With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
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I grab my suitcase from the conveyor belt and give Malachi a quick kiss. He pulls me back for a longer one, and I blush down to my toes as my classmates whoop and holler at seeing so much PDA. I’m almost out of the terminal when I glance behind me because I hear someone cursing up a storm. It’s Pretty Leslie and her three big bags, huffing and puffing behind me toward the SEPTA sign.
“Leslie, do you need a ride? My grandmother’s friend is here to pick me up. You stay over on Lehigh, right?”
Pretty Leslie doesn’t need to say a word for me to see the relief written all over her face. “That would be great, Emoni. Thanks.”
Mr. Jagoda is waiting right out front when we exit the terminal and he seems so happy to see me. And I can’t lie: it’s nice to see a familiar face who’s going to take me to my family. In the Volkswagen, we sit in silence listening to an oldies station. And although I fight not to run out the car every time we stop for traffic, tolls, or a red light, Mr. Jagoda’s easy humming and calming demeanor helps me push back my impatience. I just want to see my baby. I couldn’t even sleep on the flight or joke with Malachi because all I can think about is Babygirl. We drop Pretty Leslie off and exactly four minutes later Mr. Jagoda pulls up out front of my house.
“Will you be coming inside?” I ask Mr. Jagoda as he helps lift my bag from the trunk.
He smiles, and I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his big bright teeth peek past his lips. “Oh, no. I’ve already seen Gloria this week and I think today she has eyes only for you.” He pats my cheek and hops back into the driver’s seat.
I run toward the front stairs. When I open the door, ’Buela bursts into tears from the center of the living room, where she’s holding Babygirl.
Babygirl squeals and reaches for me from ’Buela’s arms, and I don’t even worry about the open door—I just run in and grab her to me. Inhaling her baby smell. A smell I know better than my own name. I blink up at the ceiling.
I move to ’Buela. I don’t want to let go of Babygirl, so I just turn and hug ’Buela with my loose arm. She smells different, like expensive perfume, but her hands when she holds my face and kisses both cheeks still smell like vanilla.
“Pero tú sí me hiciste falta, nena.” I press my cheek into her palm and nuzzle close, my eyes drifting shut.
“I missed you more, ’Buela.”