With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Ramifications
My cell phone rings the next morning just as ’Buela is headed out to church. “’Buela, can you get that? My hands are wet,” I call when I hear her coming down the steps. I’m at the sink washing the pans I let soak overnight. Sometimes, Babygirl and I go with her to church, but she never presses me if I’m not ready or don’t want to go. Today is one of those days where I’m looking forward to enjoying a playful and easy morning with my kid.
The phone stops ringing and I hear ’Buela murmur into it, “Sí, one moment, Tyrone.”
’Buela hands me a towel and holds my phone out to me. I dry my hands and take it from her, conscious that she hasn’t left but has decided to rest against the doorframe. That can’t be good.
I take a deep breath. “Hey, Tyrone. Wassup?”
“Yo, Emoni, why am I getting phone calls from one of my boys telling me he saw you walk into your house with some dude? I miss one weekend with her, and you bringing other guys around my daughter?”
I close my eyes. This cannot be what he’s calling me about. Why does he have people in my neighborhood checking for me, anyway? Furthermore, what business is it of his? Especially if Babygirl didn’t even meet Malachi?
I ball up the dish towel but after a glance at ’Buela smooth it out. I don’t want her to see I’m upset.
“I didn’t bring anyone around your daughter,” I say, and shoot another look at ’Buela. She raises an eyebrow and walks into the living room. “And if I have a friend from school come over to help me with a side project, that’s my business.”
Tyrone’s voice is harsh in reply. “Working on a ‘side project’ is a funny way to say you’re someone’s side piece.”
My breath gets short in my chest. I can’t believe Tyrone sometimes. “Tyrone, he wasn’t around your daughter. She was asleep. She never met him. And I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Your grandmother was there?” Tyrone asks.
I force myself to inhale deeply, then exhale the same way before I respond. I try to remember that what’s best for Babygirl isn’t always what’s easiest for me. Because right now what would be easy is to hang up on Tyrone. “Yes, ’Buela was home.”
“Put her on. I want to ask her myself.”
I walk into the living room and stop halfway to the couch. Nah. I don’t ask about the girls he dates and I don’t harass him when he says he doesn’t introduce them to Babygirl. Plus, we aren’t children anymore; our parents aren’t going to sign us out of trouble.
“Tyrone, I’m not putting my grandmother on. I have never lied to you.”
He breathes hard in my ear, then all sound drops from the call. He’s hung up on me. Babygirl is sitting in ’Buela’s lap, sucking her thumb.
“Why don’t you get her dressed?” ’Buela asks. “At this rate I’ll have missed the procession by the time I get to the church—and I don’t like walking in late. We can go get breakfast instead. We’ll do those dishes later.”
I know the smile I’ve forced onto my face wobbles at the edges, but I keep it pinned on and I keep my tears to myself.