With the Fire on High Page 7

  “Wassup?” I say. I give Pretty Leslie a head-nod and she looks between Malachi and me, her perfectly penciled-in eyebrows furrowing.

  “I’m good, Emoni. How are you?” She pops her gum, then lowers her voice in a fake whisper. “How’s your daughter?”

  I force myself to keep smiling. I’m not ashamed of my baby. I’m not ashamed I had a baby. I’m not ashamed I’m a mother. I lift my chin higher. “Babygirl’s real good. She just started daycare little over a month ago. Thanks for asking.”

  I look Malachi straight in the eyes. His dimples are gone.

  “That’s wonderful!” Leslie says. “I don’t know how you do it, girl. I couldn’t imagine being a parent in high school. Right, Malachi?”

  But Malachi isn’t listening to Leslie. His eyes are on me. If there was one thing I learned once my belly started showing it’s that you can’t control how people look at you, but you can control how far back you pull your shoulders and how high you lift your chin. Boys think of only two things when they find out you had a baby: thing (1) that you’re too much baby-mama drama, or thing (2) that you’re easy. Malachi pushes off the wall, but I keep myself as still as a dancer waiting for her cue before she spins.

  “You called my name because you wanted to ask me something?”

  “Santi, do you like ice cream?”

  I glance at Pretty Leslie. She looks as surprised as I feel. “Uh, ice cream?”

  “I have a craving for ice cream. If you’re not busy after school, you want to get ice cream?”

  He’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him. I look between him and Pretty Leslie. The fake sweet smile she was wearing has cannonballed clear off her face into a pool of confusion. Is Malachi asking me on a date? In front of Pretty Leslie?

  “I mean I know we’re not friends, or whatever.” He smiles. The playful gleam is back in his eyes. “But I was hoping we could talk.”

  I let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I’ll meet you at the main entrance after the bell.”

  And even though ’Buela raised me right, she didn’t raise me to be nobody’s punk, so I don’t bother saying sh—ish to Leslie.

  And damn if I don’t have a little swag in my step as I walk to English.

  Three’s Company

  “Hold up, wait. Run that back for me. That bitch Pretty Leslie tried to basically out you to this guy and then he played the shit out of her and asked you on a date? In front of her? I need to meet this dude ASAP.”

  I laugh at Angelica and grab my sweater from my locker. The weather is definitely cooling down—finally—and the last thing I need is a cold. “She didn’t try to ‘out’ me. I’m not a closet mom. And your language, Gelly!”

  Angelica slams the locker shut. “Don’t try to censor my language, Emoni, just because you slipped in front of Babygirl. But seriously, he didn’t know, right? So it was your story to tell, not hers.”

  “I don’t even know if she did it on purpose. Maybe she was trying to be nice.”

  Gelly hooks her arm through mine. “Emoni, not even you are that naive. Didn’t I raise you better? She was trying to piss on him.”

  “Gelly! What are you saying? Make a right.” We turn.

  “You know exactly what I’m saying. He was a fire hydrant and she was marking her territory, but instead the fire hydrant picked up legs and walked up under your tree.”

  Gelly and her vivid imagination. “I don’t think that extended metaphor is working for you.”

  Angelica screws her forehead up thoughtfully. “No? I think it would make an interesting painting. Where are we going again? Why’d we turn this way?”

  But we’re already at the main entrance and there’s Malachi. Standing with a group of other guys, all of them laughing. How does he make friends so fast?

  Angelica takes one look at him and her eyebrows lift into her bangs. “Isn’t that the cutie I saw walking you to class? Is that Malachi? Is that why we came this way? Get it, girl!”

  I pinch the inside of her arm to hush up any more questions.

  Malachi notices us and daps up the other dudes before breaking through the circle to approach me.

  “You actually came. There is hope in the world,” he says, smiling. Then he turns to Gelly, just like that, not even waiting for an introduction. “I’m Malachi. I transferred from Newark.”

  Angelica’s eyebrows are still raised high on her forehead when she looks at him. “Hello, Malachi. I’m Angelica. What’s your business with my friend?”

  “It’s funny you should ask. Why don’t you come with us for ice cream and we can discuss. Is there somewhere near here we can go?”

  Angelica and I look at each other. There’s no ice-cream spot nearby. And neither one of us would want to hang out so close to school anyway. There’s only one place to go.

  “You ever hung out by the Schuylkill?” I ask.

  We cross the street to the train station on Broad Street. The walk is a silent one and I begin getting nervous about Malachi and Angelica having an awkward conversation. If he says something wrong, Angelica won’t hesitate to tell him about himself.

  But as soon as we get on the train, Malachi asks Angelica a million questions about me, and that traitor starts telling him all my embarrassing middle school stories. I’m glad the train is so packed people can’t overhear their conversation or see my blushing cheeks. Angelica asks him about his intentions again, but it’s clear she’s mellowed out some and Malachi’s small shrug and sweet smile seems to be answer enough for her. We transfer to a second train and it takes us another twelve minutes to get to the right stop, then a five-minute walk toward the boardwalk to find the water-ice shop Angelica and I love.

  “This isn’t ice cream,” Malachi says when we step into the shop.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s better,” Angelica answers. We both look at him, daring him to argue that water ice isn’t a direct gift from the gods.

  Malachi is clearly an intelligent guy because he knows better than to say a word. He just orders his lemon-flavored ice and we walk to the water. It’s a beautiful day and the way the light hits the water makes me so grateful to be where I’m from. I look at the bridge, the city skyline, people in canoes on the water, kids splashing in and out of a sprinkler nearby.

  Angelica spoons some cherry ice into her mouth and breaks the silence. “How are you two liking the culinary arts class?”

  Malachi carefully eats some of his water ice. “I like it. Has Emoni told you about the time we all licked her pudding?”

  Angelica shoves her red bangs out of her eyes. “Hold up, what?”

  I swat Malachi on the arm. “It just sounds dirty.”

  “Ouch. You’re heavy-handed. I’ll add that to the list of things I’ve learned about you today.”

  We all get quiet. Then Angelica smiles brightly. “Well, I’m going to go meet up with Laura. Her school is right around here and it should have just let out. Emoni, give my goddaughter a hug for me. Malachi, make sure you get her home safe.” She points at him as she gets up. “And don’t make me hunt you down.”

  He holds his hands up in surrender. “Yes, ma’am. I will treat her like the friends we aren’t.” He smiles wide. And I see Angelica falter. Angelica, who doesn’t even blink twice over Idris Elba, almost trips on herself at the sight of Malachi’s smile. I see the artist in her spark to attention.

  “What a beautiful smile,” she says softly, like she’s talking more to herself than to him. “This one, the real smile you have on right now. Almost as if you’re choosing to give a sunlit middle finger to this fucked-up world.” She reaches out a finger and taps one of his dimples, softly. “Be careful with that smile.” She raises an eyebrow and looks my way; clearly the warning is for me. Gelly twinkles her fingers goodbye as she leaves.

  When I turn to look at Malachi the smile is gone. The silence grows heavy.

  I throw my empty cup into a nearby trash can and wipe the sticky juice off my fingers with an extra napkin. “She didn�
��t mean anything by that. And she doesn’t like guys, so don’t take the dimple touching too seriously.”

  “You sure? I think I felt some serious vibes coming my way.” But I can tell he’s joking.

  “Why’d you do it? Ignore Pretty Leslie that way? Ask me to get ice cream?”

  He’s eating his water ice really slowly and still has half of it left in his cup. “I know what it’s like to have secrets, or rather, private things. Family shouldn’t be tossed around that way to try and bag some dude. Plus, I wanted to get to know you better. I know we aren’t friends . . . but maybe we can become friends.”

  I pretend to flick him in the face and he spills some of his water ice trying to back away.

  He points at me. “Cheap shot, Santi, cheap shot.” He wipes off his jacket with the napkin I hand him. “You’re not going to ask me what it is?”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “The secret about my family.”

  I shrug. “If you wanted me to know something you’d tell me yourself.”

  “So you didn’t want me to know about your daughter?”

  I spread my hands wide, an open book. “Malachi, I was pregnant most of my freshman year. Everyone knows. It’s not some big secret. But speaking of my daughter, I need to get home. Thank you for inviting me to kick it.”

  Malachi and I turn our backs to the river and he stands on the outside of the street, protecting me from cars as we walk to the train station. I keep a tight leash on the words that yank on my tongue: I want to get to know you, too.

  Phone Calls

  I convince Malachi we only need to ride the train together, but he doesn’t have to get off, since he lives several stops after mine and it doesn’t make sense for him to get off only to hop back on. I can tell he wants to fight me on it, but we both know it makes no sense for him to be riding the train for an extra hour.

  The smile he put on my face is still clinging onto my lips when I walk through the house door. “’Buela! I’m home.”

  She rushes to meet me and at the sight of her wrinkled forehead, my smile loses its grip and falls off my face.

  “’Buela, what’s wrong? Babygirl?” I make a move for the couch, but she blocks me with her body.

  “Where were you? I expected you home half an hour ago. I’ve been calling you and it was going straight to voice mail,” she says. I take a breath. Whatever’s wrong can’t be that bad if she still has it in her to nag.

  I drop my book bag. “I’m sorry. I went to get water ice with Angelica and a friend, and you know how the reception on my phone is when I’m on the train. I just lost track of time.”

  “Yes, you did. Why didn’t you text me? I needed to leave for a doctor’s appointment fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Another one? Is your hand acting up?” This is the second one this month. ’Buela had a lot of doctor visits when she got injured at work years ago, but never this many so often. ’Buela worked at the Macy’s on Walnut Street before it was even a Macy’s, back when it was a Wanamaker’s. She was a seamstress in the alterations department. She worked there for over thirty years, through several store transitions, from the first week she got to Philadelphia until the day she was injured on the job. The fingers on her right hand got caught in a machine, and even after surgery her hand was never really the same. I was still in elementary school and no one was there to pick me up. All the other kids had left before Ms. Martinez, our next-door neighbor, came to get me, explaining that ’Buela had been taken in an ambulance to the hospital. I was scared shitless then, because my whole life I’ve heard ’Buela say ambulances are too expensive and she’d rather catch a cab than ever call one, so I knew whatever had happened to her was serious.

  When ’Buela finally called from the hospital she tried to sound normal and play it off as no big deal, even though her injury was serious enough that she came home with her hand bandaged and her fingers stitched, and she never worked in an official capacity as a seamstress again. And now my mind wants to jump to worst-case scenarios: her hand is giving her pain; she’s sick, really sick, and she doesn’t want to tell me. I’m scared of her answer. It’s probably selfish, but the first thought I have is: What would I do without ’Buela? She’s the starch in my spine, the only hand here to unfurl the wrinkles from my brows, the arms that hold me when I feel like I’m collapsing. I can’t imagine a life without her. My thoughts must show on my face.

  “I’m fine, m’ija. It’s just a quick visit, a follow-up. Nothing to worry about.” She pats my arm. “I got worried because you were late, and Julio called. You know how my nerves get when I speak to him.”

  I want to ask more questions about her doctor’s appointment, but the mention of Julio puts a pause on that conversation. My father is an activist, a big community organizer who holds monthly meetings and lectures at his barbershop in San Juan, so he’s often busy and yet he’s called twice in the last two weeks. But after how he left this summer, I’ve been avoiding him.

  She drops her arm and I walk into the living room where Babygirl is bouncing along with some Bubble Guppies on TV. I still feel shaken up by ’Buela jumping down my throat with the news that she has another doctor’s appointment, and that Julio called again.

  “You got to call your father back, nena. You know how he gets when you’re slow to return his call.”

  “But he didn’t call me, he called you.” I bite my tongue when I hear the whine in my voice, but ’Buela doesn’t let it drop.

  “Don’t start with that tone, Emoni. He calls me because he’s my child. And he asked for you to call him. Now you call him because you’re his child.”

  I drop into a squat in front of my own kid. “Hey, Babygirl! Come give Mommy a hug. Don’t worry, when you grow up I’ll call you and you’ll call me and no one will summon anyone like they’re king of the world.” I keep my voice light and happy, holding out my arms to her. She quickly reaches for me.

  My father isn’t a bad man. He helps a lot of people. He keeps kids’ books in his barbershop to help encourage the children in the community to read. He’s constantly bringing in public speakers to discuss Puerto Rican rights and community concerns, and around the time I got pregnant with Babygirl he began a food drive to help single mothers. But his passions confuse me. Although he raises money for his causes, he never sends any here. Although he cares about his community, his own family gets the short end of the stick. It’s like the best of him is reserved for strangers. And it mixes me up, like batter that isn’t fully blended so there are still hard lumps baking beneath the surface.

  I force myself to take a deep breath. Babygirl smells like baby and soap, but her face smells slightly of old milk. I grab a wipe from her baby bag and clean her cheek. I let go of her so she can keep dancing. My hands fidget with the throw pillows and the plastic of the sofa cover as I try to get my emotions under control. I look to the living room doorway, where ’Buela stands with her arms crossed.

  Thinking about Julio makes my skin itchy. He makes me want to scream; he makes my throat feel clogged. I love my father, but I also might be allergic to him.

  I don’t say anything to ’Buela, and after a long moment she grabs her purse from the coatrack by the door. “Baby Emma had a small snack, but she’ll probably be hungry soon. Don’t worry about saving me dinner. I’ll pick up something after my appointment. Te quiero, nena.”

  “Te quiero también, ’Buela,” I whisper to the closed door.

  Julio, Oh, Julio

  “Hola, Emoni. How are you? About time you called your father.”

  I know I’ve caught Julio at his shop. I can hear razors buzzing and the background noise of grown men murmuring. I can picture him, head cocked to the side so he can press his phone to his ear with his shoulder, his long locs in a ponytail down his back as he creates a perfect right angle out of a customer’s hairline.

  “I’m good, Julio. How are you?”

  Buzz, buzz, buzz. “You know I’m always good. Aquí, busy, busy. Your grandmother tells me y
ou are taking a cooking class in school. And you are going to Spain. That true?”

  ’Buela. She harasses me into calling my father but has already given him a full update. “Only if I can afford it.”

  “Mm-hmm. And why Spain? They wanted you to learn how to cook some real food, they should have brought you here.”

  My father is big fan of the island. And he is not a big fan of Europe. He has a lot of ideas about the way they treated Latin America and the Caribbean when they were in power and believes they (and the United States) are the sole reason why so many of those countries are struggling now. And in case I forget how he feels, he never hesitates to launch into one of his history lessons. “You know that just because they were un poder colonial doesn’t mean they are the center of the world, right, Emoni? What have I always told you? Be proud of who you are so you don’t have to imitate or bow down to your oppressor.”

  Oh man. Julio’s clippers have turned off, which lets me know if I don’t jump in right now I’ll be on the phone for an hour hearing a rant on how we are taught to idolize international superpowers. “Julio, I don’t think we are going to Spain because they were once a colonial power. I think it’s because my instructor really loves Spanish cuisine.”

  “Pftt. Everything they know how to make over there, they learned over here.”

  Probably not everything. I’m sure there has been an exchange of cuisine back and forth, especially with spices, but I doubt every dish was made in Puerto Rico first. Most of my father’s beliefs are based on hard facts that every now and then are seasoned with hyperbole.

  He must tell I’m not going to answer him because after a moment he changes the subject. “How’s my little love doing?”

  I describe Babygirl’s daycare, and the new words she’s learning. He summarizes the biography on Roberto Clemente he read recently. By the time he tells me he needs to get off the phone, I’m sure he’s cut two heads, and has started on a third. But still, when we hang up, neither one of us says I love you. Neither one of us says I miss you. Neither one of says just come live here, with me. He doesn’t say, I’m sorry for leaving. And I don’t say, I’m so angry you left.