She looks good in an Eagles-green sweater, cream dress pants, and her chanclas. Her pressed hair falls softly to cradle her brown chin. Her dark eyes, Babygirl’s same eyes, my same eyes, are thoughtful.

  I rinse off my favorite knife. “Um, I’m not sure. I had applied for study hall so I could get more homework done. With the new job and everything, free time on the weekend is going to be hard to come by.” I chop the tops off the bell peppers and set them aside, move to slicing the onion.

  “Well, that’s very practical. How’s Ms. Fuentes?”

  “She’s good.” I should just let the subject drop since it’s clear ’Buela means to, but then the words are out my mouth. “One of the classes that caught my eye was a culinary arts class.”

  ’Buela reaches over and takes the knife from my hand. “You tell Ms. Fuentes I say hello. Work on the meat. I’ll chop this for you.”

  “Dice it, please. Like this big,” I say, and hold my fingers about three centimeters apart.

  “And so, you want to take this culinary arts class?” she says, slicing the onion down the middle until she has two halves. I move away but watch her from the corner of my eye.

  She stops mid-slice and holds the knife up. “Muchacha, I can chop an onion. Me vas a mirar the whole time I do it?”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. Did I mention that my sous chef is temperamental? “Dice, ’Buela. Not chop. All the same size, please. And no, I don’t know about the class. It sounds interesting, and I hear it includes a trip to Spain.” I slide her a look. I try not to stare directly since I wouldn’t put it past her to threaten me with the knife again for clocking her work. But I also don’t know what she’s going to say.

  She cuts the onion carefully and quickly: my grandmother is a woman who is not afraid of tears or sharp things. “You wanted to go to culinary school once, didn’t you? A little late for that now, though.”