With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

 

School

“All right, folks. I know that we’ve been talking about where you’re applying, and I’ll be circling around to conference with each of you on your selections. While you’re waiting, go ahead and fill out the survey in front of you with different majors, job opportunities, and fields to consider.”

I give a head-nod to Malachi, who walks in late. Before we went our separate ways on the train, he saved his number on my phone. I texted him after I spoke with Julio and let him know I got in okay, but he didn’t respond until an hour later, and by then I was making dinner, then bathing Babygirl before bed, and then sliding straight into my homework. I never did manage to text him back. The water-ice date was nice, but ’Buela’s reaction to my being out so long was a reminder I don’t have time to waste chopping it up and flirting with boys.

I stare at Ms. Fuentes’s questionnaire, filling in answers about my temperament, ideal work schedule, desired income, and experience. I’m on the third page when Ms. Fuentes sits down at the empty desk next to me.

“Hey, Ms. Santiago. What are you thinking?”

I shrug. “I know we’ve talked about it a little, but the guidance counselor says my grades ‘leave a lot to be desired.’ She thinks the majority of schools in the city I was looking into might be a reach. I’m wondering if it makes more sense to get a good job after high school and focus on that instead of this application.”

“Because of Emma?”

I hesitate for a second, because saying Babygirl is the reason would be easier. But I don’t know if it’s the whole truth. “I can’t ask my grandmother to take care of Babygirl forever. I don’t want my grandmother to do that. I want to be able to take care of my own, and the only thing I would want to study is culinary arts, but why try to learn that in a school when I could learn it in a real restaurant where I’m making money instead of spending it?”

I can tell that Ms. Fuentes doesn’t like that answer. She frowns so hard her brows meet in the middle. “Don’t you think it’ll be better in the long run for your family if you have a college degree? Then if cooking doesn’t work out, you have other options. I just want you to make something of yourself,” Ms. Fuentes says.

I almost suck my teeth. I love Ms. Fuentes, but sometimes she says real stupid shit. “I think there are lots of ways to ‘make something’ of yourself and still support your family. College isn’t the only way.”

She nods. “Of course. I’m sorry if what I said came across wrong; I just want you to apply to college so, come April, at least you have the option of deciding to do something else. At least then you’ll have choices. And who knows? Your mind-set about school might change in a few months.”

I look at Ms. Fuentes. She’s young, maybe early thirties, not like a lot of the teachers at the school. And she’s hip to most things like fashion and music, but she doesn’t have a kid. She doesn’t have a grandmother who’s spent the last thirty-five years raising a son and then her son’s kid and now her son’s kid’s kid. No, Ms. Fuentes has a job that she seems to like, and she can afford nice perfume, and cute outfits, and pretty manicures, and to give out advice nobody asked for.

I don’t tell Ms. Fuentes that I just don’t think more school is for me. That I’d rather save my money for my daughter’s college tuition instead of my own. That when I think of my hopes and dreams I don’t think I can follow them from a classroom. That my hopes and dreams seem so far out of reach I have to squint to see them, so how could I possibly pursue them?