With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
The Authors
“All right, girlie, see you at lunch?” Angelica says as we stop outside my advisory. Advisory is Schomburg’s fancy name for homeroom.
“Yeah, save me a seat by the windows if you get there first. Oh, and grab me—”
“Some applesauce if they look like they’re running out. I know, Emoni.” Angelica smirks and walks away. And she does know me. I love the school applesauce—extra cinnamony.
Ms. Fuentes has been my advisor since my first day at Schomburg Charter, and her classroom has never changed. Lady still has the same motivational sign above her door: You’re the Author of Your Own Life Story. That sign has stared at us twenty advisory students from the time when we walked in as little-bitty freshmen. And even though it doesn’t make me roll my eyes anymore, I still think it’s corny. Nonetheless, Advisory is my favorite class period of the day, even though it’s also the shortest; it’s where Ms. Fuentes takes attendance, makes announcements, and gives us college prep and “character-building” exercises. But most important, it’s the only class that has had the same students in it since freshman year. So we can talk here the way we can’t in any other class.
Ms. Fuentes looks up from the classroom window shades to see me staring at her inspirational sign. “Ms. Santiago, how was your summer?” she says as she adjusts the shades so they let in more light. She does that, the Mr. This and Ms. That. Has since we walked into her classroom at fourteen. I sit at my desk in the second row, closest to the door. It was clutch when I was pregnant and had to rush to the bathroom every five minutes, and I haven’t switched seats since.
I shrug. “Good. Got a job. Yours?”
Ms. Fuentes stops mid-shade-fussing to side-eye me. “You’re always so loquacious. It’s refreshing to have a student who believes in something other than monosyllables.” But she’s smiling. She’s never said it, but I know I’m one of her favorites. Other students begin trickling into the room.
I smile back at her. “Aw, Ms. Fuentes, I see you worked on your sarcasm this summer. It’s gotten so much better.”
She stops messing with the windows and walks closer to my desk. She says softly, “How’s Emma? Where’d you get a job?”
“She’s real good, Ms. Fuentes. And the job is at the Burger Joint.” Which, although it’s spelled all official, I still pronounce “jawn.” They think just because the Temple area has changed some that they gotta be fancy, but a burger jawn is a burger jawn regardless of how you spell it. “You know the spot near the university? I work there after school two days during the week and four hours every weekend.”
Her pretty, manicured nails tap on my desk and I imagine she’s tracing her finger along a mental map of North Philly.
“Yes, I think I’ve passed it before. Are you going to be able to juggle everything while also working there?”
I drop my eyes to my desk. “I should be okay. It’s not that many hours.”
“I see. . . . I know senior year is already stressful; try not to take on too much.”
And I don’t know what to say. It’s not that many hours; in fact, I wish it were more. The cash I get from those little checks helps with groceries, Babygirl’s expenses, and whatever ’Buela’s disability money doesn’t cover.
My silence doesn’t faze Ms. Fuentes at all. “I have a surprise for you when the bell rings—a class I think you would love.”
She squeezes my shoulder before giving her attention to Amir Robinson from the Strawberry Mansion area. “Welcome back, Mr. Robinson! Jesus, but you grew over the summer!” Ms. Fuentes walks away, calling out, “Ms. Connor, I dusted off your favorite seat in the back row just for you. . . .”