With the Fire on High Page 8

  School

  “All right, folks. I know that we’ve been talking about where you’re applying, and I’ll be circling around to conference with each of you on your selections. While you’re waiting, go ahead and fill out the survey in front of you with different majors, job opportunities, and fields to consider.”

  I give a head-nod to Malachi, who walks in late. Before we went our separate ways on the train, he saved his number on my phone. I texted him after I spoke with Julio and let him know I got in okay, but he didn’t respond until an hour later, and by then I was making dinner, then bathing Babygirl before bed, and then sliding straight into my homework. I never did manage to text him back. The water-ice date was nice, but ’Buela’s reaction to my being out so long was a reminder I don’t have time to waste chopping it up and flirting with boys.

  I stare at Ms. Fuentes’s questionnaire, filling in answers about my temperament, ideal work schedule, desired income, and experience. I’m on the third page when Ms. Fuentes sits down at the empty desk next to me.

  “Hey, Ms. Santiago. What are you thinking?”

  I shrug. “I know we’ve talked about it a little, but the guidance counselor says my grades ‘leave a lot to be desired.’ She thinks the majority of schools in the city I was looking into might be a reach. I’m wondering if it makes more sense to get a good job after high school and focus on that instead of this application.”

  “Because of Emma?”

  I hesitate for a second, because saying Babygirl is the reason would be easier. But I don’t know if it’s the whole truth. “I can’t ask my grandmother to take care of Babygirl forever. I don’t want my grandmother to do that. I want to be able to take care of my own, and the only thing I would want to study is culinary arts, but why try to learn that in a school when I could learn it in a real restaurant where I’m making money instead of spending it?”

  I can tell that Ms. Fuentes doesn’t like that answer. She frowns so hard her brows meet in the middle. “Don’t you think it’ll be better in the long run for your family if you have a college degree? Then if cooking doesn’t work out, you have other options. I just want you to make something of yourself,” Ms. Fuentes says.

  I almost suck my teeth. I love Ms. Fuentes, but sometimes she says real stupid shit. “I think there are lots of ways to ‘make something’ of yourself and still support your family. College isn’t the only way.”

  She nods. “Of course. I’m sorry if what I said came across wrong; I just want you to apply to college so, come April, at least you have the option of deciding to do something else. At least then you’ll have choices. And who knows? Your mind-set about school might change in a few months.”

  I look at Ms. Fuentes. She’s young, maybe early thirties, not like a lot of the teachers at the school. And she’s hip to most things like fashion and music, but she doesn’t have a kid. She doesn’t have a grandmother who’s spent the last thirty-five years raising a son and then her son’s kid and now her son’s kid’s kid. No, Ms. Fuentes has a job that she seems to like, and she can afford nice perfume, and cute outfits, and pretty manicures, and to give out advice nobody asked for.

  I don’t tell Ms. Fuentes that I just don’t think more school is for me. That I’d rather save my money for my daughter’s college tuition instead of my own. That when I think of my hopes and dreams I don’t think I can follow them from a classroom. That my hopes and dreams seem so far out of reach I have to squint to see them, so how could I possibly pursue them?

  Going Places

  “Angelica, this is amazing.” I look at the mock-up album cover she created for a rapper who graduated last year. He has a mixtape coming out in a month and everybody who’s gone to Schomburg knows if you need artwork done for a project, Angelica is your girl. She’s had this side hustle for years and it’s one of the ways she’s able to keep herself dressed like she’s in her own reality TV show. Angelica has her peanut-butter sandwich halfway to her mouth.

  “You like it? It was something light. He didn’t have much of a budget to work with.”

  I shake my head. Angelica’s “something light” is something most people would frame. The cover shows a hand-drawn version of the rapper; the skyline behind him etched in pencil ends in an elegant loop that spells out the album’s name. This is too good for just a mixtape. And for a moment I get a lump in my throat. Angelica is going to be something big one day. She’s going to be the go-to person for famous people’s art. And I’m so, so hype for her. And I’m also going to still be here, left behind.

  I force myself to smile.

  “If you don’t get a full scholarship, I’ll fight the admissions officers myself. Your portfolio must be a hundred times better than other applicants’.”

  She shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich. “Let’s hope so, girl.”

  I mix soy sauce, ketchup, and a packet of sugar and try and make a mock Korean BBQ sauce for my chicken nuggets.

  Angelica puts her hand on mine. “Stop playing with your food, Emoni. You only play with your food when you’re upset. What’s wrong?”

  And now it’s my turn to shrug. “I guess it’s a lot of things. My father called last night, and although we had a long conversation, I just don’t know; I’m still mad at him. ’Buela has been having all these doctor appointments and she says it’s nothing but I don’t believe her; she won’t meet my eyes when she says it. And I don’t know what to do about college.” I don’t mention the mixed-up feelings I’ve been having about Malachi.

  “Mmm, you got a lot going on. I hope Abuela Gloria is okay. Maybe her doctor’s appointments are just checkups or something? What was Ms. Fuentes saying about college? Mr. Goldberg was going on and on about the college applications and how we’re going to have to start turning those in. Jesus, it’s not even November yet.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the middle of October next week. And before you know it it’ll be December, when everything is due to the guidance counselor for review,” I say. The deadlines are all engraved into my mental calendar; I just don’t know what I’m going to do about them.

  “What are you going to be for Halloween?” Angelica asks, finishing off her sandwich.

  “Huh?” I laugh. She’s always been that way. Able to jump around from subject to subject and know exactly when to switch it up on me. But I know that she’s also trying to take my mind off problems that I can’t fix and she can’t either. “What day of the week is it this year?”

  “A Thursday,” Angelica says, checking her phone calendar.

  I shake my head. “I usually work Thursdays. But maybe I need to start thinking about what I’ll dress Babygirl as in case ’Buela wants to take her out.”

  Angelica’s eyes widen and I glance around to see what she’s looking at. “We should make her a costume! It’ll be so cute.”

  I laugh again and eat another chicken nugget as Angelica sketches costumes on a napkin. The laughter helps ease the weight on my chest. And the sauce tastes just a little bit sweeter.

  Basura

  The next day, I set my plate in front of Chef Ayden and he turns it round and round. I wait for him to pick up his fork and knife.

  “Trash it,” he says without looking up at me.

  “Ex-excuse me?” I stutter out. Is he kidding? I look around the room but none of the other students meets my eyes. They are all standing, waiting to present their dishes, but our usually noisy class is suddenly very quiet. Malachi is the only person not pretending he’s not all in my business, and his eyebrows quirk in confusion, as if he’s stuck on Chef’s command as well.

  “Trash it,” Chef says again, but this time he looks at me straight on.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I ask. I know the twitch in my jaw is probably showing. I can’t believe he would tell me to throw away something he hasn’t even tasted!

  “It’s not the recipe I gave you. It doesn’t have the same ingredients, and the cut on these is wrong.”

  “It tastes good, it’s well-balanced like you t
ell us to do, and the presentation is flawless,” I say through my teeth.

  He grabs a fork, stabs the dish, and pops it in his mouth. He’s quiet for a long moment. And I can tell he loves it. He shakes his head. “Cumin, basil, oregano.” His eyes pop open. “None of those ingredients were in the recipe. This isn’t the same dish at all. I can’t grade something that is more about creativity than execution. That wasn’t the point of today’s evaluation. So I won’t say it again: trash it.” He sets his fork down.

  My eyes sting but I bite my lip hard and grab my dish. I slap the plastic plate against the side of the trash bin and the food slides off. With my hands shaking, I unbutton my chef’s jacket, tug off my scarf. When the bell rings, I wait for everyone else to leave. Malachi is the last student left besides me and he touches my arm on his way to the door. “Come with me, Santi. Let this one go.”

  I shake his hand off.

  Chef is behind his long metal table entering the last of the grades in his laptop. He lifts his head slowly. “Yes, Emoni. Can I help you with something?”

  I know my anger is like graffiti tagged onto my face and I don’t care if he can see. “Why’d you make me do that?”

  Almost as if in response to the bite in my voice, his voice gets even calmer. “You didn’t prepare the dish correctly.”

  “So what? It tasted good.”

  “I told you before, sometimes following directions isn’t about stifling your creativity, it’s about showing respect. You have a complete disregard for the rules. That’s all well and good, when you’re a professional. But when you’re learning, you need to know the rules before you break them.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. What if the rules are stupid? What if that wasn’t a great recipe to begin with? Why should I learn to make a bad recipe well?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not about my rules, Emoni. Or my recipes. A customer walks in and asks for a flank steak, medium rare. At what internal temperature do you pull the steak off the grill?”

  I pause and think.

  “It’s burning, Emoni. The steak is burning because you can’t remember the temperature or timing and now the customer is upset that it’s too tough and they won’t be coming back. And it was only a small, technical rule. What if a customer is allergic to cayenne, and it doesn’t say that’s in the ingredient list, but you wanted to express yourself at the last minute and now the customer is sick. I could come up with a hundred scenarios.”

  He holds my gaze one second longer, then goes back to his laptop. He doesn’t have to say that I’ve been dismissed for me to know it.

  I slam his door behind me, knowing exactly how much it annoys Chef when students do that. It doesn’t matter. After today, I don’t think I’ll be his student much longer.

  Home Is Where

  I cut last-period English for the first time since I was a freshman. I spent some time out of school while I was pregnant, so I’ve tried to be really aware of the absences I rack up. But with only one class left, and my hands still trembling after Culinary Arts, I can’t sit in a classroom trying to talk about how Baldwin depicts religion and race in his work.

  The security guard should probably stop me, but with so many seniors constantly leaving the building for doctor appointments and interviews, or because they are done for the day, the guard on duty hardly glances my way before waving me on.

  And so, I go to the only person who can make me feel better.

  Babygirl’s daycare isn’t too far from the house, and instead of taking the bus or train, I walk the whole way there, using the hour to clear my head and getting there right around pickup time. I peek through the window into her classroom. She’s standing at a play kitchen swinging a large plastic spoon. It’s one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen and for some reason I tear up. I don’t stop looking even when I smell the soft scent of vanilla.

  “Doesn’t it just fill your heart up?” ’Buela asks me. I should have texted her to tell her I’d pick up Babygirl today.

  I nod. I don’t need to answer that. She can probably see it on my face.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not in school?” I finally say.

  ’Buela is still looking at Babygirl through the window. “In a couple of months you’ll be an adult. I trust you with that child; I should trust you with yourself.”

  And although her trust should make me feel better, I feel a slight pang in my chest. Every day it seems ’Buela is stepping back, not just giving me full rein in Babygirl’s life, but also in my own. And I know I should love the freedom, but I don’t think I’m ready for all the safety nets to be cut loose. Doesn’t she know I still need her? That I still wish someone would look at the pieces of my life and tell me how to make sure they all fit back together?

  I Been Grown

  Here’s the thing: These teachers forget that I have to make hard decisions every day. That I’ve been doing that for almost three years and that I know when they are trying to convince me to do something they think is right without them knowing my situation. I’ve had to decide whether it was better to breastfeed or wean Babygirl early so I wasn’t dripping milk in class. Whether I should tell my father how I feel about his absence or suck it up and be thankful that at least I have a father. Whether it’s safe to send my daughter to a daycare I don’t know, or try to coax ’Buela to raise a toddler when she’s tired and has other obligations.

  Whether I should have had a baby.

  And that was probably the hardest decision I’ve ever made. No one had the right answers; no one knew if I could cut it as a mom or if I should give the baby up for adoption. If I should have aborted her. For all his faults, Tyrone never pushed me in any direction. His parents wanted the baby gone, but Tyrone told me I should decide. ’Buela cried the night I told her I was pregnant, big, silent sobs, and I know it was partly for me and partly for her—she’d thought she’d raised her last child.

  “Emoni, pregúntate, are you ready? If you have this baby, your life will no longer be about you. Every decision you make will have to include this child. You can’t be selfish anymore; you can’t put your wants above the baby’s. This is the last time someone will ask you what you want before asking you what your baby needs. Piénsalo bien.”

  ’Buela is a soft Catholic. She believes in the teachings of God, but she doesn’t push her religion on people. I went to church with her on Sundays, but she didn’t force me to do communion or confirmation. And she didn’t force me to keep the baby. She just held my hand and told me to think about what it would mean. I was fourteen; I had no idea what it would mean.

  Julio was silent when I told him over the phone. Finally he asked me to put ’Buela on, and she took the phone into her room. We never talked about my pregnancy again. He didn’t ask if I would keep the baby or not.

  Without telling anyone, I went to the free clinic. I sat in the plastic chair. I didn’t have a big belly yet, no swollen feet, no one kicking inside me reminding me of their presence. I didn’t have anything but a pee test and a missed period as evidence of a baby. The nurses at the clinic were so nice. The doctor treated me like a full adult and told me all the options, all the risks, all the procedures. She didn’t push anything on me, and she also didn’t pity me.

  And the only question I kept asking myself was, “Can I do this?” And I realized there wasn’t going to be a perfect answer, only the right answer for me.

  Hurricane Season

  ’Buela is watching the news before the Sunday-night game begins while I study for my ServSafe quiz this week. Babygirl should be back in about an hour and I can’t wait to hold her. All weekend Tyrone sent me pictures of her and updates, and it feels like we are finally falling into a rhythm during these visits.

  At ’Buela’s soft gasp I look up at the TV, expecting to see that one of her favorite players was injured. But instead it’s the weather forecast, and at the image of swirling clouds in the south my chest tightens. ’Buela and I both know what storms mean for North Carolina and esp
ecially Puerto Rico. It wasn’t that long ago that a hurricane hit the island and caused more destruction than we’d ever seen.

  That last time we didn’t hear from Julio for more than three weeks.

  ’Buela could barely eat, and I only slept a handful of hours a night. We would just keep trying his cell phone and contacting hotlines to see if anyone had heard from him. But there was no news. I spent days trying to track down people in his neighborhood only to be told no one had seen him. I was more afraid during those weeks than I’d been even while in labor. And I was pretty scared then, being that my mother didn’t make it out of labor alive. But the fear you have for someone else’s life always eclipses the fear you have for your own.

  And now when folks have barely gotten on their feet it seems like another storm is coming.

  “Did you return your father’s last call?”

  I nod. And thank goodness I called him this past Wednesday even though that phone call was tense. I take my hurt feelings and fold them small, tucking them away in a corner of my heart. Right now, they don’t matter.

  “Emoni! Twice in one week, it must be my birthday.”

  I’m already speaking before he finishes his sentence. “Julio, there’s a storm forming near you. Did you see? It’s supposed to make landfall in a week.”

  And I wait for him to shrug it off like he usually does whenever there’s a storm. He’s always so quick to say that nothing and no one will make him leave his island, but there’s a slight pause after my question as if Julio is trying to find the words to say to me. “I saw, of course I saw, Emoni. We are storing provisions at the shop and making sure generators are up and running in case power gives out. The barrio has a plan and I’m seeing to it folks are safe.”