With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Malachi
“Hey, Santiago,” a voice behind me calls. I look over my shoulder and see Malachi jogging up, narrowly avoiding bumping into a couple of football players. He doesn’t even notice the way they grill him.
“Hey. Malachi, right?” I say. “You know you can call me Emoni? Only Ms. Fuentes does the last-name thing.” I make sure not to slow down or change my walk in any way. I don’t want this boy thinking for a second he’s got any reason to talk to me.
Unfortunately, he has pretty long legs and it doesn’t take much for him to keep up with my short ones.
“I don’t think I knew that was your first name. I like it. Isn’t Imani one of the days you celebrate during Kwanzaa? I didn’t think you were Black-black.”
I can’t help how hard my eyes roll. Here we go. “And why, Malachi, did you not think I was ‘Black-black’?”
“Well, your last name is Santiago, you’re light-skinned, and your hair’s wild curly. I assumed you were Spanish,” he says, pulling on a strand. I swat at his hand.
“Boy, don’t touch me,” I say. “My father is Puerto Rican and he’s darker than my mom was, and her whole family is straight-from-the-Carolinas Black. And her hair was just as curly as mine. Not all Black women, and Latinas, look the same.”
He throws his hands up in surrender mode. “My bad. Didn’t mean to offend you none. I just wanted to know where you’re from since you don’t seem regular Black.”
I take a deep breath. Because I know he didn’t mean anything by his question. “I get you. And yes, I’m Black on both sides. Although my Puerto Rican side speaks Spanish, and my American side speaks English.”
“I appreciate the race lesson.”
He’s trying to charm me. And I am not here for it. “Did you need something?” I ask, winding around a corner. Who made this boy think I had time for him? Got me out here wasting all my good words.
But then he smiles. Dimples popping out on both cheeks like billboards for joy and I stumble over my own feet. Shit, that smile should come with a trigger warning. Because blao! It’s playing target practice with my emotions. It’s even making me curse, and even though it’s only in my head, I promised I would work on it. Now I’m really annoyed.
“Nah, Santiago. I just wanted to say hello. I’m glad we have this class together. I’d love to try your cooking.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Was that some weird sexual innuendo?”
His eyes widen and he barks out a laugh. “Dang, yo! I’m just trying to be nice. Get your mind out the gutter!”
“Oh, well, yeah. I guess tasting will be a part of the class.” I stop in front of my English class. Angelica is sitting by the door and I see her already taking down notes. “This is me. . . .” And then because ’Buela didn’t raise me to be rude, “Thanks for walking me to class.”
“No problem, Santi.”