With the Fire on High(12)

I’ve never been to an opera, but this must be what it’s like for a conductor to walk into an opera house, see the stage lit and the curtains drawn back, and know that they were meant to make the walls echo with music.

The instructor—I’m assuming Chef Ayden, since a chef’s coat is buttoned neatly around the pudge of his stomach and he’s wearing comfortable-looking checkered pants—walks out from his office in the back of the room just as Malachi rushes into class. For a second they stare at each other as the rest of us look between them. Chef Ayden isn’t a tall man and has the kind of dark skin that’s so free of blemishes it looks polished. Malachi walks to the only open spot next to Pretty Leslie, and for a second I think Chef Ayden is going to kick him out for being late. This boy would be in this damn class with me, and I don’t know why it annoys me so much.

“This is not just another class. This is an actual kitchen. We have real knives, we have real food, and we have a real clock ticking on the wall that measures everything we can accomplish during a class period. And, as some of you might have heard, we have a real trip to another country planned for the spring. If you can’t handle showing up on time to this class, I’m definitely not taking you abroad.

“I am not here because I always dreamed of being a teacher. I’m here because I love to cook, because you all had an opening for culinary arts in your school, and because I know how to run a kitchen. Before this is a school classroom it’s a kitchen, and you all will respect it as such. Understood?”

He stops speaking, and clearly he means for us to answer. Some of us mumble, some of us nod. I wish I was in the classroom alone and could inspect the knives, and burners, and spice pantry.

He looks around the entire room, making eye contact with each of us before moving on. “Cooking is about respect. Respect for the food, respect for your space, respect for your colleagues, and respect for your diners. The chef who ignores one of those is not a chef at all. If you have a problem with respect, this is not the class for you. Please let me know and I’ll sign the form for you to drop.” Chef Ayden looks around the room again but nobody moves. His eyes land on me and I hold his gaze.

“First things first: By the end of this week you’ll have to fill out the loan form to borrow a chef’s jacket and hat. When you walk into this room you aren’t Schomburg Charter students—you’re kitchen-staff-in-training.”

I have a feeling that this dude has a lot of lectures he wants to give. Although I do like what he said about respect.

“Today you aren’t even going to touch food.” He waves a butter knife in the air. “Today you learn how to hold a knife.”

I try to hold back a sigh that would rival any one of Angelica’s, but it squeezes out my chest anyway and Chef Ayden’s eyes zoom back my way.

For a second, when Chef was talking, I thought he must know what it’s like in the places we’re from. He sure sounded like he understood what it’s like being from the city. But this butter-knife business lets me know he must be from somewhere else, because most of us in the room have probably been cooking and using knives our whole lives—not to mention we’ve seen them used on each other.

Everyone else must feel the same way because a couple of people shuffle their feet and Pretty Leslie clears her throat from across the room. “Um, Chef, I don’t mean to be rude or whatever, but I thought this was a cooking class? I’m pretty sure most of us know how to hold a knife.” See? Even Pretty Leslie feels me, and that girl is as contrary as I don’t know what.

“Cooking class? No. This is a culinary arts class. As in, this is about creativity, and heart, and science—an art form. And no artist begins a masterpiece without understanding their tools and their medium. Anyone can teach you how to cook; you can google that. If you want to learn how to make art, stay here.”

Pretty Leslie flips her hair and gives a small shrug, but she doesn’t leave the classroom.

Neither do I.





Malachi


“Hey, Santiago,” a voice behind me calls. I look over my shoulder and see Malachi jogging up, narrowly avoiding bumping into a couple of football players. He doesn’t even notice the way they grill him.

“Hey. Malachi, right?” I say. “You know you can call me Emoni? Only Ms. Fuentes does the last-name thing.” I make sure not to slow down or change my walk in any way. I don’t want this boy thinking for a second he’s got any reason to talk to me.

Unfortunately, he has pretty long legs and it doesn’t take much for him to keep up with my short ones.

“I don’t think I knew that was your first name. I like it. Isn’t Imani one of the days you celebrate during Kwanzaa? I didn’t think you were Black-black.”

I can’t help how hard my eyes roll. Here we go. “And why, Malachi, did you not think I was ‘Black-black’?”

“Well, your last name is Santiago, you’re light-skinned, and your hair’s wild curly. I assumed you were Spanish,” he says, pulling on a strand. I swat at his hand.

“Boy, don’t touch me,” I say. “My father is Puerto Rican and he’s darker than my mom was, and her whole family is straight-from-the-Carolinas Black. And her hair was just as curly as mine. Not all Black women, and Latinas, look the same.”

He throws his hands up in surrender mode. “My bad. Didn’t mean to offend you none. I just wanted to know where you’re from since you don’t seem regular Black.”