With the Fire on High Page 3

  I pause. Not sure what she means by “a little late” and not sure I want to find out. “Yeah, I guess. That was a long time ago. These days, I don’t need anyone to stifle my creativity.” Oregano, garlic powder, cayenne. The words ring in my head and, although I hadn’t been planning on it, I grab some fresh ginger that ’Buela uses for tea. I pull some soy sauce packets out of a drawer we throw fast-food items in. “Put those onions in the pan with the olive oil, ’Buela.”

  “Sofrito?” she asks. But I’m not making the usual base.

  “Something a little different this time.” She tosses the onion into the oil, peels and crushes the garlic in el pilón, and then spoons that into the skillet, too.

  “Bueno, I think you should take anything you want to take. As long as it doesn’t distract you from school and your job. But an international trip, they usually have the students pay for those, right, nena? Is the trip required for you to take the class?” She walks to the sink and washes her hands.

  I shrug, even though she has her back to me.

  The oil pops out of the pan onto my palm. I realize I’ve had it on the heat for too long. I bring the spot where the hot oil landed up to my mouth and suck on the small ache.

  ’Buela gives me a little smile, then glances at her watch. “Okay. We’ll discuss this again later. I’m off to Dr. Burke’s. I don’t know how I had too much time before and now I’m almost late! Where did the minutes go? I’ll be back before bingo. Me guardas dinner.”

  Chefdom

  Since my earliest memory, I imagined I would be a chef one day. When other kids were watching Saturday morning cartoons or music videos on YouTube, I was watching Iron Chef, The Great British Baking Show, and old Anthony Bourdain shows and taking notes. Like, actual notes in the Notes app on my phone. I have long lists of ideas for recipes that I can modify or make my own. This self-appointed class is the only one I’ve ever studied well for.

  I started playing around with the staples of the house: rice, beans, plantains, and chicken. But ’Buela let me expand to the different things I saw on TV. Soufflés, shepherd’s pie, gizzards. When other kids were saving up their lunch money to buy the latest Jordans, I was saving up mine so I could buy the best ingredients. Fish we’d never heard of that I had to get from a special market down by Penn’s Landing. Sausages that I watched Italian abuelitas in South Philly make by hand. I even saved up a whole month’s worth of allowance when I was in seventh grade so I could make ’Buela a special birthday dinner of filet mignon.

  For my twelfth birthday she bought me a knife set—a legit, twelve-count knife set!—that no kid should probably have, but I watched YouTube videos and learned how to use those blades like a pro.

  So, when we were applying to high schools in eighth grade, my middle school counselor asked me what I liked to do, and I told her I wanted to be a chef. I expected her to mention the magnet school with the most prestigious culinary arts program in the city. I’d already done some googling in the library and knew it was the best school around, with restaurant-management classes and gastronomics—all kinds of fancy courses. And the counselor did mention the school. As someplace I would have been able to apply to if my grades had been better. She told me she didn’t think I’d be able to test in. She enrolled me in the lottery for Schomburg Charter instead, even though their culinary arts program wasn’t well known, or even active at the time. She said the school lottery was my best hope to get into a competitive academic program.

  ’Buela prayed about that lottery for weeks. Hundreds of students from all over the city had their names thrown in, and there were fewer than fifty spots open for the incoming class. Out of all the kids who applied from my middle school and neighborhood, only three of us were accepted: Pretty Leslie Peterson from Lehigh Avenue, Angelica, and me.

  See, I’m not a bad student; I’m just not a great student. I feel like I need to do a thing, and let my hands take over in order for me to understand a subject. When I’m in a class that has a lab or is more hands-on, I’m good. But when it’s about memorization or recalling facts, I struggle. Even with extended time I don’t always do well on tests. I’m lucky the teachers at Schomburg work with me to do additional projects that demonstrate I understand, but school isn’t my thing at all.

  And so, the closest I’ve gotten to chefdom is making gourmet tacos for ’Buela and flipping burgers at the Burger Joint. And the one class I’ve most wanted to take hasn’t been offered.

  Until now.

  The New Guy

  “Class, this is Malachi Johnson. He recently transferred here from Newark.”

  Amir in the back cracks his knuckles and I see some of the other dudes slouch in their seats. None of the guys likes someone messing up the vibe, especially not a dude from another city. The girls, though? We straighten up real quick. Well, not me. I’m not interested in a Malachi, Mala-can’t, or a Mala-nothing. But he is a tall, dark-skinned dude, at least six foot four, and I already know he’s a ball player and probably a player player from the way he walks—all swag and probably not one intelligent thought in his head. I look at my schedule. I’ve been going back and forth with the elective decision and Ms. Fuentes needs any changes by the end of class.

  Ms. Fuentes clears her throat, and I look up from my list. She gestures to Malachi like she’s that Vanna White lady from Wheel of Fortune. “Would you like to say a couple of words, Mr. Johnson?”

  Malachi looks at her funny when she calls him “Mister,” but he returns her smile. Angelica would say it transforms his face, that smile. He looks younger than seventeen, sweet, and like straight-up trouble. Some girl—or person (Angelica’s always reminding me not to be “so damn hetero”)—is going to find themselves caught up with Malachi. I can already tell.

  He bounces one hand into the other and then shrugs. “Hey . . . thanks for having me. I’ve heard advisories are super-tight, so appreciate it.” Oh, damn. I got it all wrong. Hearing him speak, I’m sure he’s actually a nerd. Cynthia in the back giggles. Advisory just got a lot more interesting.

  Ms. Fuentes beams at Malachi. “Great! You can grab a seat anywhere. You all go back to working on your essay prompt. I’ll be coming around to conference with you about your schedules.”

  I finish filling out the elective sheet, then turn to the outline of my college essay that Ms. Fuentes assigned yesterday. I have a couple of ideas I might write about: having Babygirl and deciding to keep her. Or maybe what it’s like to be raised by your grandmother because your parents aren’t around. Maybe, what it feels like to get so focused in the kitchen that everything around me fades away. Ms. Fuentes says the topic should be “compelling,” but how am I supposed to know what compels a college admissions person?

  “Ms. Santiago, I’m so glad you’ve decided on the culinary arts class. It’s perfect for you.” Ms. Fuentes moves like a ninja. I didn’t even hear her approach my desk, although I probably should have smelled her coming; her perfume has notes of lemon verbena. I love lemon verbena. Ingredients start arranging themselves on the kitchen counter in my mind and I can already taste an Emoni twist on ’Buela’s tembleque recipe.

  “Ms. Santiago, you heard there’s an international trip opportunity as a component, yes? The teacher, Chef Ayden, has been planning all summer.”

  I snap out of coconut-pudding thoughts. “I heard.” I don’t want Ms. Fuentes to know that ’Buela and I are worried about the fee.

  She moves closer to me. “You’ve talked so much in Advisory about how you love to cook. I think taking this class and traveling abroad will be an amazing opportunity.”

  I look around the room. Most of the other kids have their heads down but I know they’re ear-hustling. Except for the new kid. He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he’s not all in my business. He’s found an empty seat by the sunlit window and is tapping a pencil on his desk, looking straight at me. When I catch his eye, he smiles shyly but keeps on staring.

  I look away from him with a sharp cut of my eyes.


  “Right, I hope the class will be great, Ms. Fuentes. Which one of these essay topics do you think I should write about?”

  She holds my eyes for a long moment, then she shakes her head and pulls her glasses off to peer down at my outline. “I think you should write about the one that scares you most. Taking risks and making choices in spite of fear—it’s what makes our life story compelling.”

  There’s that word again. She walks away but I have a feeling her advice wasn’t about the essay prompt at all.

  On Loss

  What I remember: Tyrone is a pretty boy. Long lashes, slim, hair cut in a fade that was always Philly-sharp. We met at the beginning of my freshman year at a back-to-school turn-up in someone’s basement. Although Tyrone went to school on the other side of the city, up by Mount Airy, where he lives, some of his middle school friends had ended up at Schomburg and it was a mix of kids at the party. Knowing what I know now, I’m surprised I was even invited, since there were barely any ninth graders there, but I think it was because some boy from Tyrone’s school had been trying to get at Angelica. Tyrone was a year older and had a way with words. Pretty boys aren’t usually my thing, especially one who expects you to worship the concrete he stomps on. I ignored him the whole party. This must have been a surprise to him because the next party, at the beginning of October, he was tripping over himself trying to get my attention.

  Pretty Boy Tyrone of the pretty words took me downtown for our first date. We saw a romantic comedy that I thought was funny, but Tyrone kept huffing and puffing about how it was corny. We walked the streets of Love Park surrounded by trees and other couples. I remember I lied to ’Buela that night, told her I was hanging out at Gelly’s house.

  To this day I couldn’t tell someone why Tyrone. Maybe because I didn’t expect him to pick me. Maybe because most boys looked past my stick-board skinny body, more interested in the bubble-butt girls. Maybe because when I made him a cupcake he said it was too pretty to eat and waited a week, when the cupcake had gone stale, before taking a bite and still said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted; said it reminded him of a favorite birthday memory. Said he wanted to make me his girl.

  “It” just seemed like what people were doing, and why not Tyrone? He was fine, older, and mostly nice to me. At least, I convinced myself he was nice. And most important, he wanted me. He could have sex with any girl, but I was the one he was after. Even thinking about it now I get a little twisted up inside. So much of my decision to have sex had more to do with being chosen than it did with any actual sexual attraction.

  The day I lost my virginity, I had a half day at school and Tyrone skipped the rest of his classes to meet up with me. I was so nervous about a busybody neighbor seeing me bring a boy home that we went all the way to his house in Mount Airy while his parents were at work.

  My first impression of sex? It was a lot more technical than I expected. He kept struggling with the condom and I laughed because I was nervous and he was fumbling so much. Apparently laughing is not the move at such a crucial moment, because his face got real tight around the mouth, and the fumbling got worse. And he was supposed to be the experienced one!

  When he finally shoved into me, it stung. For a second I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push him away or pull him closer, and then he was panting and sweating on my chest and apologizing. And I kept telling him it was okay, thinking he was apologizing for hurting me until I realized he was apologizing because it was over. I never even took off my bra. It didn’t even last the entire Weeknd song playing in the background. A bubble of disappointment swelled in my chest and I didn’t know if I was holding back laughter, tears, or a feeling I didn’t know then how to name. All I could keep thinking was that he definitely didn’t have any sweet words or niceness in the moment that I needed it most. I cleaned my own self up, put on my pants, and left. He didn’t even say goodbye.

  When I got home that afternoon, I peeled a ripe plantain. Its skin, dark as night, letting me know how sweet it would be. I sliced the plantain up into a dozen ovals, tossed them into a pan on the highest heat, and cooked them until they almost burned; the sugar turned bitter. I plated them with no accompaniment and I ate and ate until there was nothing left on my plate but a smear of oil.

  It made me sick to my stomach.

  To this day, whenever I’ve served someone maduros they end up crying, teardrops falling onto their plates for reasons they can’t explain; and I can’t eat them myself without weeping, without a phantom ghost pain twingeing between my legs.

  Ever since Tyrone, I don’t really talk to boys like that anymore. Boys at this age will say whatever they need to say to get what they want, and I’ve learned to trust pretty words even less than a pretty face.

  Farewells

  The first two days of school are over and done with, and before I know it, it’s Saturday morning. Which means it’s visitation time.

  For almost the first two years of Babygirl’s life, Tyrone’s parents wanted him and Babygirl to get a blood test. But Tyrone knew I hadn’t been with anyone but him and he never fought me on whether or not she was his daughter. Not that that mattered as long as he lived in his parents’ house. He could come here and see her, and he has several times a month since the day she was born, but it’s only been recently that he’s been allowed to bring her into their house. It seems his parents were convinced by recent pictures that her features are starting to look more like theirs. He’s taken custody every other weekend since the middle of summer and I’m still getting used to it. And she’s still getting used to leaving. It’s not fun for anyone.

  Tyrone may be a lot of things, but at least he’s present. And although he was never on time for a date with me, on the weekends he has to pick up Babygirl, he shows up like clockwork. Which is why I’m not surprised when he arrives at eleven a.m. on the dot on Saturday.

  “Hey, Emma,” he says, and crouches down with open arms.

  “Daddy!” Babygirl sprints over and wraps her arms around him. He lifts her up and throws her into the air.

  “You’ve gotten bigger in the last two weeks! You ready to see Grandma?” He holds her close when he speaks to her and she nods her freshly braided head. Tyrone’s mom doesn’t like seeing Babygirl in anything less than picture-perfect condition. Fuzzy puffs or “casual clothing” won’t do. It’s always a tight, clean hairstyle and Sunday-best-type clothes. She blinks up at her father like he’s a burst of sunshine sliding through a window. I’m not jealous of that look, not at all.

  Tyrone turns to me and grabs the outstretched baby bag. “I’ll have her back right at seven tomorrow night. Anything I should know?”

  I shake my head and lean in to give Babygirl a kiss on her cheek. Tyrone’s cologne drifts around me and I have to stop myself from inhaling too deeply. Damn, he smells good as fu—hell . . . heck.

  I take a step back and stop secretly sniffing him. “Her snacks are packed in her bag. So is her favorite picture book. Anything else just text me. I’ll be at work this afternoon, but I can answer during my break. And ’Buela will be here all day. So you can call the house phone, too.” I’m babbling. I hope he didn’t notice.

  Tyrone nods and bounces Babygirl against his chest. “You’re babbling. You know we have her favorite snacks at my house, right, Emoni? You don’t have to keep packing her juice boxes. And I know how to reach both of you.” He bounces Babygirl some more and she squeals into his neck. I swallow back the lump in my throat. ’Buela stands in the kitchen doorway, circling her wedding band around and around her ring finger.

  “Hey, Mrs. Santiago. How you doing?” Tyrone asks on his way to the door.

  “I’m fine, Tyrone. Thank you for asking.” ’Buela drops her good hand and walks with us to the front door. “Make sure to bring Baby Emma back in one piece,” she says, and reaches out for Emma. Tyrone hands her over without a fuss and ’Buela gives her a long hug before putting her back in Tyrone’s arms. “And you make sure to be a good girl for your father, okay?”

&
nbsp; “Sí, ’Buela.” Babygirl nods seriously. But I know what’s coming.

  We all smile. We open the door. Tyrone aims to walk through it, and just as he’s about to pull the door shut behind him, Babygirl realizes what’s happening. She’s leaving. And ’Buela and I are not coming with her.

  Her tiny face scrunches up and she begins screeching at the top of her lungs. I’m sure the row houses on either side of ours can hear her through the thick brick walls. Everything inside me wants to reach out, snatch her from his arms, and shut the door in his face, let her know I won’t ever let anyone take her from me, but I force myself to be still. This has happened the other four times he came to pick her up. Tyrone looks at me and his full lips press into a thin line. He whispers to her quietly. I know from firsthand experience how Tyrone can sweet-talk a girl out of her fears, but his own daughter seems completely immune to his charm.

  Babygirl continues trying to wrestle herself away from him, but he just keeps backing out of the door and whispering calming words. He scoops her bag more firmly onto his shoulder and strides down the steps. I watch as he buckles her into the car seat in his mother’s expensive Lexus. When the car door shuts, I can’t hear her crying anymore. Beside me ’Buela lets out a small sigh. We both watch through the open doorway until the car has pulled off and is out of sight.

  “She’s going to be fine, you know?” I say to ’Buela.

  She nods and pulls me to her. “She’s going to be fine,” she says back to me. I inhale the scent of her vanilla perfume and begin the countdown until seven p.m. on Sunday. Only thirty-two hours to go.

  I straighten up and blink away the tears in my eyes. I shut the door. “How about I make some tembleque? I was thinking of infusing the coconut with lemon verbena . . . and maybe vanilla. I have a couple of hours before my shift.”