With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Children
Malachi is right behind him before I can even get a breath out. The little boy is quick and ducks around people and pivots hard into different alleyways. I follow as close as I can, keeping sight of Malachi. He never loses a beat. For a split second between gasping for air it hits me what it must have been like for him growing up in Newark if his eyes are so sharp and his reflexes so fast that he can keep up with a young boy in a city he doesn’t know. I also realize that I need to start working out with Angelica, because I fall far behind after the second block. Then Malachi has the boy by the back of his coat and I speed up before he can hurt him.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say, taking back the purse. The boy has long lashes framing bright green eyes. Tears are falling down his grubby cheeks. He shakes in Malachi’s hands. I touch Malachi’s shoulder. “He’s just a kid.”
His hand grips the coat tighter. “Ask him why.”
I touch his hand. “Mal, stop. He wanted money. Let him go.”
“Ask him why, Emoni.” He never uses my first name. I clutch my purse tight in one arm and turn to the child.
“¿Porqué robaste la cartera?” I ask him. My words come out slow as I try to remember each one and make sure I’m saying them right. I’ve always understood Spanish better than I’ve spoken it, but I must have gotten my question across since the boy’s eyes widen even more when he looks at me.
His own Spanish sounds garbled because he’s talking through tears. “I wouldn’t have if I knew you two were black,” he says, and I almost laugh. “I didn’t see you from the front.”
“Not being black would have made a difference?”
He runs a hand across his runny nose, avoids Malachi’s hands. “Everyone knows you guys run fast.”
“Not all of us. Just like not all of you steal, right?”
He looks down at the ground. “My baby sister, she’s hungry. My parents don’t like it, but we beg. Because we’re cuter.” He blinks innocently and smiles sadly. And he’s right—I would have given him money. He’s cute as hell.
I look up at Malachi. He still hasn’t let go of the boy, but his eyes seem far away. He snaps his attention back to me when I speak. “He was hungry. He says he has a sister who’s hungry, too.”
“Tell Little Man to take us to her. I want to see where they are staying.”
“Malachi, let go of him. You’re scaring him and we can’t force him to take us to his family if he doesn’t want to. I have my purse back. It’s not that serious.”
But the boy must understand some English because he points into an alleyway not too far from us. A small face is peeking out around the wall. Malachi drops his hand from the boy’s shoulder.
Malachi doesn’t say anything. I reach into my bag and pull out five euros. I put them in the little boy’s palm and he runs to the little girl, scooping her up and walking deep into the alleyway and out of sight.
“I just can’t get over how young they are,” I say to Malachi. She was only two or three years older than Babygirl. I turn to Malachi, but he’s still watching the darkness that the two kids ran into.
I pat his arm. “You okay? Out of breath? That was quite a sprint.” I’m hoping I can joke him out of his silence, but he just blinks in the direction of the kids and then shakes his head.
“My mother always told me one of the hardest things to be in a hungry world is a parent. But sometimes I think it’s being an older brother. To know exactly what your sibling needs and not have the age or strength to know any way to get it for them.” He smirks but his smile is empty.
I put my hand in his and squeeze. “Let’s go get ice cream.”
“No, I don’t want ice cream anymore, Santi.”
He pulls on one of my curls and I don’t know if it’s the sadness in his smile or his faraway look, but next thing I know, I’m arching up and holding his face between my hands. I place my thumb where his dimple would be if he were smiling. His hands move to my waist and I can feel their warmth through my jacket. He doesn’t pull me closer or push away but I understand he needs to feel close, and I need that, too.