With the Fire on High

by Elizabeth Acevedo

  I massage my feet. Chef advised all of us to buy a pair of thick-soled clogs since we’d be spending most days on our feet, and now I wish I had listened, because my Air Maxes are not comfortable for all the hours I’m on my feet.

  “Do you wanna be a chef, Leslie?” I ask without looking up. I can only imagine her screw-face. I wait for her sarcastic response but it never comes. When I finally do look at her she’s rolling a puff of hair into a twist and knotting it into a neat little stack.

  “Leslie?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, girl. Everyone wants to know what I’m going to be. I’m the first person to graduate high school in my family. First person to ever get a passport. I been lucky to make it this far without dropping out or having a kid. No offense. My life at home . . . it isn’t the easiest. I just want to see how far I can get. But I don’t know if I’m made to be a chef—I can’t talk to plants and shit.” She smirks. “I just know whatever it is, I want it to be major. I want to be remembered for something great. I want to leave a skyscraper-sized mark on the world that reminds people: Leslie Peterson was fucking here.”

  I look at Pretty Leslie and remember what Malachi once told me about her being more than she seemed. Maybe he was right, because I know just what she means.

  From: E.Santiago@schs.edu

  To: SarahFowlkes_15@exchange.com

  Date: Tuesday, March 31, 11:48 PM

  Subject: hi!

  Hey Aunt Sarah,

  I just want you to know, your cobbler recipe is making the rounds here in Andalusia. That’s the name for the southern region of Spain where Sevilla is located. So, your cobbler traveled from the South of the US to the south of the Iberian Peninsula! I let the peaches sit in the juice of some sour oranges and added apricots, and the patrons at the restaurant I’m working at gobbled it up before the lunch rush was over!

  Thanks for asking about Babygirl. ’Buela says she’s been fussing and throwing tantrums and it’s probably the change in not having me around. She’s fine when I talk to her on the phone, but it’s not really easy for either one of us. She’s going to stay with her father’s family starting tomorrow, so hopefully that will help her fall into a familiar routine at his house.

  There are so many things I’ve tried here that I wish I could fold into an email and send your way. I’ve had amazing gelato, and coffee. Some incredible cheese and fried squid and sausage made from suckling pig (I know you don’t eat pork, but trust me, it was smack-your-momma good). I probably won’t be trying to re-create any of that anytime soon, but I had these little cookies powdered with sugar and when I try it at home I’ll send you my version of the recipe.

  Attached is a picture the chef I’m apprenticing for took today. Don’t I look all focused and professional, or whatever? That salad is getting some Emoni-inspired work! Thinking of you.

  Sending you lots of love & a bit of cinnamon dust,

  E

  Check-In

  It’s our fourth day in Spain, and half the class is buzzing. It’s officially April 1 and a lot of college acceptances will be rolling in, in the morning East Coast time. Some people keep wasting their data checking their phones for updates.

  I’ve already made up my mind that I won’t check mine until I get back home. Amanda is going into a job-training program straight from graduation so although she smiles at our excited classmates, she also doesn’t seem as pressed as everyone else. Pretty Leslie looks bored as usual, like the only care she has in the world is the chip in her manicure.

  Instead of starting with our usual morning tour guide, Chef Ayden has an announcement.

  “All right, class. Your instructors tell me that with the exception of one or two of you”—Chef points a finger at Malachi—“most of you are doing really well.”

  We all laugh and I elbow Malachi in the ribs. He smirks and bends down so his mouth is super close to my ear. “They just don’t want the rest of you to feel bad. I’m actually the best student here. My cuts of jamón ibérico would make you believe in God.”

  I bite back a chuckle at his exaggerated Spanish pronunciation.

  “Ahem.” Chef coughs into his hand and raises an eyebrow at me. “Instead of a moderated tour this morning, I thought you all could have some free time today and explore the city. Just don’t go farther than the old city walls. And don’t forget your shifts begin at noon.”

  He shoos us out. “Emoni, a moment?”

  I wait for everyone to walk away, but I see Malachi standing near the bottom of the hill, clearly waiting for me.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay with Chef Amadí? We went to culinary school in Paris together and I know she can be a bit intense.”

  Whoa. I didn’t know that’s how they knew each other. “At Le Cordon Bleu?” I don’t know much about culinary institutes but even I know that’s one of the most famous and best schools for cooking in the world.

  He nods and I realize then I don’t know much about Chef Ayden or how he came to be our instructor, but I’m glad he is. And I’m glad to be paired with Chef Amadí. “Chef Amadí has been great. I couldn’t imagine working with anyone else.”

  “Great. I’m happy it’s working out. Get going; I don’t want to cut too much into your free morning.” And then as I walk down the hill I hear him yell out, “And don’t spend too much time with Malachi. He’s a bad influence, that kid!” But he has laughter in his voice when he says it and I can tell he made sure he was loud enough for Malachi to hear him.

  Malachi is laughing when I reach him. He scoops my hand in his and we walk in silence behind the rest of the group, and for a single moment I feel like the sunlight sneaking over the hill is also sneaking inside me.

  Gilded

  When I was little the other kids from the block and I would get together and play a game called mancala. It’s a fast-paced board game where the pieces are these glass stones that are round on one side and flat on the other. Each stone is a beautiful color: red, blue, teal, clear shot through with squiggles of gold. I used to cradle those stones in my hand, more interested in holding them up to the light than playing the game. Even then I knew they weren’t real gems, but when I held them in my hand I felt like a rich queen, like I was holding something precious.

  That’s how I feel about the Catedral de Sevilla. Like I want to cradle the whole thing in the palm of my hand and hold it up to the light and watch it glint and glimmer. There are all these portraits of famous popes and leaders, and everything from the floor to the ceiling is made of gold and silver. I stop turning in a wide circle and my eyes land on sculptures in a corner of the cathedral. In the center is a coffin being held up by four figures—each one dressed in dark metal and gold armor and crowns; the two in the front have a staff in their outside hands and the two in the back have the hand not holding the casket on their hip.

  I go stand next to a tour group so I can listen in on what their guide is saying. “And this is the tomb of Christopher Columbus.” I move even closer as the guide describes the remains in the tomb and how different parts of the world claim different pieces of Columbus’s body for the honor of being able to say they have his final resting place.

  Malachi circles over. “You good, Santi?”

  I nod. But I don’t know if I am. I walk away from the group to the other side of the massive casket and Malachi follows. “Do you know what the word ‘Boricua’ means?”

  Malachi shakes his head. “I know it’s what all my Puerto Rican homies call themselves.”

  “I’ve already told you my father is a big history buff when it comes to PR, and he doesn’t need much prompting to remind me that before Columbus, Puerto Rico was called ‘Borinken’ by the Taíno people who lived there. He told me once it means ‘Land of the brave and noble lords.’ If he were here now he would be so pissed. All over the world there are monuments to Columbus, museums trying to claim a piece of his body as if he were a saint. And look at this here, all this gold they use to honor him, gold they got from our island in th
e first place, and hardly anyone remembers the enslaved people who dug through the rivers for that gold, who were there before he arrived. Whose descendants are still there now.”

  And suddenly, the cathedral isn’t so pretty to me anymore despite all its gold and glitter.

  Histories

  We walk outside the cathedral and I’m still quiet. Julio is always lecturing me about who we are, but I usually only listen with one ear. I definitely don’t get as hyped as he does. Until today. Seeing that statue of Columbus really hit home. Sometimes it seems like being Puerto Rican is such a fact of life that I forget not everyone hand-washes their panties, or eats pernil at Thanksgiving, or has some traditions and names for things that are African and Taíno: mofongo, cassava. People don’t realize that Spain is a complicated place for someone like me. I just can’t shake off how much it feels that this place, Spain, and this city, Sevilla, are tied to who I am even if I’m not sure I want to be tethered to them.

  “Want to see the castle, Santi?” Malachi brushes my arm. I don’t know how he knows I’m in a weird funk but he does. I nod. We enter the Alcázar, and I’m surprised; the castle looks nothing like I expected. It’s as beautiful as the rest of old Sevilla, but seems to belong to a different country: high arches, six-pronged stars carved into the stone walkway, orange trees blooming along the perimeter.

  “What is different about this part of the palace?” a tour guide asks her group in English. We join in when we see Pretty Leslie and Amanda are a part of it. “Does anyone know?”

  We all shake our heads, and I’m surprised when Malachi raises his hand.

  “It’s paying homage to Islam.” He points to the ceiling. “The star and moon. And that bell over there looks like a call to prayer.”

  “Exactly right! This is one of the few palaces that shows the Muslim conquest of Spain in 711 AD.”

  I look around. This is a place where two worlds collided. Beautiful because of the struggle that happened to create it. Holy because of the belief people had in it. A home, a masterpiece of art, a mixture of different cultures.

  “How did you know that?” I whisper to Malachi. Something about this place makes me feel a need to whisper.

  “I’m from Newark.” He shrugs. “And you from Philly, so you should know every other Black kid is probably Muslim. Plus, Malcolm X is my hero. And when I was younger and read his autobiography, I began to study Islam. Still figuring it out, but I picked up a lot when I visited the mosques. And although I’m a beast in science, history is my favorite class.”

  How didn’t I know he studied Islam? How didn’t I know about his love of history? “There’s so much about you I still don’t know.” And suddenly I want to know everything. I want to ask him all of the things. I want to kiss the deep dimple in his cheek. Maybe it’s because we are not at home anymore, but I feel free: free to say what I want, to feel what I feel, without having to think of every single action and reaction.

  “Hey, how about ice cream later?” I ask. “After dinner?”

  His smile grows bigger and he raises a brow. “You asking me on a date, Santi? You know ice cream is the way to my heart.”

  I bite my lip. I don’t know if I want his whole heart yet, but I also don’t know if I would mind having it. We’ve entered a rose garden. A twisty maze that has big orange trees hanging over the bushes. A plaque near the entrance says that a Muslim emperor built it for his wife. “Yeah, Malachi, I think I am.”

  “Shhh.” Pretty Leslie hushes us from the front of the group. “Some of us are trying to learn! Y’all so damn rude.”

  And I wonder how many other Black Puerto Rican Philly teens have laughed in this orange-tree garden built for a queen.

  The Chase

  After dinner that night, when we get to the meeting point where we go our separate ways, Chef gives us a little wave. “Make sure you all get to your host family house safely. Remember, you’re guests, so get there as soon as possible.”

  Pretty Leslie and I might be the only two people who actually have been going home on time. I’ve been hearing stories in the morning of people going out dancing and to bars. They keep talking about trying absinthe, which is impossible to find in stores in its strongest form in the States, so folks are way too hype to try it.

  “Emoni, you coming home?” Pretty Leslie yells from halfway up the hill to our homestay. I shake my head. And she looks from me to Malachi through narrowed eyes.

  “Pretty Leslie didn’t handle the end of y’all talking well, did she?” I ask Malachi as we take a turn that leads not to the house but to another little street. The streets of Sevilla have ice-cream shops sprinkled on almost every block the way Papi stores and Starbucks are back home. I pass an ice-cream shop every morning and I know it’s exactly the kind of place Malachi would love. I lead the way.

  He shrugs. “She and I had an honest conversation. I told you from the beginning I thought she was a cool girl, and I still think so . . . even if she says some dumb shit when she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t care what people think.”

  I want to ask for more details, but I figure it’s not my business. Although Malachi says he was only her friend, I wonder if she wanted to be more.

  Malachi takes my hand. His long fingers close over my own and he tugs me to him when we pass a couple on the street. I look over at him. His dark brown cheeks, his high forehead. The wisps of hair on his chin and the sideburns shaped into a perfect Philly point. He’s not smiling, and I want to make him smile more than anything. He’s a different person when he smiles, a friendlier Malachi that I imagine is someone I can talk to about this Malachi standing next to me that I don’t know what the hell to do with.

  The streetlights glint against the stone streets. My hand is still in Malachi’s and he gives it a light squeeze before sticking his hands in the pockets of his black jacket and pulling my hand in with him. Outside of a restaurant a man plays a guitar and sings a slow, sad song that sounds like it comes from the bottom of his gut.

  This moment is one I don’t ever want to end. And my breath stops short. This is exactly why I don’t hang out with guys. Angelica would tell me I’m being stupid, since I don’t hang out with girls, either. And she would be right. This is why I don’t get close to people. Because it makes it too easy to hurt them. Be hurt by them.

  I stop walking and Malachi stutters to a halt. I pull up on my tippy-toes, grip the hand that’s holding mine, and begin meeting his mouth for a kiss, when I feel a sharp tug on my shoulder and I drop my hands to see that a little kid has taken off, clutching my purse.

  Children

  Malachi is right behind him before I can even get a breath out. The little boy is quick and ducks around people and pivots hard into different alleyways. I follow as close as I can, keeping sight of Malachi. He never loses a beat. For a split second between gasping for air it hits me what it must have been like for him growing up in Newark if his eyes are so sharp and his reflexes so fast that he can keep up with a young boy in a city he doesn’t know. I also realize that I need to start working out with Angelica, because I fall far behind after the second block. Then Malachi has the boy by the back of his coat and I speed up before he can hurt him.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I say, taking back the purse. The boy has long lashes framing bright green eyes. Tears are falling down his grubby cheeks. He shakes in Malachi’s hands. I touch Malachi’s shoulder. “He’s just a kid.”

  His hand grips the coat tighter. “Ask him why.”

  I touch his hand. “Mal, stop. He wanted money. Let him go.”

  “Ask him why, Emoni.” He never uses my first name. I clutch my purse tight in one arm and turn to the child.

  “¿Porqué robaste la cartera?” I ask him. My words come out slow as I try to remember each one and make sure I’m saying them right. I’ve always understood Spanish better than I’ve spoken it, but I must have gotten my question across since the boy’s eyes widen even more when he looks at me.

  His own Spanish sounds garbled
because he’s talking through tears. “I wouldn’t have if I knew you two were black,” he says, and I almost laugh. “I didn’t see you from the front.”

  “Not being black would have made a difference?”

  He runs a hand across his runny nose, avoids Malachi’s hands. “Everyone knows you guys run fast.”

  “Not all of us. Just like not all of you steal, right?”

  He looks down at the ground. “My baby sister, she’s hungry. My parents don’t like it, but we beg. Because we’re cuter.” He blinks innocently and smiles sadly. And he’s right—I would have given him money. He’s cute as hell.

  I look up at Malachi. He still hasn’t let go of the boy, but his eyes seem far away. He snaps his attention back to me when I speak. “He was hungry. He says he has a sister who’s hungry, too.”

  “Tell Little Man to take us to her. I want to see where they are staying.”

  “Malachi, let go of him. You’re scaring him and we can’t force him to take us to his family if he doesn’t want to. I have my purse back. It’s not that serious.”

  But the boy must understand some English because he points into an alleyway not too far from us. A small face is peeking out around the wall. Malachi drops his hand from the boy’s shoulder.

  Malachi doesn’t say anything. I reach into my bag and pull out five euros. I put them in the little boy’s palm and he runs to the little girl, scooping her up and walking deep into the alleyway and out of sight.

  “I just can’t get over how young they are,” I say to Malachi. She was only two or three years older than Babygirl. I turn to Malachi, but he’s still watching the darkness that the two kids ran into.

  I pat his arm. “You okay? Out of breath? That was quite a sprint.” I’m hoping I can joke him out of his silence, but he just blinks in the direction of the kids and then shakes his head.

  “My mother always told me one of the hardest things to be in a hungry world is a parent. But sometimes I think it’s being an older brother. To know exactly what your sibling needs and not have the age or strength to know any way to get it for them.” He smirks but his smile is empty.