With the Fire on High(14)
Huh. Maybe Chef was right; it’s a different kind of tool, but sounds like Angelica wasn’t just jumping right into design either.
“Tell me more about this Malachi person.” She pulls her books out.
“Gelly, please. And move your big ole behind.” I bump lightly against her and open my bottom locker. Put a textbook back and then shut it.
“I’m just saying. He would be a cute prom date,” she says, popping her gum right in my face.
“And I’m just saying,” I say, walking toward the school exit, “that unless they let in two-year-olds or middle-aged women, I don’t plan on going to prom at all.”
Salty
“Welcome to the Burger Joint. What can I get for you, ma’am?”
“Well, let’s see. What burger do you recommend?”
My manager, Steve, walks over, stands right at my shoulder, and immediately begins running his mouth. “All the burgers are delicious here, ma’am. You might want to try the Joint Special. It comes with extra bacon and cheese.”
I think I should get points for the fact that I keep my face stoic. Steve is always trying to warm up to customers and jumping all in a cashier’s space. I can feel his hot breath on my neck, and it takes everything in me to not shoot him the dirtiest look. Thing (1) That frozen slice of a mess infused with caramel coloring is not bacon. Thing (2) I don’t know why anyone would want cardboard-flavored, fake-news cheese calories on their sandwich. Thing (3) If he wants to do my job for me, why did he hire me at all?
The woman nods along, then looks me straight in the eye. She seems like a professor. Her glasses sit low on her nose and she has the kind of presence that makes me thinks she’s used to commanding attention in a lecture hall. “And you, young lady? What’s your preference?” Her no-BS gaze never leaves my face.
I turn my lips up into what I hope is a believable smile. “The vanilla milkshake is good. It’s made with real ice cream. And the number six is, um, popular?” I wasn’t made for BS.
She nods again. “Thanks, honey. Not sure I’m craving a burger after all.”
She walks out and a guy I know from school walks in. We aren’t too far from Schomburg so I’m not surprised to see someone I recognize. I take his order and when I turn around to grab his fries, I bump straight into Steve.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but he follows me into the prep area.
“Why didn’t you back me up there, Emoni? We just lost money with that last customer.”
“I just wanted to give her choices, Steve.” I scoop some fries into a carton. The salt crystals gleam on them like some rapper’s diamond-crusted chain.
Steve doesn’t let it go. “You sabotaged a sale. You didn’t even answer her question.”
I give him a small shrug and what I hope is an apologetic smile. I load a tray with the fries and an apple pie, and walk over to the shake machine. Steve shuffles along with me. “What is your favorite sandwich, Emoni?”
Uh-oh. Girl, I do not eat the burgers here. I struggle to eat anything I can make 100 percent better in my own kitchen. But I need this job, so I quickly swallow and say, “I mean, everyone likes the number six, right?”
Steve narrows his eyes. “Emoni, I’m really going to need you to figure out how to be a team player. Or maybe this isn’t the team for you?”
And with that, Steve huffs off to his office, his attitude as dry and stale as his fries.
Tantrums and Terrible Twos
“‘“Have a carrot,” said the mother bunny.’ The end.”
I close the picture book and kiss the top of Babygirl’s head. She’s snuggled against me with her thumb in her mouth.
“Babygirl, I told you to stop sucking on your thumb. It’s a bad habit,” I say, taking her hand in my own to get it away from her lips.
She waits a second after I let go before sticking her thumb right back where it’d been. “Read ’gain, Mommy.” She speaks around the finger I gently pull from her mouth.
“Not tonight, babes. It’s time for bed. Mommy has to do homework.” I don’t know what hit these teachers over the weekend, but every single one of my classes gave an hour’s worth of homework today and I know I have a long night ahead of me. I swing Babygirl’s legs around my waist and walk up the stairs to our room.
“I want read it ’gain!” she screeches, and I know she’s going to interrupt the Eagles game ’Buela is watching. It’s the first week of season games and ’Buela gets grumpy if she can’t watch her team.
“Emma Santiago,” I say, using her government name because it’s the only way to get ahead of her tantrums. “Yelling won’t work. I know you want me to read it again. But we’ve already read it three times and you have to learn you can’t always get what you want.”
Some days I’m convinced Babygirl has an old soul, the kind of spirit that makes me imagine she was meditating and holding yoga poses in my belly. I’m less convinced of that these days, when she’s started spending more time away with her dad. I don’t know if they’re spoiling her over there, or have jumbled up her whole routine, but it sure is an adjustment to get her back to the Santiago way of doing things after the weekends she spends away. So when she starts wailing, crying, and throwing her stuffed animals out of her crib, all I can do is sigh and count under my breath.