With the Fire on High Page 9

  And then we are both quiet, because I don’t know how to tell him I think he should get out of harm’s way. And I don’t think he knows how to say those words, either.

  ’Buela saves us both. “Ask Julio if he’s coming here. We need to get him a flight. They’re saying this storm is going to be bad.”

  He must hear her through the phone because he answers before I repeat the question. “Tell Mami I’m not leaving my home. This is where I was born. This is where I live. This is where I’ll die, whenever God decides that should be. You gotta make your home better; you don’t just run because you can. The community needs as many people organizing as possible.”

  I nod into the phone even though he can’t see me. And we sit still like that for a while, listening to each other breathe.

  Part Two

  The Savory

  EMONI’S

  “No Use Crying Over Spilled Strawberry Milk”

  RECIPE

  Serves: Your ego when you’re full of regret.

  Ingredients:

  As many strawberries as you can find

  Sugar to taste

  Enough water to cover the sugar

  A glass and a half of whole milk

  Three drops of Caribbean vanilla extract infused with mint

  Directions:

  1. In a saucepan, heat strawberries, water, and sugar until it boils. Water will begin to evaporate and the mixture will thicken until it looks like jam. Keep on the stove for the duration of three listens to a Cardi B song.

  2. Strain the mixture so that the cooked-down strawberries are separated from the leftover syrup. Let the syrup cool.

  3. Pour a large glass of milk and mix the equivalent of three mouthfuls of syrup into the milk and the infused vanilla. Stir until the milk is evenly pink.

  *Best enjoyed while playing hide-and-seek with your toddler and listening to Rihanna’s top hits.

  Skipping

  I don’t go to Culinary Arts the following Monday. I sneak into the library through the back entrance instead. The library is nice and quiet and teachers rarely look for students here.

  When Wednesday afternoon rolls around, I still don’t go to class. Malachi somehow sneaks off a text asking me where I am. I send him a smiley-face emoji but nothing else. He shoots me questioning looks during Advisory every morning, but I shake my head, and he finally stops asking me about class and we talk about other things. I spend the whole week doing assignments in the library and ignoring the absences I’m racking up. At some point Ms. Fuentes will receive a notice letting her know one of her students isn’t attending a class. And I know that I’m also setting myself up to fail the class. But although I never want to go back to Culinary Arts, I also can’t bring myself to drop it completely, and it doesn’t seem ready to drop me, either; in fact, it confronts me at the Burger Joint.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  I move to the assembly line and grab the order of burgers and fries, juggling them on the tray before handing them to my customer. She wishes me a nice day and moves off, and the next customer moves forward. I pull my visor tight around my ponytail and look up.

  Malachi. It’s Friday afternoon and I’ve missed an entire week of Culinary Arts classes. I’ve also only responded to his texts with one-word answers and emojis. He keeps asking me if I’m coming back to class, and if I’m okay, and honestly, I don’t know the answer to either of those questions, so it’s easier to keep it light and simple with memes and song lyrics.

  But now, Malachi is here, in the Burger Joint, with Pretty Leslie next to him. If he’s surprised to see me he doesn’t let on, but she smiles, her red-painted lips like a curtain parting above her teeth. And I can almost imagine her greeting me in a circus conductor’s voice. Ta-da! Here’s me taking another shot at embarrassing you, bitch!

  “Emoni,” she says, like we’re old friends, making the last syllable last three seconds. “Hey, giiirl.” She bats her long fake lashes at me and I want to pluck each one from her face.

  “Welcome to the Burger Joint. Can I take your order?” I ask them with the same tone I use for every customer. I know I owe Malachi more than this, but I just don’t have the energy to pretend to be nice to Pretty Leslie or to wonder why he’s here with her at all.

  “I’ll have a number two, extra cheese, the pickle on the side, the fries extra crisp, and barbecue sauce. Oh, and one of those apple-pie pockets. They’re so good . . . maybe I should get ice cream to go with it.” Pretty Leslie taps a long red nail against her chin. It matches the color of her lip stain exactly. I click in the order and wait for her to decide. I can’t tell if the ice-cream thing is real or if she’s trying to allude to Malachi’s and my ice-cream date. “No, no ice cream. I have more than enough without it.”

  I raise an eyebrow at Malachi but don’t say anything.

  “I’ll have a number five, with a cup of tap water.”

  I punch his order in. “Together or separate?”

  Pretty Leslie giggles. “Together. Oh, Emoni. It must be so nice to work with food even though you quit our class. I’m sure you learn a lot here.”

  Malachi raises an eyebrow at her and moves toward the far wall but she doesn’t budge.

  I smile at Pretty Leslie. “I appreciate your concern. When your order is ready it will be handed to you over there.” I point to the receiving counter.

  She walks away, making sure I see the smirk on her face.

  “Emoni, stop fraternizing with the customers. Even if they are your friends from school,” Steve says from behind me. I sigh and look at the next customer.

  “Welcome to the Burger Joint. Can I take your order?”

  Forgiveness

  ’Buela is watching TV on the couch when I get home. I drop my book bag on the coatrack, kiss her forehead, and walk into my room, where Babygirl is already asleep in her crib. Recently she’s been pulling herself halfway over the railing and I know she’ll be climbing in and out soon. I scan the space. I don’t know how we’re going to fit another bed in here, but we are going to have to figure it out sometime down the line. Maybe I can angle mine and have a cool diagonal room setup. I rub her dark hair from her forehead before placing a kiss on each eyebrow.

  It’s technically Tyrone’s weekend, but he and his family are traveling to a funeral and I didn’t feel comfortable with them taking Babygirl, so we switched this weekend’s visit to next week. I’m so glad she’ll be home with me.

  When I go back into the living room ’Buela pats the seat of the couch beside her.

  “How was your day, nena?”

  “Long. The bus was running late, or I would have been home in time to put her to bed. Thank you for doing that. Was she good?”

  “She was fine.”

  I nod and close my eyes.

  “Your father called.” She puts a hand up before I can say anything. “He’s fine. It had nothing to do with the storm. He was asking for you to call him. I know, he can just call you on your cell phone. I told him that, but he says you’re the child, et cetera.”

  I laugh and open my eyes. “That man is hilarious. Who does he think he is?”

  ’Buela raises an eyebrow. “Your father. And you know his brain’s scattered dealing with the coming storm.”

  I nod. ’Buela and I do not see eye to eye when it comes to my father, but I know in this moment she’s right. “Emoni, yo sé, you have a lot of hard feelings about him. You can’t hold that anger inside.”

  “I’ll give him a call later and make sure he doesn’t need anything.”

  But when I grab my phone it’s to call Angelica.

  “Hey, Gelly, I’m going shopping in the morning for the groceries. This is your last chance to change the menu.” I’ve had her dinner all planned out for weeks and tomorrow I get to put those plans together. Gelly left the money I need to buy the supplies in our locker, and what I have planned for her is better than even she could imagine.

  “I don’t want to change anything. Just make sure it’s fancy. Something you�
��re learning about in class.”

  I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t told her or ’Buela that I’ve stopped going to class.

  “I got you.”

  “Great. I’ve already started planning Babygirl’s Halloween costume, so it’ll be even.”

  “Angelica, we’ll always be even in my book. No owing here.”

  And I don’t have to see her smile to know it’s there.

  Sisterhood

  When the baby bump began to show, the kids at school and around the way began to talk shit. (I know I’m supposed to be working on my cursing, but there’s really no other way to put it.) We’d had pregnant girls in school before, but it was like I was something brand-new. Maybe because I was young and petite, yet by the end of freshman year I looked like a basketball was trying to set itself free from inside my belly. Maybe because people thought I was conceited since I mostly kept to myself. Maybe because even though Tyrone didn’t go to our school, most of the girls at Schomburg Charter knew him or had heard about him and no one could really figure out why he’d chosen to get with me.

  The snide comments and behind-my-back chatter was happening before Angelica came out, when all the guys on the football team were trying to bag her and the girls all wanted her to sit with them at lunch. I waited for her to start talking mess, too, because it’s just the way things seemed to go even if we’d been friends forever. But if we’d been close before, we became even closer then. Angelica? She shut that mess all the way down. Anytime she heard a whisper of someone talking about me she was in their face. If a guy made a comment about me being a ho she cursed him out and never spoke to him again.

  When she told me she was a lesbian, I asked her if she’d had a crush on me. If that was why she’d been so hell-bent on defending me.

  “Ew, no,” she’d said, her face twisted as if she’d smelled week-old milk. “That’d be like incest or something. Do you have a crush on everyone you’re friends with or defend?”

  I learned a lot about what it meant to be a fierce friend, to protect someone and learn more about what it was like to walk in their shoes. When she did come out junior year, I held her down like she did me. Walked beside her when people talked behind their hands. Made sure to get to our locker every day before she did and pull off any ugly Post-its kids had taped there.

  And when people had the balls to ask us if we were girlfriends, I held her hand tight, the way she’d held mine when I was pregnant and scared, and we walked down the halls together. And folks learned quick, if they had a problem with Angelica, they could mix me. If they had a problem with me, they were facing two of us.

  And ain’t that what it means to be a sister? Holding things tight when the other one is falling apart?

  Invitations

  “Hello, Santi?” I raise an eyebrow and stare at my cell phone. I don’t usually answer unknown numbers, but I was so busy organizing the groceries for Angelica’s dinner I answered without thinking.

  “Malachi?”

  The laugh he gives after isn’t his usual suave one and I wonder if he’s nervous. For some reason I feel myself soften at the thought of Malachi anxiously dialing my number.

  I glance around the kitchen, knowing it’s the most private place in the apartment unless I want to hide in the bathroom. I pull out the small chair from the corner table and sit. “What number are you calling me from?”

  “It’s the house phone at my aunt’s. My cell is acting up and I wanted to speak to you.”

  Oh. I wonder if I would have picked up if I’d known it was Malachi. I picture how he looked at the Burger Joint when Pretty Leslie kept putting me on the spot. “Wassup, Malachi?”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. “I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. For Leslie. She was out of line. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Not a problem. I don’t feel uncomfortable for working, at a food spot or otherwise. I’ve had a lot of things to feel ashamed about and I’ve learned most of them are other people’s problems, not mine.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment. I hadn’t meant to say that. For some reason, I always say more than I need to whenever Malachi is the one listening.

  He clears his throat. “I was hoping I could see you. That we could talk?”

  “What, Pretty Leslie is busy?” As soon as I say it, I wish I could bite my tongue. It’s not my business what he does with Pretty Leslie. I shouldn’t have even mentioned her at all. See? My mouth out here sprinting across every yard line and thinking it runs itself.

  Malachi is quiet a long moment. And when he speaks, he sounds like his familiar self for the first time during this conversation. “What, you jealous? I thought we weren’t even friends.”

  “Nope, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just don’t want you feeling like you’re out here juggling girls. If you are trying to get with her, I hope you aren’t trying to get with me.”

  “I don’t feel that way at all. I’m not trying to juggle anyone. I don’t know why Leslie acts the way she does around you, but she’s different with me. She’s my friend. That’s all.”

  I shake my head. Dudes can be real oblivious sometimes. “That might be all it is for you, but trust me, I’ve known about Pretty Leslie since middle school. She isn’t nice to people for the sake of it. She likes you.”

  Malachi sighs. “And I like her. As a friend. She’s gone through a lot in her life and I think we relate to one another, but I’m not trying to get with her like that. So, can I? Kick it with you, I mean.”

  There’s a lot more I want to ask about his relationship with Pretty Leslie. Has she gone through a lot? Every time I see her she’s pouting and flipping her bangs, and seems like the only care she has is what nail color she should wear next. But against my better judgment I reply, “I’m home with my daughter and grandmother all day. Cooking for an event this evening.”

  “Maybe I can come by and help? Everyone needs a sous chef sometimes, right, Chef Santi?”

  Sous Chef

  “So, este Malachi from school, what do you know about him?” ’Buela asks. She’s at the kitchen sink washing the dishes from lunch as I feed Babygirl the last of her food. And by feed, I mean I’m trying to get her to stop playing with the rice kernels in her bowl and actually get them into her mouth, where I hope some of them will get swallowed instead of just spit back out into a spittle mosaic on her plate.

  “I know he lives in Oxford Circle with his aunt. And he’s originally from New Jersey. He’s a senior like me and transferred in last month. I know that he has a sense of humor.”

  “Is he kind?” ’Buela turns the water off and dries the last of the dishes before folding the towel over the sink.

  Babygirl dodges another spoonful of food. “Yeah, he is kind. Very polite.”

  She nods. “So, you’re dating?”

  I almost drop the spoon. “No, ’Buela! Jesus, we’re just friends. Not even that. Just classmates. When have you known me to date anyone since Tyrone?”

  ’Buela has her back to me but she’s completely still. “Okay. I just think Baby Emma’s a little young for you to start bringing more boys around.”

  I put the spoon down. Even after what I told Malachi about shame, ’Buela’s words land like a slap. I swallow and keep my voice soft and neutral when I say, “I’m not ‘bringing more boys around.’ He’s just going to help me make this meal for Angelica and Laura. I don’t even know if I’m introducing him to Babygirl.”

  ’Buela nods and hands me a napkin. I wipe rice from Babygirl’s chin.

  “So have you made this before?” Malachi asks as he pulls the pot of pasta off the fire.

  I almost called and told him not to come. After the talk with ’Buela, I realized this could become more drama than it’s worth. But by then he was probably already on his way and it didn’t make sense. Or maybe I still wanted him to come through. All I know is that he’s here.

  “Nope. It’s my aunt’s recipe, but I’m going to give it something
extra.”

  “You always do; that’s probably why Chef Ayden gets so angry.”

  I shrug. “He won’t have to be angry anymore. He has all the little soldiers he needs.” I give him a two-finger salute.

  He shakes his head and opens the fridge to place the butter back. I add the last of the seasonings on the filet and turn to get a large skillet. ’Buela walks to the doorway. She’s been watching Babygirl in her room; I’d decided not to introduce her to Malachi after all.

  “So, Malachi. You like the cooking class you take with Emoni?” ’Buela asks.

  I shoot him a look and he raises an eyebrow at me, but when he turns to ’Buela he’s all dimples. I don’t know how good he is at silent communication but I need him to keep his mouth shut about the class. No pudding jokes. No threesome jokes. No “trash it” jokes. And most definitely not the truth: that I haven’t been going to class.

  “Mrs. Santiago, I really do like the class. I did a lot of the cooking growing up because my mother worked late and I was the oldest. So I was the one making sure my brother was well fed.”

  I look at him, surprised. I didn’t know he grew up cooking, or anything about his family, really. ’Buela blinks slowly, the way she does when she’s translating fast English into Spanish. “You were the oldest but not anymore?”

  Malachi straightens and shakes his head, his smile falling off his face. He pauses for a long moment as if having an internal debate. The gentle look on ’Buela’s face must decide it for him.

  “My little brother was killed last February. Some beef in the neighborhood back home and he was shot. It’s unclear if it was a stray bullet or meant for him.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. Keeps his eyes steady on ’Buela’s. I tighten my hands on the kitchen counter. My heart squeezes in my chest. “My moms didn’t want me caught up in the same drama so she sent me down here to live with my aunt even though it’s less than two hours away. But Moms says the block would eat me up and spit me out and she couldn’t watch that happen again. Now there’s no reason for me to cook anymore since Aunt Brenda works regular hours and gets dinner on the table without me.” I don’t know if a shrug can be a sad thing or not, but that small movement of his shoulders knots something in my throat.