With the Fire on High

by Elizabeth Acevedo

  And putting all this effort at school isn’t easy. I’m still working hours at the Burger Joint, going to tutoring after school for math, and spending as much time with Babygirl as I can manage.

  Before I know it, the first two months of school have flown by and we are in the middle of November. Which means that the Winter Dinner is coming up. And how much money we raise by December doesn’t just determine whether the class can go to Spain, it determines whether my ideas and sweat and time have mattered. Which means I can’t fail.

  Out of the Frying Pan

  I’m in the kitchen one early morning sticking some bread rolls in the oven. After I set the timer, I clean my station and look around the room. Pretty Leslie is stirring a massive pot of chicken-noodle soup, and Richard is slicing up tomatoes, onions, and lettuce for sandwich fixings.

  Chef sits at a small desk in the corner, and I know this is my chance.

  “Chef, I was wondering if I could speak to you?” He takes a second to look up from his computer and I see he has bags under his eyes. I’ve never wondered if Chef is married, or has kids, or how far he lives from school. And unlike us, he’s been getting up every single morning to be here early and lead the kitchen, and he often stays after school to prep for the next day.

  “What’s up, Emoni? Everything good with your bread?”

  I nod. “I had some ideas for this year’s Winter Dinner. Some ways we could flip it so it’s something new that people who come every year haven’t seen.”

  He closes his laptop and gives me his full attention. “How so?”

  “Well, they always do some canned ham and some simple ole green beans. The exact kinds of thing people make at home for the holiday. But what if we made it more restaurant style? Like a chorizo bite on a bed of herbed stuffing? Or individual portions of baked mac and cheese?”

  Chef temples his fingers together. “What would you do to elevate the mac and cheese?”

  I place a hand on my chest, offended. “Absolutely nothing. Baked mac and cheese doesn’t need elevation, degradation, hateration, or nothing else. It’s perfect in its purest form. Although we could add some gouda.”

  Chef grins. “I love it. Why don’t you write up some ideas and we’ll figure out the measurements and portions.”

  I walk back to the bread rolls, which have risen in the oven and filled the kitchen with the warmest smell. I’m creating a menu for hundreds of people. I feel like something has risen inside me, too, and it tastes a bit like hope.

  Crunch Time

  Thanksgiving is a week away, and two weeks after that is the Winter Dinner. We have only a handful of weeks to finish raising the money for Spain. The lunch sales have been going steady and we are almost at twenty-five hundred dollars. But winter break is coming, and the deposit is due a few days after the Winter Dinner.

  Even though he tries to look super chill, I know Chef is nervous that we still have over six thousand dollars to raise. The school will pay us a thousand for the Winter Dinner, but that still leaves too much we might not be able to raise in December alone. I’ve sure gotten a lot better at math since I’ve taken on tallying up our sales every week to see where we are in the fund-raising.

  When I walk into class the third week in November, I see that there are no recipes on our boards. I button up my jacket and stand next to Richard. “Today we’re going to come up with some creative solutions to the problem we are having. Emoni has been doing a great job brainstorming ideas to raise money, but I think this last push needs a collective effort. We want to go to Sevilla, yes?”

  As if our heads are attached to puppet strings, we all nod.

  Malachi raises his hand. “What if we built onto what we already have? I don’t know how the Winter Dinner is done every year, but wouldn’t that be a good time to do more than just cater?”

  “My father does landscaping,” Richard says. “What if we auctioned off his services? People donate money for that sort of thing, right?”

  Amanda nods. “What if we also made the dinner open to the public, not just family and friends? My sister has over thirty thousand followers on Instagram and I’m sure my parents would promote it to their clients. If we moved it to the gym instead of the cafeteria we could fit more tables.”

  No one I know can offer much but I begin taking neat notes of the suggestions. Chef Ayden claps his hands and he looks like he’s about to shut down our brainstorming. The thought of adding anything more to our dinner is probably giving him a conniption, but these ideas are too good to stop now. I rush in before he says anything. “I think we should expand the dinner. What if we asked the graphic design kids to make us a flyer and we posted on social media? My friend Angelica would do it.”

  Someone from the back yells, “Word! We could tag some famous folks. Meek Mill sometimes promotes things like this to his fans, and Joel Embiid might show love.”

  Chef Ayden looks like he wants to interrupt, but people keep calling out other suggestions and my hand flies over my notebook as I record them all. When the recommendations die down I raise that same hand and wait on Chef Ayden to give me a nod. “As the fund-raising chair, I want to propose we bring our ideas to Principal Holderness. We don’t have much time, but the worst that could happen is he says no. Sometimes you have to ask anyway, right?”

  Chef gives us a long nod. “I have some friends from my culinary school days and colleagues who might be willing to attend or contribute. It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

  By the time we leave class, I think we’re all feeling a bit high. Not only might we raise the money we need, but this is also an opportunity to show off our chops to the school and our families, and possibly the whole city.

  To the Bone

  The next week zooms by like a train: I move from one thing to the next without stopping and I’m left tired to my very bones. I mean that literally—even my bones need a nap. Between my weekend shifts at the Burger Joint, finishing college applications, creating flyers, using social media to boost the fund-raiser, and mornings cooking for the lunch crowd or afternoons serving them, I never have time to breathe. Even at home, I’m making dinner or washing dishes, and as much as I love cooking, I could use a pause.

  And none of that even touches on the fact that I’m usually exhausted just from having to run around ensuring Babygirl is fed and clothed, has been to the park, has been read to, has slept well, is up on her checkups, and is ready for her visits with her father.

  There are some nights I want to cry myself to sleep from how much I’m carrying, but even my eyes are too tired to make tears work properly.

  Thanksgiving in our house this year is a quiet event. Since I get Babygirl for Christmas, New Year’s, and Three Kings’ Day, Tyrone and I decided it makes sense for him to take her for Thanksgiving. So this year it’s just me and ’Buela eating a small pernil and arroz and rainbow chard, watching the Eagles in an away game.

  When my cell phone buzzes I know it’s Malachi before I even look at the screen. All of ’Buela’s family has already called her, Aunt Sarah called me and we spoke for a few moments, then she promised to send me an email with a pie recipe I requested, and Gelly is caught up with Laura’s family so she won’t be pressed to reach me.

  “Hey, Santi. I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving. What’d you make?”

  I hesitate before answering. “Chocolate pudding, Malachi. You should try some,” I say, my face splitting into a smile.

  Winter Dinner

  It’s the afternoon of Monday, December 9, and Schomburg Charter High School is quiet as the last of the students leave. The only people still in the building are the teachers finalizing their grading, and the custodians setting up tables and chairs in the gym. In about two hours the school will reopen for the public to come enjoy the Winter Dinner. But in our small part of the building, game time is right now.

  “All right, class! Tonight is the big night. People have paid money to be here in our fancy gymnasium, and we are almost sold out. The basketball team even
rescheduled a game so we could use this space, and Principal Holderness has invited folks from the superintendent’s office. Black Thought from the Roots retweeted a post and over a hundred people from the community have bought tickets. We did everything we could to have people show up, but now we have to show out.”

  It’s almost like a mini prom. We’ve wheeled in the long tables from the cafeteria and covered them with cloth (it turns out Angelica’s fabrics did not go to waste!). We have little Christmas lights set up throughout the entranceway to give the room a nice winter-night effect. The basketball hoops have been pushed back and the score screens are covered with the menu printed on large poster paper. And each of us is in our clean uniform, our caps pinned on tight. It’s not some swanky rooftop affair, but damn if it ain’t good for being a high school gym transformation in less than two weeks.

  I tune back in to Chef’s speech. “They’re ready to be wined and dined. Well not wined, that’d be illegal. Make it good, follow orders. Each group knows what they’re in charge of, right? Any menu questions can be directed at Emoni or me. Follow the recipes precisely. I got them down to the last grain of salt.” Chef gives me a look.

  The whole class nods at Chef. I don’t know about anyone else, but it feels like even my butterflies have butterflies in their bellies. Next to me, Malachi hums Meek to himself. Without thinking, I take his hand and give it a light squeeze. He squeezes back and my nerves die down a bit. Although now my hand is tingling where we touched. I can’t win!

  Everyone jumps to their stations and I meet Richard and Amanda at ours. We’re in charge of assembling spoonfuls of sweet-potato casserole but with a Spanish twist. That was my idea, a Southern holiday meal meets a twist of southern Spain. Most of the hors d’oeuvres were prepared beforehand so we just need to get them in the oven and put on the finishing garnishes. I begin scooping sweet-potato casserole onto ceramic serving spoons while Richard garnishes them with sugared walnuts and Spanish sausage. Three months ago, most of us had never even tried Spanish cuisine, and today we’re hosting a semi-Spanish-themed banquet.

  We work like machines. I spoon and pass the bite to my left. Richard adds walnuts and sausage, and passes the plate. Amanda adds parsley and cleans the plate. Chili aioli would make this bomb. A sweet and savory bite. I almost walk to the spice cabinet, then stop myself.

  That’s not the recipe.

  We make trays and trays of food; some are set forward for the students who will begin serving. These are the skewers of winter veggies and single-serve portions of herbed stuffing with jamón ibérico—the less hearty bites. While the first course is being distributed the rest of us begin wiping down our stations. Our mini bites of sweet potato and mac and cheese will be going out next.

  The night moves as chaotically and quickly as Angelica when she torpedoes into a room. Before I know it, the last course, individual apple pies, has gone out, and the only thing left to do is to file out and a take a bow.

  It feels strange to leave the kitchen. As if I’m naked. Every recipe that went out had my thumbprint on it, and whether people enjoyed the meal falls on me.

  A Numbers Game

  Those of us who have been in the kitchen prepping enter the back of the gym and join the rest of our classmates who were serving. Chef Ayden has just been announced and he walks onstage. He wipes his huge hand on his chef’s coat before shaking the principal’s. Although we are the ones who have been cooking, his coat has just as many puffs of flour and sauce stains as ours do.

  “As many of you have been hearing throughout the night, in addition to being our annual Winter Dinner, this meal has also served as a fund-raiser for our Culinary Arts class, which will be traveling to Spain during spring break. They’ve been working diligently throughout the first two quarters to raise money, and this was their culminating fund-raiser.”

  Principal Holderness opens an envelope. Richard throws an arm over Amanda’s shoulder. I squeeze my hands into fists and hold my breath.

  “And the final tally for the evening is . . . two thousand dollars!”

  I quickly tally all the amounts from the lunches and auction revenue with tonight’s money. At fifteen dollars a ticket we have about two thousand dollars left after we cover the cost of the food. With the new total each individual owes about two hundred seventy-five dollars.

  That’s more money than I have saved, especially with the balance being due by the end of the week. I blink back the tears in my eyes. This is a happy moment, Emoni. Something to be proud of. Don’t let them see you cry.

  “Please put your hands together for the students who fed you well tonight, Culinary Arts Class Section Three.” Principal Holderness gestures to us in the back and at once the dim room is flooded with light so the guests can see us. I squint to adjust my eyes to the light and now I can see the room too. ’Buela sits at one of the front tables, and when everyone stands and claps for us she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet as if she wants to jump. I see Ant and June from the barbershop in their T-shirts and jeans, clapping with enthusiasm. Julio must have reached out to them. Ms. Martinez from next door is nodding as if she knew we’d be able to accomplish this all along. Around the whole room I spot neighbors, block homies, ’Buela’s church friends, directors from the cultural center, shop owners, all here to support a dream.

  Malachi puts his arm around me and Amanda grabs my hand. “We did this. We fed two hundred and fifty people and showed them why we deserve their time and attention and money,” she says.

  I nod around the lump in my throat. I don’t know how I’ll come up with my portion of the money, but I’m glad my ideas made it easier for the rest of the class. And she’s right: we made something special happen here tonight.

  The night ends soon after that, and although we need to go to the kitchen to finish cleaning up, most of the class is dapping up homies and saying hi to family members. I’m carving a path over to ’Buela when a woman steps in my way.

  “Excuse me?” She looks familiar but I can’t place her face.

  I nod at her. “Can I help you?”

  She puts out her hand and when I grasp it her handshake is firm and her palm is rough. “Chef told me to speak to you? Emoni, right?”

  I nod at her and let go of her hand. “I’m not sure if you remember me,” she says. And the moment she says it, I do remember. She’s the chef from the fancy restaurant ’Buela took me to, Café . . . Something?

  “After you came to my restaurant I mentioned meeting you to Paul, Chef Ayden, and he could not stop saying how you’re a talented chef-in-training. I was happy to accept his invitation here tonight to try your food. He tells me you were in charge of the menu?”

  I nod as if none of this is a big deal, although on the inside I’m a whirl of emotions. For a moment I forget about what money I have left to raise. Chef Ayden was boasting about me? I clear my throat. “Chef Ayden helped me a bit with the menu.”

  The woman nods. “The food was delicious. I especially liked the bite of sweet-potato casserole.”

  I smile at her. “If you thought that was good you should try an idea I have of adding chili aioli. The spice will layer well with the sweetness.” I realize I’m talking to her as if we are homegirls and immediately blush. I don’t want her to think I’m bragging.

  She cocks her head at me. “Well, I’d love to try that one day. I wanted to give my compliments to the chef. Here’s my card. I think what you all are doing here is remarkable. Have a great time in Spain.”

  She gives me the small square of cardstock. Lisa Williams, Owner and Executive Chef, Café Sorrel.

  She gives me a little nod and moves in the direction of Chef Ayden. I stare at the card in my palm. I tuck it into my jacket pocket just as I’m swept up by ’Buela.

  She hugs me so hard we rock back and forth. “I’m so proud of you, nena! This is amazing. The food was good and everybody looked happy. They all cleaned their plates. I could taste you in the sweet potato. You made those, right? They tasted like y
ou. Even Baby Emma could tell.” I look at the stroller where Babygirl is licking the palm of her hand.

  ’Buela and I are still rocking on our feet, but she suddenly pulls back. “Oh, I’m being rude. Let me introduce you to someone.”

  Behind her is a short, skinny man with one of those old-school fedora hats. He has glasses, and a huge mustache, and the sweetest eyes. “This is Joseph Jagoda. He works at Dr. Burke’s office. I went there to pass out flyers last week. The office made a donation!” I smile at Mr. Jagoda.

  “Thanks so much for supporting us.” It seems Julio’s grassroots efforts have inspired ’Buela.

  Then I’m being hugged up by Angelica, and Julio’s barbershop friends each give me daps and pat me on the back.

  Babygirl smiles in her stroller and shakes her sticky hand at me. I break away from everyone and pick her up, letting her sweet baby scent ground me. I don’t know how I’ll get the rest of this money, but I know that I did more for this single day than I ever thought possible, and that’s something to be proud of.

  Hook, Line, and Sinker

  My classmates are all still hyped the next day when we arrive at school. I’m glad that for the first time in a month and a half none of us have early shifts for the rest of the week.

  Chef tried to cancel our lunches entirely. He told us he announced it at a staff meeting that after the Winter Dinner he’d be pulling the program, but the other teachers threw a fit, so restaurant lunches will start back up in the new year on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Anyone who shows up early to cook gets extra credit, and anyone who shows up to serve gets to keep their tips. And since I need extra money and extra credit I will be showing up as often as I can.