With the Fire on High(6)

’Buela swats at my butt with a dustrag. “Ay, Emoni, set her down. She just had some crackers.” At that threat of throw-up, I settle Babygirl on my hip, even though she’s getting heavier and I’m not getting any bigger.

“Did you learn a lot, Babygirl?” She nods and snuggles into my neck, still cradling her juice cup. I run my finger down her chubby cheek. My favorite silent game to play is to try and find my family in her features. Her big brown eyes and long lashes have to come from me; ’Buela has the same eyes. Her lips are the same shape as her father’s. Aunt Sarah has shared some baby pictures of my mother and her as children, and I like to think I can see that lineage in her button nose, the seashell of her ears. And then there’s the pieces of Babygirl that belong to her alone.

She pulls back from my neck suddenly and lowers her juice cup. “Chugga, chugga, choo-choo train!” she says. I look at ’Buela with a raised eyebrow.

“They read a book in daycare about trains. Mamá Clara says that Emma was very interested.”

I nod at Babygirl as she garbles out a summary of the choo-choo trains book. At least, I assume that’s what she’s telling me.

“Don’t you have a doctor’s appointment?” I ask ’Buela when Babygirl is finished. “I thought I would find you running out the door. What’s it for again?”

’Buela dusts off the family photos on the mantel. “My appointment got pushed back fifteen minutes, so I have a bit of time.”

I notice she didn’t answer the whole question, but unlike Angelica, I know when someone wants a subject dropped. It was probably the gynecologist or something. And while ’Buela and I talk about everything, I’d really rather not know about her vagina. “Well, that’s great. Babygirl, ’Buela or I will read to you tonight before bed. I think we have a choo-choo book around here somewhere.” I set Babygirl down.

“No, not ’Buela. Tonight is bingo at the rec center. It’s all you, Mommy.”

I walk over and hook an arm across her shoulders. “Gonna go flirt with the cute bingo men?”

She shrugs my arm off and pokes me in the rib. “You always thinking about boys,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s serious or not, even though we both know that’s not true. I ignore the tightness that immediately takes up space in my body. Although ’Buela never said anything to make me feel ashamed, I always wonder if she thinks I’m fast. If she secretly resents me for Babygirl.

’Buela must notice my stillness, because her face softens. “What are you going to make for dinner?”

The thought of cooking helps me let go of the mixed-up feelings inside. “I swear, you only keep me around for my cooking.”

’Buela nods. “The only reason, of course. Glad you finally realized.” But then ’Buela reaches out and grabs my hand. “Look how much you’ve grown,” she says. “Did you learn a lot today?” That’s ’Buela. Always cutting up the way only a Puerto Rican transplant to the hood can.

“You know how it is senior year; they’re just trying to get us all through the door. Most exciting thing that happened is we get to pick new electives.”

I turn on the TV to PBS and sit Babygirl on the couch with some toys and picture books. Take my shoes off and walk into the kitchen. The fridge is stocked—’Buela must have gone grocery shopping this morning after dropping Babygirl off. We have iceberg lettuce (yuck) and bell peppers (yum), ground beef, onions. An idea begins taking root. I pull out the ingredients I need and rinse off my cutting board.

’Buela comes into the kitchen and places her good hand against the counter so she’s in the perfect position to watch me cook and also to peek into the living room and check on Babygirl.

“And so what class did you decide to take?” she asks me. I glance at her, unsure of her tone. She looks good in an Eagles-green sweater, cream dress pants, and her chanclas. Her pressed hair falls softly to cradle her brown chin. Her dark eyes, Babygirl’s same eyes, my same eyes, are thoughtful.

I rinse off my favorite knife. “Um, I’m not sure. I had applied for study hall so I could get more homework done. With the new job and everything, free time on the weekend is going to be hard to come by.” I chop the tops off the bell peppers and set them aside, move to slicing the onion.

“Well, that’s very practical. How’s Ms. Fuentes?”

“She’s good.” I should just let the subject drop since it’s clear ’Buela means to, but then the words are out my mouth. “One of the classes that caught my eye was a culinary arts class.”

’Buela reaches over and takes the knife from my hand. “You tell Ms. Fuentes I say hello. Work on the meat. I’ll chop this for you.”

“Dice it, please. Like this big,” I say, and hold my fingers about three centimeters apart.

“And so, you want to take this culinary arts class?” she says, slicing the onion down the middle until she has two halves. I move away but watch her from the corner of my eye.

She stops mid-slice and holds the knife up. “Muchacha, I can chop an onion. Me vas a mirar the whole time I do it?”

I hold my hands up in surrender. Did I mention that my sous chef is temperamental? “Dice, ’Buela. Not chop. All the same size, please. And no, I don’t know about the class. It sounds interesting, and I hear it includes a trip to Spain.” I slide her a look. I try not to stare directly since I wouldn’t put it past her to threaten me with the knife again for clocking her work. But I also don’t know what she’s going to say.