With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
The New Guy
“Class, this is Malachi Johnson. He recently transferred here from Newark.”
Amir in the back cracks his knuckles and I see some of the other dudes slouch in their seats. None of the guys likes someone messing up the vibe, especially not a dude from another city. The girls, though? We straighten up real quick. Well, not me. I’m not interested in a Malachi, Mala-can’t, or a Mala-nothing. But he is a tall, dark-skinned dude, at least six foot four, and I already know he’s a ball player and probably a player player from the way he walks—all swag and probably not one intelligent thought in his head. I look at my schedule. I’ve been going back and forth with the elective decision and Ms. Fuentes needs any changes by the end of class.
Ms. Fuentes clears her throat, and I look up from my list. She gestures to Malachi like she’s that Vanna White lady from Wheel of Fortune. “Would you like to say a couple of words, Mr. Johnson?”
Malachi looks at her funny when she calls him “Mister,” but he returns her smile. Angelica would say it transforms his face, that smile. He looks younger than seventeen, sweet, and like straight-up trouble. Some girl—or person (Angelica’s always reminding me not to be “so damn hetero”)—is going to find themselves caught up with Malachi. I can already tell.
He bounces one hand into the other and then shrugs. “Hey . . . thanks for having me. I’ve heard advisories are super-tight, so appreciate it.” Oh, damn. I got it all wrong. Hearing him speak, I’m sure he’s actually a nerd. Cynthia in the back giggles. Advisory just got a lot more interesting.
Ms. Fuentes beams at Malachi. “Great! You can grab a seat anywhere. You all go back to working on your essay prompt. I’ll be coming around to conference with you about your schedules.”
I finish filling out the elective sheet, then turn to the outline of my college essay that Ms. Fuentes assigned yesterday. I have a couple of ideas I might write about: having Babygirl and deciding to keep her. Or maybe what it’s like to be raised by your grandmother because your parents aren’t around. Maybe, what it feels like to get so focused in the kitchen that everything around me fades away. Ms. Fuentes says the topic should be “compelling,” but how am I supposed to know what compels a college admissions person?
“Ms. Santiago, I’m so glad you’ve decided on the culinary arts class. It’s perfect for you.” Ms. Fuentes moves like a ninja. I didn’t even hear her approach my desk, although I probably should have smelled her coming; her perfume has notes of lemon verbena. I love lemon verbena. Ingredients start arranging themselves on the kitchen counter in my mind and I can already taste an Emoni twist on ’Buela’s tembleque recipe.
“Ms. Santiago, you heard there’s an international trip opportunity as a component, yes? The teacher, Chef Ayden, has been planning all summer.”
I snap out of coconut-pudding thoughts. “I heard.” I don’t want Ms. Fuentes to know that ’Buela and I are worried about the fee.
She moves closer to me. “You’ve talked so much in Advisory about how you love to cook. I think taking this class and traveling abroad will be an amazing opportunity.”
I look around the room. Most of the other kids have their heads down but I know they’re ear-hustling. Except for the new kid. He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he’s not all in my business. He’s found an empty seat by the sunlit window and is tapping a pencil on his desk, looking straight at me. When I catch his eye, he smiles shyly but keeps on staring.
I look away from him with a sharp cut of my eyes.
“Right, I hope the class will be great, Ms. Fuentes. Which one of these essay topics do you think I should write about?”
She holds my eyes for a long moment, then she shakes her head and pulls her glasses off to peer down at my outline. “I think you should write about the one that scares you most. Taking risks and making choices in spite of fear—it’s what makes our life story compelling.”
There’s that word again. She walks away but I have a feeling her advice wasn’t about the essay prompt at all.