With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
The Roots
“Good girl,” Chef Amadí says as she peers over my shoulder. I clip the parsley leaves. “Now smell them, what next?”
I look at the other dirt beds in the backyard garden. Chef Amadí doesn’t have any of them labeled—she says their names don’t matter, only where they tell her they want to be.
“Are you listening to them?” I nod even though I’m not listening. I don’t even know what that means. I’m pretty sure the basil and parsley aren’t talking to me. It’s that something tugs at my hands telling me what needs to go where next. I walk a loop around the garden and snip a bit here, a bit there. When I finish my circle, Chef looks at the bundle I hold out to her.
“Muy bien. Today we have rabbit and mushrooms on the menu. What should we pair it with?” she asks, but she’s already stepping into the restaurant, opening the big refrigerator door. She looks at me.
“Rabbit with harissa,” I say, closing my eyes. “Rice with mushrooms, rich with saffron.”
Later, in our bedroom I tell Pretty Leslie about my day. Less because I think she cares and more because my FaceTime with ’Buela was really me cooing at Babygirl. Seeing her eclipsed any excitement I might feel about my day. Although it’s only been three days, I already miss hearing her small feet pattering all over the house, her high-pitched voice singing along to Moana.
But I still need to tell someone about my strange afternoon. There was no time at dinner to talk to Malachi.
“She has you doing what?” Leslie says as she parts her hair so she can Bantu knot it. I look at the lines between her knots and notice some of them aren’t straight. I wouldn’t let Babygirl walk out the house with such uneven parts.
“She sounds like a crackhead. I always knew that lady was crazy, got you sniffing herbs and shit.” The offer I was going to make to part her hair dies in my mouth.
“Don’t you think ‘crackhead’ is a strong word? You don’t even know her.”
Pretty Leslie still rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth every time she speaks to me, but I’m starting to think it has less to do with my friendship with Malachi and more that it’s just the way she speaks to people.
“Fine. She sounds crazy. Shouldn’t she be teaching you the basics? Chop and dice and mince. Devein shrimp. That’s what the rest of us are doing, not sniffing herbs.” She shrugs. “Definitely not talking to food.”
I massage my feet. Chef advised all of us to buy a pair of thick-soled clogs since we’d be spending most days on our feet, and now I wish I had listened, because my Air Maxes are not comfortable for all the hours I’m on my feet.
“Do you wanna be a chef, Leslie?” I ask without looking up. I can only imagine her screw-face. I wait for her sarcastic response but it never comes. When I finally do look at her she’s rolling a puff of hair into a twist and knotting it into a neat little stack.
“Leslie?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, girl. Everyone wants to know what I’m going to be. I’m the first person to graduate high school in my family. First person to ever get a passport. I been lucky to make it this far without dropping out or having a kid. No offense. My life at home . . . it isn’t the easiest. I just want to see how far I can get. But I don’t know if I’m made to be a chef—I can’t talk to plants and shit.” She smirks. “I just know whatever it is, I want it to be major. I want to be remembered for something great. I want to leave a skyscraper-sized mark on the world that reminds people: Leslie Peterson was fucking here.”
I look at Pretty Leslie and remember what Malachi once told me about her being more than she seemed. Maybe he was right, because I know just what she means.