With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Acceptance
Later that night I’m on my bed reading a magazine with Babygirl tucked into my side. Lunch with ’Buela and Babygirl was so sweet and I know all of us ate too much of ’Buela’s mofongo. I only wish the jet lag hadn’t hit me so hard. It wasn’t until my plate of food slid off my lap that I even realized I’d been asleep. I definitely needed a little nap.
Babygirl looks twice as big as when I left her even though I know it’s not possible.
“I talked with Angelica this week and she told me a lot of admission decisions went out last week. Were you able to check email in Spain?” ’Buela doesn’t walk all the way into the room.
She plays with the fringes of the long gray scarf I bought her, and I notice she isn’t wearing her wedding band. I want to snuggle into her familiar Spanish accent, her soft wavy hair, how firm she stands in her uniform of dress slacks and pale pullover. I don’t want to tell her I was too afraid to check any of the school decisions.
“How many schools did you apply to, again?”
“Four four-year colleges and a community college,” I mumble. She stands by the door, waiting. I grab my phone and log in to the first school. A rejection from Temple University. I log in to the second school. A rejection from LaSalle. I sign in to my third school. A rejection from Arcadia.
Oh shit. If I don’t get in anywhere, I don’t know how I’m going to tell ’Buela. There’s a difference between not wanting to go to school and not even getting in.
“’Buela, I think we should wait until tomorrow. I don’t want to ruin the rest of your night.”
“C’mon, nena. Just finish it. Whatever it’ll be, I’d rather be with you than you find out the news alone. Faith, Emoni.”
I sign into the Drexel portal.
And I slow down at what I’m seeing. ’Buela must realize my silence this time is different, because her hand stops playing with her scarf. “¿Qué fue, nena?”
I pull Babygirl into my lap and she cuddles into me without waking up. I drop a kiss on the top of her head.
I hold my phone out to ’Buela. I want her to read it herself. She closes her eyes as if saying a prayer. She scans the electronic letter and when she looks at me a big tear rolls down her cheek. She fans her face with the scarf as if it will stop the onslaught of tears, but then she’s hugging me and laughing and even when Babygirl wakes up crying, all ’Buela can do is hold me on the bed and rock me, saying over and over, “Mi niña, mi niña, is going to college. Call your father. He’s going to be so proud.”