With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Exhaustion
“Santi, you were really quiet in Advisory today,” Malachi says. I don’t know when he decided he had a right to nickname me. But I’m too tired to correct him. It’s only the middle of the second week, and although we see each other in class, we haven’t spoken much.
“Yeah. I was up late doing work. And Ms. Fuentes gave me a shi—crapload of edits on the college essay draft.”
He raises a questioning eyebrow at my curse correction, but drops it. “What are you writing yours on?” he asks.
I cut around the corner on my way to my next class. “We don’t have Cul Arts until later in the day, Malachi; where are you going?”
“Just walking you to class, Santi.”
I stutter to a stop near a water fountain. “Malachi, we aren’t friends. We can be friendly, but I don’t want you to get it twisted. I know you’re new and I’m not trying to be mean. But I just want to be clear . . . we, you and me? Aren’t friends.”
I wouldn’t always have been able to say that to someone. I was so quiet and shy and surprised to get any attention at all. But the toddler books all suggest moms practice direct and clear language, managing expectations, giving explicit instructions, et cetera. Sometimes I think boys are just like babies when it comes to something they want—and they need to be told no, firmly and without qualification.
Malachi reaches up and pulls on one of my curls. “Okay, Santi. We aren’t friends. Can I walk in the same direction as you until you get to your class?”
“Won’t you be late for yours?”
He shrugs. “‘We, you and me, aren’t friends,’ so don’t you even worry about my attendance record, Santi.” He flashes his smile, and at the sight of his dimples I almost melt. “Plus, you are one of the few kids I’ve had actual conversations with. Why don’t you tell me some things I should make sure to see in the city?”
And although I don’t want to encourage Malachi more than necessary, I’m always looking for a reason to big-up my city. “Well, let’s start with cheesesteaks. The spot all the tourists go to? Basura. The best cheesesteaks . . .”