With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Home Is Where
I cut last-period English for the first time since I was a freshman. I spent some time out of school while I was pregnant, so I’ve tried to be really aware of the absences I rack up. But with only one class left, and my hands still trembling after Culinary Arts, I can’t sit in a classroom trying to talk about how Baldwin depicts religion and race in his work.
The security guard should probably stop me, but with so many seniors constantly leaving the building for doctor appointments and interviews, or because they are done for the day, the guard on duty hardly glances my way before waving me on.
And so, I go to the only person who can make me feel better.
Babygirl’s daycare isn’t too far from the house, and instead of taking the bus or train, I walk the whole way there, using the hour to clear my head and getting there right around pickup time. I peek through the window into her classroom. She’s standing at a play kitchen swinging a large plastic spoon. It’s one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen and for some reason I tear up. I don’t stop looking even when I smell the soft scent of vanilla.
“Doesn’t it just fill your heart up?” ’Buela asks me. I should have texted her to tell her I’d pick up Babygirl today.
I nod. I don’t need to answer that. She can probably see it on my face.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not in school?” I finally say.
’Buela is still looking at Babygirl through the window. “In a couple of months you’ll be an adult. I trust you with that child; I should trust you with yourself.”
And although her trust should make me feel better, I feel a slight pang in my chest. Every day it seems ’Buela is stepping back, not just giving me full rein in Babygirl’s life, but also in my own. And I know I should love the freedom, but I don’t think I’m ready for all the safety nets to be cut loose. Doesn’t she know I still need her? That I still wish someone would look at the pieces of my life and tell me how to make sure they all fit back together?