With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Netflix, No Chill
“That steak you put together was everything, Santi!” Malachi kisses his fingers like an old-school Chef Boyardee commercial. “They’re going to love it, especially when she tries that mac and cheese.” There was lightly massaged kale, too. But Malachi didn’t try any of that.
“You want to know something crazy? I don’t know if it was talking about my brother to your grandmother, but I had this memory that came out of nowhere. Of learning to make mac and cheese straight out the box. I think we spilled all that powdery orange sauce on ourselves and dropped the noodles on the floor, and when my moms came into the kitchen we had nothing to show for ourselves but boiling water and a mess.” He laughs. And I reach over to squeeze his hand.
On the street outside of Angelica’s house he grabs the bag of empty containers from me. I begin to protest but then shut my mouth. I have to say it’s kind of nice to be able to stick my hands into my pockets and let someone else carry the dirty dishes for a change.
“I hope so. They deserve a nice dinner. They’re a really cute couple.” I face him. “Not sure what you have planned next. I need to get home and make sure Babygirl and ’Buela are all right.”
He gives me a nod and the dirty containers rattle inside the big bag ’Buela bought from the dollar store for groceries.
I look at him. Bite my lip. Pull out my phone. I click it on so the time projects brightly. Eight p.m. Still early. I slip the phone back into my pocket. “Do you want to come back? Watch TV or something? There were leftovers.”
I expect him to smirk, or raise an eyebrow, but he just gives me a slow nod and keeps following me home. I’ve always been glad Gelly and I live close to each other, but never more than in this moment.
“I’m down to watch TV, but only if you promise we don’t watch a scary movie. I hate scary movies.” He pretends to shudder in fear, and the giggle that springs out my throat isn’t something I’ve heard in a long time. It doesn’t sound anything like me at all. I feel those first crush butterflies that I thought I’d never feel again, which I know sounds silly for a seventeen-year-old to say, but some days I don’t feel like a seventeen-year-old at all.
“A big ole dude like you, scared of ghosts and masked killers?” I tease.
“Yup! And like someone reminded me earlier, shame is usually someone else’s problem. I’m not ashamed of hating horror films at all!”
When we get into the apartment Malachi sits on one end of the couch and I sit on the other with a cushion on top of my lap and plenty of space between us. We watch a Kevin Hart comedy and chat through the commercials about school and music. I tell him about the empty houses that have begun appearing on the block and how quickly they are being bought up. When the movie ends at ten Malachi gets up and puts his jacket on without my asking him to.
“Thanks for answering my call today, Santi.” He leans down and wraps his long arms around me, and I feel warmth shoot from the middle of my back where he hugs me all the way up to my face. I hug him tightly back.
Trouble. This boy is just straight trouble.