“Malachi and I brought you back. You drank too much. But I still have something I want to say to you. First, I’m not trying to be better than you and I’m not trying to show you or anyone else up. I’ve always kept to myself. And I don’t know what you and Malachi had going on, but if he didn’t want to continue with you, you can’t blame me for that. I wasn’t out here chasing anybody.”
“Oh my God, Emoni. I don’t even remember saying those things. I wasn’t thinking.”
“But it’s how you feel, though, right?” I press.
“I mean—” She stops herself midsentence and drinks a big gulp of water. “I really liked Malachi. And I didn’t know why he was so into you. But he was—is—and so I—” She shrugs. “I guess I was just angry. Jealous. Everything is always perfect for you. Teachers like you. Your friends are loyal. We get one cute transfer this year and he’s in love with you from day one. It just doesn’t seem fair.”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? Is that how you see it? Leslie, I have a kid. I’ve had to go to summer school since I got pregnant to make up for the credits I fell behind on. I had to fight not to be put in a special program for young mothers so I could take senior-level classes and graduate on time with you all. I’ve worked since I was thirteen and done double that since having a child.”
She shrugs again. “I’m not saying it makes sense. It was just hard to like you. I don’t really have anyone at home supporting me or pushing me. But even though everyone pitied you at first you just walked through the halls like you were Queen B. Like you couldn’t even see us.”
I smile. “Well, yeah. How else are you supposed to act when people pity you?”
She smiles back. “Yeah, I guess I hope that if I’d been you I woulda acted the same way. Listen. I was wrong. Malachi ain’t the only guy at Schomburg. I’ll fall back.”
We’ve shared a lot today, Pretty Leslie and I. And it’s the first time I feel like she’s being honest with me.
Ready?
“Where’s your host family?” I ask as I wander through the house. Malachi’s host parents are college professors at the local university and are some of the few host parents who speak perfect English.
“They had an event at the school. A reading or something.”
I nod and stop in front of one of the paintings in the hall. It’s a pretty scene of the city. The light on the stones, the awnings of the marketplace, and the plaza. Malachi tugs on one of my curls before reaching his hand up my neck, to my scalp. It feels good to have him play with my hair.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. This is a nice painting.”
“Are you nervous? To be here with me? I can stop. We can go out or something.”
It seems a shame not to enjoy one of our last nights in the city, and a Friday at that, but it also seems a shame to waste a perfectly empty apartment. Decisions, decisions.
“Let’s just hang out on the couch for a bit before going out. Maybe we can watch TV?”
A Harry Potter marathon is on and I sit with Malachi’s arm around me. I translate some of the lines but Malachi has seen the movie before so he can work out a lot of the dialogue without me. We get up to the part when Harry emits his Patronus against a dementor for the first time, when Malachi starts playing with my fingers. Then his hand is on my thigh. I sit still. I want to lean against him.
“You are nervous.”
I touch a dimple. “Are you a virgin, Malachi?” I’ve never had the balls to ask, but this seems like something I should know.
He clears his throat and stops playing with my hand. “There was a girl in my last school. We weren’t that serious, but we’d fooled around. We’d talked about doing more. But then my brother was shot and I was a mess and my mother told me she was sending me here and then I met you.”
I turn my face and he gives me a soft tap kiss and leans back. When I don’t move he gives me another tap kiss and it lasts a little longer. The next time he kisses me, I’m on him. Legs straddling his lap, arms wound around his back. Kissing him back.
Tyrone had been fast, and all about him. And it’d been fun the couple of times we did it. Maybe not even fun, as much as it was exciting. It was something new. It was like entering a world everyone talked about but no one knew how to explain, and all of a sudden, you’re allowed into the secret. Even if it’s not much of a secret. And if I had to count, I’d say we had sex three times at the most. The first time, probably when I got pregnant, and twice after that. I never saw what the big deal was about, outside of how nice it was to be touched. But this is different.
“Are you sure you’re a virgin?” I ask him. He kisses like he’s been kissing for a long time. And his hands move slowly like they have a precise goal in mind.
“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” he responds.
I laugh and smack his shoulder. But I am nervous. Not because I know tricks or anything—Tyrone and I didn’t even do it enough times for me to learn much—but my naked body shows it once carried a child. I dropped the weight quick enough, but it’s the other things that show when you aren’t wearing clothes that mark you as someone who’s given birth. With Tyrone it hadn’t even mattered what I knew or didn’t know because he knew I didn’t know anything. But I feel like Malachi expects things.
“Malachi. I’m not really that experienced. It was only a couple of times. Don’t get your hopes—”
He puts a finger up to my lips and keeps kissing my neck. “Please don’t bring up other times right now. We can talk later. If you want. But this isn’t about other people. We’re not here with other people. We’re here. Right now. Me and you. Right?”
He keeps kissing my neck. And then my hands are everywhere. I need to touch his skin, his shoulders, his back. I kiss his ear and he moans into my neck.
“That feels too good.” And this was new, too. This power of making a boy jump or moan.
I take my shirt off. And he takes off his. “Are you sure?” he asks.
I press a hand to his heart. I’m not sure of anything. “Kiss me again?” So we do, we kiss and we rub, and his hands are on my body and I haven’t shown this body to anybody in a long, long time. He rubs a hand along the stretch marks on my breasts and stomach. All the things that mark me as a mom in the most obvious of ways. He kisses me there and everywhere. He reaches for my jeans.
I cover Malachi’s hand where it’s undoing my zipper and hold it still.
“I think we should wait. It would be romantic. In Spain. Your first time. All of that. It’d be like a story. But . . .”
Malachi puts his hands up and throws his head back on the couch. I start scooting off his lap but he holds me in place. “All good, Santi.” He hugs me to himself. “Give me a second to get myself under control.”
I brush my fingers on his chest. “Maybe—” I pause. And make myself be brave enough to ask for what I want and not to be rushed into what I’m not ready for. I clear my throat. “Maybe we can try other things?”
He raises an eyebrow, and with more excitement than I’ve ever seen from him, he gives me a vigorous “Yes, ma’am. Yes, Ms. Santiago. I am your teacher’s pet. Blank book. Best student.”
I laugh at his straight-up silliness. And this feels right. Whatever we are to become, I’m glad that we can laugh through the uncomfortable moments.
Last Day
Even though it’s our last full day in Spain and a Saturday, Chef Ayden still has us report to our apprenticeships. I’m working on a marinade for the pork shoulder that Chef Amadí will be serving for dinner tomorrow night. The recipe calls for it to sit in the marinade for a full twenty-four hours, and a part of me wishes I was going to be here one more day so I could try it. But maybe that’s the point of a trip like this: you start the process of learning and then you carry it with you back home.
I massage the spice mixture into the pork, pressing firmly.
“Make sure you get a dry rub on the meat, too. And did you add lemon to that mix?”
“I used sour oranges instead,” I say.
“That’s good, the sour oranges. Make sure to score the shoulder. Small, shallow cuts to capture all that flavor. I think you’ve learned here, no?”
I nod and pick up the knife. And I have learned a lot. “Yes, and not just from being in this kitchen.” I have learned to cook with confidence, but also to remember the guests have expectations of what I’ll serve them. I’ve learned to trust my hands. But I’ve learned about more than just food. I’ve learned about people. From seeing how people from somewhere else walk, and laugh, and love, and eat.
“You have good instincts. You will make a fine chef one day. Maybe when you finish school, you’d like to come back to Spain? I would love to take you on as my apprentice.”
I look up quickly and forget what I’m doing. My hand slips and I cut it where I’ve been holding the pork in place. I drop the knife and quickly back away. “Shit.” I check to see if I got any blood on the meat, but Chef Amadí puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me toward the sink, where she runs water over my hand.
“Oh, here.” Chef Amadí wraps a clean towel around my hand. “Keep that water running. Let me see if any got on the food or cutting board. We have Band-Aids and gloves in that cabinet above your head. Only a couple more hours and you would have gone through the trip unscathed. But now you have a war scar to prove you were here.”
The small cut stings, but nothing like the tears in my eyes. Being able to stay here, to work in a real kitchen after school and learn more would be a dream. But even as I think it I know I would never want to leave my daughter, or my ’Buela, or the city I love.
“Emoni, it was so wonderful working with you. Anytime you are in Spain you come back here. And if you ever want to talk about working here, I have use for a chef with hands like yours. Oh, and here.” Chef Amadí hands me a letter. “This is my official academic evaluation of your work for Chef Ayden. Don’t read it. Unless you want to.” She smiles at me and hands me a container of tea. “And these are tea bags I put together from my own garden. You can make tea or add it to a recipe. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to use it.”
I hold the bag up to my nose. Lavender, ginger, chamomile . . . “There’s something in here I can’t place,” I say to her.
“Ah, and that’s why it is magic. Not all recipes in life are easily understood or followed or deconstructed. Sometimes you have to take what is given to you and use your talents to brew the best tea possible. Yes?” She wraps me in her arms before I can answer and then she’s shooing me out the door.
I take off my smock and chef’s hat and fold them neatly, handing them over.
“The pork shoulder will be wonderful. I can’t wait to try your marinade. Be good and safe, and oh, Emoni, trust. Okay? Trust. Yourself, mainly, but the world, too. There is magic working in your favor.”
She closes the door before I can say anything else.
And for a second I feel naked, like I’m unhidden in the light of the evening sun, a person different from who I was a moment ago.
Duende
Pretty Leslie and I spend our last night with Mariana. She’s made a big traditional meal for us and even poured us a glass of sangria. I swear to God Pretty Leslie turned Hulk-smash green at the smell of the wine and I couldn’t stop the laugh that broke through my lips. She doesn’t touch her glass at all.
For once, I try not to analyze the dish in front of me and just eat to enjoy. Mariana has an old-school boom box in her dining room and Spanish songs play on a loop. I recognize some from when ’Buela has her radio on in the kitchen and others I don’t know but wish I did. One song comes on and the first couple of words make me lower my fork. Mariana must notice because she gets up and turns the volume higher. Even Pretty Leslie must realize this is a beautiful song because she closes her eyes and listens.
The singer has a deep voice and the end of each note is punctuated with a clap.
“Do you recognize?” Mariana asks me. I shake my head. This is not a voice I know.
“Mercedes Sosa. Folk singer from Argentina but well-loved here.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to miss another word. She sings about how everything changes, the shallow and the profound, the shiny and the old; everything but the love for home changes. I’m tapping my foot to the rhythm, and when the song ends Mariana gets up and plays the song again.
“Mercedes Sosa was full of duende. Of inspiration and passion.”
I savor this new word as if it were the last bite on my plate, and I know now I’m ready to go back home.
Home
I grab my suitcase from the conveyor belt and give Malachi a quick kiss. He pulls me back for a longer one, and I blush down to my toes as my classmates whoop and holler at seeing so much PDA. I’m almost out of the terminal when I glance behind me because I hear someone cursing up a storm. It’s Pretty Leslie and her three big bags, huffing and puffing behind me toward the SEPTA sign.
“Leslie, do you need a ride? My grandmother’s friend is here to pick me up. You stay over on Lehigh, right?”
Pretty Leslie doesn’t need to say a word for me to see the relief written all over her face. “That would be great, Emoni. Thanks.”
Mr. Jagoda is waiting right out front when we exit the terminal and he seems so happy to see me. And I can’t lie: it’s nice to see a familiar face who’s going to take me to my family. In the Volkswagen, we sit in silence listening to an oldies station. And although I fight not to run out the car every time we stop for traffic, tolls, or a red light, Mr. Jagoda’s easy humming and calming demeanor helps me push back my impatience. I just want to see my baby. I couldn’t even sleep on the flight or joke with Malachi because all I can think about is Babygirl. We drop Pretty Leslie off and exactly four minutes later Mr. Jagoda pulls up out front of my house.
“Will you be coming inside?” I ask Mr. Jagoda as he helps lift my bag from the trunk.
He smiles, and I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his big bright teeth peek past his lips. “Oh, no. I’ve already seen Gloria this week and I think today she has eyes only for you.” He pats my cheek and hops back into the driver’s seat.
I run toward the front stairs. When I open the door, ’Buela bursts into tears from the center of the living room, where she’s holding Babygirl.
Babygirl squeals and reaches for me from ’Buela’s arms, and I don’t even worry about the open door—I just run in and grab her to me. Inhaling her baby smell. A smell I know better than my own name. I blink up at the ceiling.
I move to ’Buela. I don’t want to let go of Babygirl, so I just turn and hug ’Buela with my loose arm. She smells different, like expensive perfume, but her hands when she holds my face and kisses both cheeks still smell like vanilla.
“Pero tú sí me hiciste falta, nena.” I press my cheek into her palm and nuzzle close, my eyes drifting shut.
“I missed you more, ’Buela.”
Acceptance
Later that night I’m on my bed reading a magazine with Babygirl tucked into my side. Lunch with ’Buela and Babygirl was so sweet and I know all of us ate too much of ’Buela’s mofongo. I only wish the jet lag hadn’t hit me so hard. It wasn’t until my plate of food slid off my lap that I even realized I’d been asleep. I definitely needed a little nap.
Babygirl looks twice as big as when I left her even though I know it’s not possible.
“I talked with Angelica this week and she told me a lot of admission decisions went out last week. Were you able to check email in Spain?” ’Buela doesn’t walk all the way into the room.
She plays with the fringes of the long gray scarf I bought her, and I notice she isn’t wearing her wedding band. I want to snuggle into her familiar Spanish accent, her soft wavy hair, how firm she stands in her uniform of dress slacks and pale pullover. I don’t want to tell her I was too afraid to check any of the school decisions.
“How many schools did you apply to, again?”
“Four fo
ur-year colleges and a community college,” I mumble. She stands by the door, waiting. I grab my phone and log in to the first school. A rejection from Temple University. I log in to the second school. A rejection from LaSalle. I sign in to my third school. A rejection from Arcadia.
Oh shit. If I don’t get in anywhere, I don’t know how I’m going to tell ’Buela. There’s a difference between not wanting to go to school and not even getting in.
“’Buela, I think we should wait until tomorrow. I don’t want to ruin the rest of your night.”
“C’mon, nena. Just finish it. Whatever it’ll be, I’d rather be with you than you find out the news alone. Faith, Emoni.”
I sign into the Drexel portal.
And I slow down at what I’m seeing. ’Buela must realize my silence this time is different, because her hand stops playing with her scarf. “¿Qué fue, nena?”
I pull Babygirl into my lap and she cuddles into me without waking up. I drop a kiss on the top of her head.
I hold my phone out to ’Buela. I want her to read it herself. She closes her eyes as if saying a prayer. She scans the electronic letter and when she looks at me a big tear rolls down her cheek. She fans her face with the scarf as if it will stop the onslaught of tears, but then she’s hugging me and laughing and even when Babygirl wakes up crying, all ’Buela can do is hold me on the bed and rock me, saying over and over, “Mi niña, mi niña, is going to college. Call your father. He’s going to be so proud.”
Surprises
I didn’t think I would be accepted into Drexel. My grade point average was a little below what they say a student needs, so I’m still shocked. Unlike the guidance counselor in middle school, Ms. Fuentes pushed me to apply even though it was a reach school. It’s close to home. It’s a great school. And it has a culinary arts program that focuses not only on cooking, but also on restaurant management.
With the Fire on High Page 20