With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

 

The Read

“Who was that you were talking to?” Angelica pops a big wad of red gum into her mouth as the bell rings after English and everyone hustles down the hallway to their lockers.

“Who?” I ask, stealing a stick of gum before she can drop the pack back in her purse.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Emoni,” she says, poking me in the rib. “You don’t talk to any of the guys at school and I definitely saw one fine-ass dude walk you to class. He new?”

Caught. “Oh, we have Advisory together and the culinary arts class. Malachi. Transferred from somewhere in Newark or something.”

“Newark? Oh, he a brave soul bringing his ass over here. A very cute brave soul. . . . So, how did that class go? You seemed nervous when I saw you at lunch.”

Angelica is looking at me, oblivious to the mob of lost-looking freshmen coming her way. I pull her to me so she doesn’t get bumped. “It was okay. We talked about butter knives. Did you talk about tools in your art class?”

Angelica gives me a puzzled look before stopping in front of our locker. She turns the dial that opens up her top half.

“Tools? We went over the different design programs we’ll be using. We won’t start actual projects for a week or two while we learn the systems.”

Huh. Maybe Chef was right; it’s a different kind of tool, but sounds like Angelica wasn’t just jumping right into design either.

“Tell me more about this Malachi person.” She pulls her books out.

“Gelly, please. And move your big ole behind.” I bump lightly against her and open my bottom locker. Put a textbook back and then shut it.

“I’m just saying. He would be a cute prom date,” she says, popping her gum right in my face.

“And I’m just saying,” I say, walking toward the school exit, “that unless they let in two-year-olds or middle-aged women, I don’t plan on going to prom at all.”