With the Fire on High(23)
Thinking about Julio makes my skin itchy. He makes me want to scream; he makes my throat feel clogged. I love my father, but I also might be allergic to him.
I don’t say anything to ’Buela, and after a long moment she grabs her purse from the coatrack by the door. “Baby Emma had a small snack, but she’ll probably be hungry soon. Don’t worry about saving me dinner. I’ll pick up something after my appointment. Te quiero, nena.”
“Te quiero también, ’Buela,” I whisper to the closed door.
Julio, Oh, Julio
“Hola, Emoni. How are you? About time you called your father.”
I know I’ve caught Julio at his shop. I can hear razors buzzing and the background noise of grown men murmuring. I can picture him, head cocked to the side so he can press his phone to his ear with his shoulder, his long locs in a ponytail down his back as he creates a perfect right angle out of a customer’s hairline.
“I’m good, Julio. How are you?”
Buzz, buzz, buzz. “You know I’m always good. Aquí, busy, busy. Your grandmother tells me you are taking a cooking class in school. And you are going to Spain. That true?”
’Buela. She harasses me into calling my father but has already given him a full update. “Only if I can afford it.”
“Mm-hmm. And why Spain? They wanted you to learn how to cook some real food, they should have brought you here.”
My father is big fan of the island. And he is not a big fan of Europe. He has a lot of ideas about the way they treated Latin America and the Caribbean when they were in power and believes they (and the United States) are the sole reason why so many of those countries are struggling now. And in case I forget how he feels, he never hesitates to launch into one of his history lessons. “You know that just because they were un poder colonial doesn’t mean they are the center of the world, right, Emoni? What have I always told you? Be proud of who you are so you don’t have to imitate or bow down to your oppressor.”
Oh man. Julio’s clippers have turned off, which lets me know if I don’t jump in right now I’ll be on the phone for an hour hearing a rant on how we are taught to idolize international superpowers. “Julio, I don’t think we are going to Spain because they were once a colonial power. I think it’s because my instructor really loves Spanish cuisine.”
“Pftt. Everything they know how to make over there, they learned over here.”
Probably not everything. I’m sure there has been an exchange of cuisine back and forth, especially with spices, but I doubt every dish was made in Puerto Rico first. Most of my father’s beliefs are based on hard facts that every now and then are seasoned with hyperbole.
He must tell I’m not going to answer him because after a moment he changes the subject. “How’s my little love doing?”
I describe Babygirl’s daycare, and the new words she’s learning. He summarizes the biography on Roberto Clemente he read recently. By the time he tells me he needs to get off the phone, I’m sure he’s cut two heads, and has started on a third. But still, when we hang up, neither one of us says I love you. Neither one of us says I miss you. Neither one of says just come live here, with me. He doesn’t say, I’m sorry for leaving. And I don’t say, I’m so angry you left.
School
“All right, folks. I know that we’ve been talking about where you’re applying, and I’ll be circling around to conference with each of you on your selections. While you’re waiting, go ahead and fill out the survey in front of you with different majors, job opportunities, and fields to consider.”
I give a head-nod to Malachi, who walks in late. Before we went our separate ways on the train, he saved his number on my phone. I texted him after I spoke with Julio and let him know I got in okay, but he didn’t respond until an hour later, and by then I was making dinner, then bathing Babygirl before bed, and then sliding straight into my homework. I never did manage to text him back. The water-ice date was nice, but ’Buela’s reaction to my being out so long was a reminder I don’t have time to waste chopping it up and flirting with boys.
I stare at Ms. Fuentes’s questionnaire, filling in answers about my temperament, ideal work schedule, desired income, and experience. I’m on the third page when Ms. Fuentes sits down at the empty desk next to me.
“Hey, Ms. Santiago. What are you thinking?”
I shrug. “I know we’ve talked about it a little, but the guidance counselor says my grades ‘leave a lot to be desired.’ She thinks the majority of schools in the city I was looking into might be a reach. I’m wondering if it makes more sense to get a good job after high school and focus on that instead of this application.”
“Because of Emma?”
I hesitate for a second, because saying Babygirl is the reason would be easier. But I don’t know if it’s the whole truth. “I can’t ask my grandmother to take care of Babygirl forever. I don’t want my grandmother to do that. I want to be able to take care of my own, and the only thing I would want to study is culinary arts, but why try to learn that in a school when I could learn it in a real restaurant where I’m making money instead of spending it?”
I can tell that Ms. Fuentes doesn’t like that answer. She frowns so hard her brows meet in the middle. “Don’t you think it’ll be better in the long run for your family if you have a college degree? Then if cooking doesn’t work out, you have other options. I just want you to make something of yourself,” Ms. Fuentes says.