With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Moving Forward
’Buela is at home with Julio and Babygirl. We had a big family meeting a few days ago, and I finally laid out my plan. ’Buela won’t change her mind about what she thinks I should do. Julio hasn’t voiced an opinion outside of asking how he can be of help. Although Babygirl knows how to communicate exactly what she wants, she’s still not able to offer advice outside of patting my back when I hug her and telling me, “Good job, Mommy.”
And so, I pulled up the card Chef Ayden’s friend gave me at the Winter Dinner. The one from the fancy restaurant ’Buela and I went to. I’ve had it on my armoire since December, with no reason to keep it, but something wouldn’t let me throw it away.
I tug on my shirt before I walk into the restaurant. ’Buela ironed it for me without asking me what I needed it for. I run my palms down the front of my slacks and I’m glad that it’s warm enough out that I don’t need a jacket because I’m so nervous I’m sweaty, and if I was wearing layers it’d be a problem. I open the door and the hostess smiles warmly.
“Table for one?”
“No, I was . . .” I swallow hard and almost turn around. “I was hoping to speak to the chef.”
“The chef? Do you mean a manager? Are you looking for a job?”
“No, I mean the chef. Is she available? She told me I could drop by.”
The woman narrows her eyes as if she doesn’t believe me, but she turns her perfectly bunned-up head to the side and motions to a server. She leans toward him and whispers in his ear. He nods and strides in the direction of the swinging door to the kitchen.
The hostess taps a nail on her stand. “If you’ll just wait one moment.”
Five minutes pass, and I know because I keep glancing at my cell phone. Six minutes. The hostess is pretending she can’t see me anymore. Couples come in and glance at me to see if I’m waiting for a table, but I just keep offering them the same sickly smile and motioning them to go ahead.
Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Nine minutes. I’m about to lose my nerve and turn away when the door swings open with a bang and a woman in a high white cap and smock walks toward the hostess stand. She’s as tall as I remember.
“What?” she barks at the hostess, who immediately points at me. Chef Williams turns and looks at me. Raises an eyebrow.
I straighten up. “Hello, Chef.” I stick out my hand. “My name is Emoni Santiago. I’m not sure if you remember me? I was Chef Ayden’s student at Schomburg Charter High School. Last winter you came to an event at my high school and you gave me your card in case I ever wanted a job.”
The frown on her forehead clears up. “Yes, of course! Your food had the most amazing quality to it.”
She remembers! “I came here today because I want a job. I know food better than anyone, and I was wondering if I could work for you.”
She takes her hand from mine and crosses her arms and she seems to be fighting a smile. “This is a pretty demanding job, regardless of what position you start in. I don’t usually hire someone so young for the kitchen staff.”
“I understand. And although I’ll be attending Drexel’s Culinary Arts program on a part-time basis, it’s not too far from here, so I can go to classes in the morning and be here by the lunchtime rush. My family is helping me out to make sure I can commit to the long hours.” I give her a soft shrug. “I want to stay in Philly and work in Philly and learn from a restaurant in Philly. Because I think I have a lot to offer my hometown and the places I’m from.”
She looks me slowly up and down. “How soon can you start?”
I let go of her hand and tug on the book bag I have around my shoulders, the one that holds my chef’s jacket and clogs.
“Today. Today seems like a great day to begin.”