With the Fire on High

by Elizabeth Acevedo

  Angelica has me open an elaborately wrapped box, and inside is a really pretty wrap dress that she found at the thrift store and said made her think of me. It’s a beautiful dark red and the skirt swirls around my knees. I feel older. Like the woman I always say I am. I baked her a dozen colorful macarons. It took me forever to get them right, but when Angelica opens the bakery box and sees the orange, blue, and pink desserts, I’m glad I kept trying batch after batch. She pulls one out of the box like it’s a piece of expensive jewelry. Then she stuffs the whole thing in her mouth and grins, her teeth covered in spun sugar.

  On Christmas morning, my cell phone vibrates and I wake up to Malachi, his deep voice breaking on the high notes of a Christmas carol, and it’s so silly but also beautiful. I just cradle the phone and wonder at the different kinds of gifts we can give one another.

  ’Buela and I have been quietly tiptoeing around each other since the day Babygirl came home sick, but the holiday throws open the curtains and lets light diminish, or at least hide, the remnants of our awkward conversation.

  On New Year’s Eve I send Aunt Sarah a picture of her black-eyed peas recipe. I simmered them in a compote of purple grapes, which is not a part of Aunt Sarah’s original recipe, but ‘Buela says eating grapes at midnight means good fortune for the new year, and in her notes, Aunt Sarah said the same for black-eyed peas. So I figured combining both would double my luck in this coming year.

  The rest of my break is fine. I spend a lot of it working afternoons at the Burger Joint, finishing homework assignments due after the break, snapping pictures of Babygirl, and cuddling with her on the couch. I finished my Common App college essay just in time to meet most of the deadlines on January 1. I applied to all the schools that Ms. Fuentes and I discussed, but my heart isn’t into them, not even Drexel and its dope culinary arts program. The closer we get to graduation, the more I feel like I want to be doing, not spending four years pretending to do.

  New Year, New Recipes

  It’s my first day back at school after the break, and during Culinary Arts, Chef Ayden gives us our final itinerary for the trip.

  At work, I knock softly on the manager’s door. Steve doesn’t like being “loudly interrupted.”

  “Steve? It’s Emoni. May I speak with you? Please.”

  “Enter,” he calls through the door, like he’s some sort of king in Game of Thrones. He already sounds annoyed. I push the door open and peek my head in. I try not to roll my eyes. Although he’s quick to close the screen he’s looking at on the computer, a tab stays open for his social media. Clearly, he’s getting a lot of work done. “What can I do for you, Emoni? I hope this isn’t another schedule change.”

  Even though Steve has an empty chair across from his desk, I stay standing. I clear my throat and look around at the chipped-paint walls and corners cluttered with boxes. Everywhere but at Steve. “Kind of. I was hoping—”

  He slaps a hand on his desk. “I hope you aren’t going to ask me for another favor. I already make too many concessions for you as it is. You need to be home early on school nights. You can only work afternoon on Saturdays because you have to get your daughter ready for . . . something. You can’t work Sundays because you need to help your grandmother. It’s always an excuse with you. I’m trying to run a business here, Emoni. Not an extracurricular training program for struggling moms.”

  I swallow hard. It won’t help to chew him out. I let go of a long breath. “Of course, Steve. I understand that. I appreciate the exceptions. I know how much work you do to make sure all of your student employees can balance both their jobs and school.” Steve likes it when you kiss his ass and if that’s what I have to do, fine. I can tell it works because he stops sitting so stiff and uncrosses his arms. He places them on the table with a long, dramatic sigh.

  “Fine, what is it this time?”

  I step closer to his desk and keep an equal balance of calmness and perkiness, although what I really feel is irritated I have to grovel at all. “I got an opportunity at school to go on a trip to Spain. During my spring break at the end of March. It’ll be a week long and I know you usually schedule me for three days a week, but maybe I can work six days the following week when I get back? It’s not for a couple of months but I wanted to ask in advance so I can add any hours I might need to balance it. And I worked a lot during the holidays.”

  Steve leans back in his chair. “This trip sounds like a vacation. You already used vacation days before Christmas. What was that for? Taking your daughter ice-skating or something? Those holiday days you worked were already making up for previous hours.”

  That was not what we agreed at the time but I don’t think correcting Steve will help right now. Steve keeps talking before he lets me answer any of his questions. “Emoni, I want to help. I really do, but aren’t you a senior? You probably won’t be here next year anyway. Maybe it’s time we start looking at other options?”

  My heart stops for a second. It sounds like he’s trying to fire me. “Am I fired because I asked you for time off? Several months in advance? Even though I’m willing to work the days the following week?”

  “No, no. Of course not.” Steve sits up straight and holds his hands out, like an alien coming in peace. “I was merely making a suggestion that since it doesn’t seem like you can fulfill the hours required for this job that we . . . start considering alternatives.”

  And I know what he’s not saying. I’ve seen him do it to other employees: he cuts their hours until it costs more money to get to work than you make at work. I nod. “Let’s keep it all the way real, Steve. You’re cutting my hours?”

  Steve folds his hands. “I’m just going to look for other workers to help you balance the hours you can’t work.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but I lean over the desk and force his eyes my way when I reply.

  “You’re a nice man, Steve. So kind. I’m going to tell my grandmother to pray for you.” And I hope he can see in my face that I just sprinkled the juju of a spiteful Puerto Rican grandmother all over his life.

  Money Talks

  Abuelo died before I was born. And he worked a job with little benefits, and definitely no life insurance or any of that. But luckily, by then my father was full-grown and the only mouth ’Buela had to feed was her own. That is, until she adopted me and also realized that her son wouldn’t be helping much with my parenting.

  When she injured her hand and began receiving disability, money around the house got a lot tighter. The disability check she gets only goes so far, and although she still does small sewing jobs for the church or our neighbors, it takes her three times as long as it used to to get anything done, because her hand begins to ache. Her stitches, slow as they are, are still precise as ever. And she says even though it was her dominant hand that got stuck in the machine, she’s thankful it wasn’t the hand with her wedding band that’s all scarred up.

  But once I got pregnant with Babygirl, it quickly became clear that her disability money and side-hustle jobs were going to barely be enough to cover rent and feed the three of us. I’ve known since I was little that we had to learn to treat money like a rubber band and stretch that jawn until it almost snaps. As soon as I was able to get a work permit in eighth grade, I did. I worked summer jobs, I worked after school, I’ve always worked to help ’Buela around the house.

  And losing my hours at the Burger Joint means I have to find a new way to help, and not just for the rest of this year.

  Flash

  January and February move fast as we prepare for state tests, begin work on our final projects, and give one last push to get our grades up before it gets too close to the end of the year. Before I know it, March rolls around.

  I should be happy. In three and a half weeks, I’m actually going to Spain, but the first week in March finds me anxious. Steve reduced my hours to two or three a week, and the money I was making wasn’t enough to make a dent on most of the costs we have. I finally quit when I realized it wasn’t worth the round
-trip fare when I was mostly breaking even.

  Malachi and I are still circling each other. Friends who hold hands and sometimes flirt, but nothing more. We don’t talk about the future and we don’t push for more than this. He found out he was accepted to Morehouse back in December, and regardless of what I end up doing there will be distance between us. Angelica has been busy with Laura and some last-minute applications. And the icing on the cake: Tyrone is taking Babygirl this weekend and I can’t even look forward to hanging out with her.

  When I hand her over to him Saturday morning, the fist around my heart squeezes tight and it takes everything inside me to not ask him if we could skip this weekend. Tyrone bundles her up, and she waves goodbye to me while jibber-jabbering in his ear. I turn in to a hug from ’Buela and she pats my hair.

  “Want me to make lunch and then we can watch Remember the Titans or The Blind Spot?” ’Buela loves a good sports pep talk and I know it’s an offer she can’t refuse.

  ’Buela doesn’t look at me as she walks to the coat closet and pulls out her long overcoat. The weather is still cold and it might even snow. She wraps a Super Bowl scarf around her neck.

  “I can’t, m’ija.” She doesn’t say anything else. I haven’t asked about where she goes when she says she’s going to a doctor’s appointment, even though we both know it’s code for “Gloria Time.” She’s made it clear it isn’t my business.

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek, and with a final whiff in the air of her vanilla perfume, she shuts the door behind her.

  I think about calling Malachi, or seeing if I can bribe Angelica with food, even if it means I crash a date between her and Laura. But instead, I go into the kitchen and take ingredients out of the fridge. I make ’Buela’s recipe for sofrito that I’ll use to season the ground beef. Softening the garlic and onions, adding tomato paste. This is the first step for most traditional dishes, the flavoring that gives a rich taste for everything from beans to stew. Then I brown meat and make a homemade sauce from fresh tomatoes. I grate fine shreds of mozzarella cheese and boil sheets of pasta. While the oven is preheating, I slowly layer my guilt, my hope, and a hundred dreams. I don’t know if it means anything at all, but ’Buela has always said my hands are magical, and I use them now to put all my feelings into the pan. I put together a salad, making sure it’s not overdressed, and then I sit down. Watching as the oven timer counts down.

  When the oven chimes, I pull the lasagna out and wash the dishes in the sink while I let it rest for a couple of minutes. My fingers are itching to grab my phone, to talk to someone, to distract myself on social media, but instead I take out a plate and place a thick square of lasagna on it, decorating it with some basil. I plate my salad, and set the small kitchen table. From the fridge I pour myself a small glass of ’Buela’s holiday wine. I know she’ll raise an eyebrow when she sees I had some, but she won’t reprimand me; growing up, she was allowed to drink from the time she was fourteen and she finds the alcohol rules on the mainland excessive. And even if she did have something to say, I don’t think it would bother me.

  Because today I am alone, in my kitchen, with a meal I made myself. I sit at the table and cut a bite of the lasagna. I don’t know what I am going to be, or who I am not; my own desires are thickly layered like the food on my plate, but I know that one day soon I’ll be a grown-ass woman. So, I let myself enjoy the meal, the moment, and my own company.

  Spain

  “Are you sure you have everything?”

  “Sí, ’Buela,” I answer for the fiftieth time. It’s finally the day I leave for Spain, and my suitcase is packed, Babygirl’s daycare pickup schedule has been finalized by ’Buela and Mrs. Palmer, and we’ve agreed repeatedly that I’ll FaceTime them every night.

  “Did you pack a skirt for church?” I nod. Even though she and I both know I’m not going to church unless it’s part of a tourist event.

  ’Buela peers into my suitcase. “And you put all your hair product in Ziploc baggies? The worst thing would be if they spill all over your clothes.”

  I can imagine several worse things, but I nod dutifully. “Sí, ’Buela.”

  She claps her hands together. “Oh! An umbrella, what if it rains?” I grab her arm before she finds something else for me to pack. And I hug her tight. “It’s only seven days. I’m going to be fine. I love you.”

  ’Buela pats my back and runs off to call her friend from the doctor’s office, Mr. Jagoda, to make sure he knows the exact time he needs to pick me up for the Philadelphia airport. I’m not sure what I’ll talk to him about, but a free ride was too good to resist. Malachi’s aunt will be taking him, and although some of the other kids were coordinating rides, Pretty Leslie is the only other person who lives near me, and she didn’t ask for a ride and I for damn sure didn’t offer. I pick Babygirl out of her crib—I really need to get on buying her a bed—and she snuggles in next to me.

  This time tomorrow I’ll be in Spain. And this is the most excited and scared I’ve been since I birthed this little being. For a whole week I’ll be able to birth a new version of myself. And I can’t wait.

  Arrival

  The moment the wheels land on the tarmac, I let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. It’s afternoon here, six hours ahead of Philly, and from the airplane windows as we landed I got a view of the city of Madrid: big city blocks and red-roofed houses.

  Next to me, Amanda squeezes my hand. Richard squeezes hers. Throughout the flight the whole class kept getting up and talking to one another, walking down the aisles in our socks, and probably being way too Philly for a flight to Europe, but none of us cared. I was able to sit next to Malachi and nap on his shoulder throughout the flight, but the flight attendant had people return to their assigned seats for the landing.

  We are giddy as a bunch of little kids in a brand-new playground. Some of us, like me, are on a plane for the first time in our lives. The airplane food wasn’t as bad as people make it out to seem. And the flight attendants were super sweet. They even giggled when Malachi jokingly asked for a white wine with his dinner, although at Chef Ayden’s loud “Young man,” from a couple of rows back, they quickly wiped the smiles off their faces, although their eyes still twinkled.

  Getting our suitcases is a hot mess because some people (Pretty Leslie) thought it was a good idea to bring two suitcases and a duffel bag, although we’re only here a week. We have to wait for the luggage and then we move through customs. Chef walks around counting us over and over again as if one of us might have decided this was a bad idea and climbed back onto the plane. Malachi leans against the wall with me as we wait for everyone else, and kicks my foot gently.

  “We’re here,” he says, and then smiles.

  “We’re almost here,” I say back, and I know my smile matches his. We still have a bus to take to Sevilla. But still, we are in Spain. Somehow, we made it happen. I look around at all of us, a colorful group of Americans. Not just our skin, although we are colorful in that sense too, but just everything about us. The fitteds, the Jordans and Foams, the cutoff jeans, the bright lipstick and fresh sweats would make you think we were getting off a video shoot and not an eight-hour flight. We look beautiful and hood and excited to see the world, and none of us are hiding from this world seeing us. All of us shining despite what it took us to earn our way here.

  Roommates

  The bus that picks us up for the five-hour trip to Sevilla is small and we have to sit hip to hip. Chef hurls his bulky body into the front seat and begins talking in rapid Spanish to the driver—I didn’t even know he spoke Spanish.

  “What’s he saying?” Malachi whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck and it feels so good I almost let out a little sigh before I catch myself. Don’t get caught up, Emoni. That is not what you’re here for. I scoot over, trying not to make it seem like I’m scooting over.

  “That they’re taking us hostage to an underground black market,” I say with a straight face. “Something about Liam Neeson coming to s
ave us.”

  He flings his arm around my shoulder. “You’re a cornball, Santi.”

  The bus starts moving and I press my face against the window. I take in the large churches, the tall buildings that look like elegant wedding cakes, the city center and monuments. As we leave the city behind us, I watch the landscape as Malachi naps with his head on my shoulder. I see so many green fields and squat trees with purple flowers and I find them all beautiful, but then I doze off, too.

  A cheer from the front of the bus wakes me up. We are finally in Sevilla, if the welcome sign on the road in front of us is to be believed. The streets are paved in cobblestones, and all the little shops have wide awnings that give off shade. We circle through a plaza where men and women sit cuddled up on benches and eating ice cream. It doesn’t look very different from the States except there are a lot of tan white folks and more colorful architecture; the bricks on the houses, bright pinks and yellows; and trees with bright fruit that shines even in the dark. We pass a family sitting on the corner, holding a sign. They are olive-skinned, with dark hair and colorful skirts.

  “Oh, look,” Leslie says, pointing. “Gypsies. I read they have a lot of them here.” The smallest one is a child about Emma’s age, wearing a red vest and short pants. He bangs the cup he’s using to collect money on the cobblestones. The van starts moving again and we pass crowds standing outside bars, then cross a bridge into what seems like a more residential area.