With the Fire on High

by Elizabeth Acevedo

  I nod. “If you wait a few minutes, I’ll have Babygirl ready for you. No sense in your driving back home only to turn right back around.”

  And I try to tell myself the same thing: forward is the only direction to go in; turning back around is for the birds.

  Prom

  Although Malachi and I talk every day and see each other in school, we’ve been more chill since Spain. We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm of friends who kiss and talk all the time, but there’s no pressure for much else.

  We haven’t talked about “us” and what long-distance will mean. And I’m fine with that.

  “You just hanging around the house?” ’Buela says as she puts in an earring. I lean around her to watch the TV. Reruns of Barefoot Contessa are on.

  I nod. “Yeah, just me and Babygirl.”

  “Is Angelica coming over?” She puts on her coat and grabs her purse.

  “No. She’s planning her prom outfit with Laura.”

  ’Buela has the lipstick halfway to her lips when she stops. “And when are you planning your outfit?”

  I nod at the screen. “The contessa just always knows what to add to make a table look classy. I need to email Aunt Sarah some of these tips.”

  “Emoni, you didn’t hear me ask you a question. Why haven’t you mentioned prom?” She sits next to me on the couch. “Nena, do you not want to go?”

  “No, ’Buela, I don’t. We already spent all that money for the Spain trip and my school deposit. Aren’t we stretching every dollar as it is? My tips from serving lunch at school only go so far. I can’t ask you to give an extra two hundred a month later.”

  “Apaga la televisión.” And I can tell she’s about to Mama Bear me, which is what she does when she wants to be strict without nagging me.

  “C’mon, ’Buela. You’re going to be late for your date with Joe. Can’t we talk about this later?”

  “A . . . pá . . . ga . . . la.”

  I roll my eyes and turn off the TV.

  “You don’t want to go to prom? Malachi didn’t ask you?”

  “He did. He’s been asking me but he understands that it’s just not something we have the money for and that I don’t want to go.”

  “You’re a woman soon. But for the next month and half, enjoy high school. Go to prom.”

  “The only thing I want to do on prom night is hang out here, watch JLo movies, and make delicious snacks. What do you think?”

  She leans her forehead against mine. “Well, nena, I think we could live with that.”

  And a week later, that’s exactly what I do. Malachi goes to prom but leaves early and joins us at the house. He brings me a bright-red rose, and tucks my hand into his suit pocket as we slow-dance to a corny Jennifer Lopez song. Babygirl and ’Buela clap when we are done. And it’s exactly the memory I wanted.

  The Rising

  I can’t sleep the night before graduation. It’s almost midnight. As of tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be a high school graduate. And since it was my eighteenth birthday a week ago, I’m officially an adult.

  Unfortunately, all I want to do is snuggle in ’Buela’s lap and ask her to fix my life for me. To make the decisions. To make it all easy. Everyone’s words swirl in my ear. ’Buela. Julio. Angelica. Ms. Fuentes. Aunt Sarah. Chef Amadí. Chef Ayden. Tyrone. Malachi.

  Babygirl sighs in her sleep and I get up to touch her cheek. She’s so peaceful and I know I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. I tiptoe past ’Buela’s bedroom and walk downstairs into the kitchen. Set the oven to 350 degrees. Grab flour. Butter. Salt. Dried oregano. A beer I planned to use to braise a steak.

  Julio once told me my mom loved to bake. Aunt Sarah has confirmed it’s true, although none of the recipes she’s ever sent me mention them being my mother’s. I mix all the ingredients together.

  I’m going to have to tell ’Buela what I decided to do about college. And I’ll need to make some plans for the fall. Tyrone still wants to discuss a new custody schedule, and I think I’m going to let him have more days with Babygirl. The ServSafe test results come back in a week, and I’m sure your girl did well. I’ve never studied harder for an exam.

  The bread still has twenty minutes to go, and I’m nodding off when I hear a knock on the door. At this point it’s past midnight. I grab one of the knives from the butcher block and walk quietly toward the peephole.

  Standing on the front stoop is Julio. A whole month earlier than usual. I crack the door open and I think I must still be dreaming. But he sweeps me up in a hug and there’s his old, familiar scent: Old Spice, loc lotion, and something I’ve always called his “island scent.”

  “What are you doing here? We didn’t expect you for a month,” I whisper.

  “What, you didn’t think I would miss my only girl’s graduation?”

  I almost nod. I did, in fact, expect just that.

  “Is everyone sleeping?” He tugs his suitcase into the living room and I close the door behind him. His bag is bigger than usual. I walk into the kitchen and he follows me, stopping at the doorway.

  “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he says, rocking on his heels.

  I check the oven. Still a bit more time while the top of the bread browns.

  Julio and I are both standing. “You want to sit and join me, I can cut you a slice of bread in a bit.”

  But he’s shaking his head before I even finish my sentence. “No, no, I couldn’t. Did Mami cook today?”

  “What, don’t tell me you’re gluten free,” I joke. “’Buela didn’t cook today. You’re stuck with my food, and I don’t know if you heard, but I’m a pretty good cook.”

  There’s a long pause. “Emoni, don’t you ever wonder why whenever I visit I don’t eat your cooking?”

  Of course I wondered. I was just too in my feelings to ever say anything.

  “Your grandmother says your food reminds her of Puerto Rico. But for me? Your food doesn’t make me think of back home, it makes me think of the home I had here. Every single one of your dishes makes me think of your mother. It kills me to see memories of her face every time I take a bite of something you made. It kills me to be here in Philadelphia, and every street corner reminds me of her. I always think with time it will get easier. But it hasn’t.”

  I’m stuck. Julio and I have never talked about my mother, and although my appetite for the bread is crushed beneath his words, my hunger to say the thing I’ve never said blossoms.

  I walk to the sink and wash my hands. I look at my father. “I should be so angry at you. You abandoned me over and over. Why haven’t I ever been enough to make you stay?”

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets again. His long locs swing as he shakes his head. “It was never you, Emoni. I tried. Every year I came I said this would be the year I stayed and helped to raise my daughter. But you didn’t need me. Moms did such a good job while I was gone and I wasn’t built for a place like this. I miss the ocean. I miss the warmth. I miss having a real purpose. There are so many tough reminders for me here.”

  “But wouldn’t there have been good memories, too? If you stayed long enough to make some?”

  He nods. “Quizás, Emoni. Quizás. I want to keep on trying even though you are too grown to need me. I know you got a lot of changes coming, and I was thinking maybe I could stay for a while this time and help you with Emma and the bills. That could work, right? While you get used to what’s coming next?”

  And maybe the trying has to be enough. I take the bread out the oven and slice a piece for myself. I sit down at the table and take a bite. My father watches me closely for a moment before he reaches over and breaks off a corner. He closes his eyes. For a moment I think he’ll set the bread back down. But after a long pause he pops the bread between his lips and begins chewing. I reach across the table and cover his hand.

  Promotion Ceremony

  I have to use a whole pack of bobby pins to keep my cap sitting on my curls. We are standing outside of an auditorium at Temple University where the Schomburg graduat
ion was held. ’Buela and Julio are snapping pictures on their phones as I hold Babygirl—she keeps running her fingers through the tassels on my cap. In my other hand I hold up my diploma. Mr. Jagoda stands in the background smiling, a calm presence, and I’m glad ’Buela invited him.

  I hear someone squeal behind me and then Gelly throws an arm around my shoulders. I lean against her and smile as we pose. But her girls taking pictures without her must be too much for ’Buela to resist because she hands her phone to Mr. Jagoda and rushes to my other side.

  Soon Malachi’s tall figure stands next to her, tickling Babygirl. When I look up at him he blows me a kiss. Mr. Jagoda gestures someone into the picture and Ms. Fuentes winks at me, but not quick enough because I notice the tears in her eyes. Someone clears his throat, and I turn my neck to see Chef Ayden standing behind me, an arm each on Malachi and Angelica’s shoulders. I have to do a double take when I see him in a sharp suit, his bald head shining in the sun. And just as we all stand straight and look at the cameras as Julio counts down, a high-pitched voice breaks in, “Can I get in, too?” Pretty Leslie doesn’t wait for me to respond as she presses into Ms. Fuentes and smiles a megawatt smile.

  Before Julio puts down his phone I clear my throat and ask over the sounds of all my classmates taking photos, “Mr. Jagoda, can you take a picture of the group with Julio in it, too?” Mr. Jagoda takes Julio’s phone. I can tell Julio doesn’t know how to feel about Mr. Jagoda yet, but he stands next to Chef Ayden behind us. ’Buela’s arm comes around my waist, and it feels like it’s less to support me, and more to offer comfort. To both of us.

  Mr. Jagoda counts down for the last time. My family smiles for the camera.

  Everyone in the picture and their families have been invited back to our house for a graduation lunch. I started cooking last night, a feast to end all feasts. I’ve been putting the meal together for a while now, although I didn’t know exactly why I was pairing certain flavors, or how certain sides would work with one another. I was cooking toward this graduation dinner, because high school isn’t the only thing I’m leaving behind.

  Although my food still doesn’t give me any memories, it has always been looking back; it’s infused with the people I come from. But it’s also a way for me to look forward: to watch the recipes that from my roots transform, grow, and feed the hungriest places inside of me.

  And like a map I’ve been following without knowing the exact destination, I know now I’ve been equipping myself with tools from the journey to help me survive when I arrive. Although I don’t have all the answers for what is coming next, I can finally see a glimpse of where I, Emoni Santiago, am going.

  Moving Forward

  ’Buela is at home with Julio and Babygirl. We had a big family meeting a few days ago, and I finally laid out my plan. ’Buela won’t change her mind about what she thinks I should do. Julio hasn’t voiced an opinion outside of asking how he can be of help. Although Babygirl knows how to communicate exactly what she wants, she’s still not able to offer advice outside of patting my back when I hug her and telling me, “Good job, Mommy.”

  And so, I pulled up the card Chef Ayden’s friend gave me at the Winter Dinner. The one from the fancy restaurant ’Buela and I went to. I’ve had it on my armoire since December, with no reason to keep it, but something wouldn’t let me throw it away.

  I tug on my shirt before I walk into the restaurant. ’Buela ironed it for me without asking me what I needed it for. I run my palms down the front of my slacks and I’m glad that it’s warm enough out that I don’t need a jacket because I’m so nervous I’m sweaty, and if I was wearing layers it’d be a problem. I open the door and the hostess smiles warmly.

  “Table for one?”

  “No, I was . . .” I swallow hard and almost turn around. “I was hoping to speak to the chef.”

  “The chef? Do you mean a manager? Are you looking for a job?”

  “No, I mean the chef. Is she available? She told me I could drop by.”

  The woman narrows her eyes as if she doesn’t believe me, but she turns her perfectly bunned-up head to the side and motions to a server. She leans toward him and whispers in his ear. He nods and strides in the direction of the swinging door to the kitchen.

  The hostess taps a nail on her stand. “If you’ll just wait one moment.”

  Five minutes pass, and I know because I keep glancing at my cell phone. Six minutes. The hostess is pretending she can’t see me anymore. Couples come in and glance at me to see if I’m waiting for a table, but I just keep offering them the same sickly smile and motioning them to go ahead.

  Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Nine minutes. I’m about to lose my nerve and turn away when the door swings open with a bang and a woman in a high white cap and smock walks toward the hostess stand. She’s as tall as I remember.

  “What?” she barks at the hostess, who immediately points at me. Chef Williams turns and looks at me. Raises an eyebrow.

  I straighten up. “Hello, Chef.” I stick out my hand. “My name is Emoni Santiago. I’m not sure if you remember me? I was Chef Ayden’s student at Schomburg Charter High School. Last winter you came to an event at my high school and you gave me your card in case I ever wanted a job.”

  The frown on her forehead clears up. “Yes, of course! Your food had the most amazing quality to it.”

  She remembers! “I came here today because I want a job. I know food better than anyone, and I was wondering if I could work for you.”

  She takes her hand from mine and crosses her arms and she seems to be fighting a smile. “This is a pretty demanding job, regardless of what position you start in. I don’t usually hire someone so young for the kitchen staff.”

  “I understand. And although I’ll be attending Drexel’s Culinary Arts program on a part-time basis, it’s not too far from here, so I can go to classes in the morning and be here by the lunchtime rush. My family is helping me out to make sure I can commit to the long hours.” I give her a soft shrug. “I want to stay in Philly and work in Philly and learn from a restaurant in Philly. Because I think I have a lot to offer my hometown and the places I’m from.”

  She looks me slowly up and down. “How soon can you start?”

  I let go of her hand and tug on the book bag I have around my shoulders, the one that holds my chef’s jacket and clogs.

  “Today. Today seems like a great day to begin.”

  From: ESantiago724@drexel.mail.edu

  To: SarahFowlkes_15@exchange.com

  Date: Thursday, August 1, 3:02 PM

  Subject: re: Visit

  Hi Aunt Sarah,

  Thanks for my mom’s pound cake recipe. I made it for my father last week and although he cried the entire time eating it, he finished every crumb. I don’t know how long his visit will last, but he doesn’t seem to be itching to go back just yet. He didn’t renew the lease on his apartment and he’s had all his barbershop tools shipped here. A cousin of his is running the barbershop in Puerto Rico. I know Philadelphia will never be able to keep him here for long, but I think he’s at least planning to stay a bit longer than usual and if the pound cake helps I’ll keep on making it ☺.

  As to your question, Tyrone will be taking Emma on a family trip in two weeks, and I think that would be the perfect time for me to visit. I would love to come meet my cousins and my other aunts and uncles.

  As to your last assignment, I did make up a recipe inspired by my name. Although Julio has told me before it means “faith,” I don’t think I understood why my mother might have wanted to name me that until this year. And so I decided to make a remix of flambé shrimp à la Emoni, because what better way to take a leap of faith than to set something on fire and trust it will not only come out right, but that it will be completely delicious?

  I can’t wait to see you in a few weeks.

  With love & a sprinkling of cinnamon, always,

  E

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to raise a novel, and I’m thankfu
l for the many hands that helped push this story onward.

  First and foremost, to my team at HarperTeen, I’m so lucky you all take such care of my stories; I want to give special thanks to my incredible editor, Rosemary Brosnan, and my assistant editor, Courtney Stevenson. Thanks for ushering this book through the rough, rough, rough stages into the story I had been trying to tell. Thanks to Erin Fitzsimmons for giving me the prettiest covers a girl could ask for. Thank you to Bess Braswell, and Ebony LaDelle and the whole Epic Reads team, who have put so much love behind this book to ensure it finds the shelves of readers. Another special thanks to my publicist, Olivia deLeon Russo, who supports my wildest ideas for publicity and my need to bring my community to every platform.

  I want to thank my agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette: I am lucky to have someone who is as fierce as she is kind guiding my way . . . and it doesn’t hurt that you bake the prettiest desserts, which may or may not have inspired parts of this book!

  To Carid Santos and Amanda Nazario, thanks for reading my early and ugly drafts. Your feedback is invaluable, and I know this story reads truer because of it.

  To Yahaira Castro, thanks for being my critique partner. I’m so glad you ask the difficult questions that allow me to get to the heart of a book.

  To Clint Smith, I appreciate you, homie! Thanks for reading this between flights and always encouraging me to center empathy.

  I want to give a special thanks to Frankford High School in Philadelphia, which allowed me the privilege of teaching summer school to their seniors in 2010. Although I did not know it then, that was the first seed of this story. My heartfelt appreciation goes out to Mr. Joseph Bradbury, who in 2017 allowed me to visit his class and kitchen so I could observe his culinary arts students in action.

  Hermana Jessica Tirado, you have always been a lifesaver. I’m sure only someone who has gone through the experience can fully know what it’s like to be a teen mother, but I appreciate you sitting with this story and providing your thorough feedback. I hope I did it justice. And thank you for introducing me to Generation Hope. I know personally that the support they’ve offered so many young parents is immeasurable.