With the Fire on High(33)
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.
Café Sorrel
When ’Buela, Babygirl, and I have an excursion, the getting-ready part is always a production. Toss in that my hands are still shaking from my conversation with Tyrone, and I’m moving in slow motion just to iron one blouse. By the time we have Babygirl strapped into the stroller and exit the house, it’s already noon.
We don’t go out to eat much. When I was younger, we used to visit the local restaurants for holidays and birthdays or after going to the cemetery to visit with my grandfather or moms. But that was a long while ago, before ’Buela stopped working. Now the only time we have outside food is if I bring something in from the Burger Joint or when Tyrone and I used to go on dates. Otherwise it’s on me or ’Buela to cook.
Today I’m surprised when ’Buela heads to the train. We go to a spot in Rittenhouse Square called Café Sorrel. The napkins are made of cloth and the flowers in the vases are real and fresh. The hostess asks if we need a booster seat, and I realize that Babygirl has never been in a high-class restaurant. When the server arrives, I notice everything he does, including the way he straightens the knife and salad fork, and how he folds our napkins into a triangle and gently holds them out for us to place on our laps, and how elegantly he pours water into our glasses.
“This is really fancy, ’Buela,” I say when the server walks away. I trace the delicate embroidery on the edge of the tablecloth.
“Yes, I like this place.” ’Buela takes a sip of her water. And well, that doesn’t make any sense. This place looks new, and when would ’Buela have ever had the occasion to come eat here? I open my mouth to ask but the server has circled back with our menus.
“We have a fall special with the following dishes . . .”
He reads off his notepad and I close my eyes when he describes how each dish is prepared. I want to memorize everything.
“You order, nena. This is all you.” ’Buela turns to the server. “My granddaughter is taking a culinary arts class. She is amazing in the kitchen.”
“Oh”—the server raises an eyebrow—“how lovely. You’re going to have to let us know what you think of the meal.” I have a feeling he’s probably a college student at Penn or Temple and couldn’t care less what I think; he’s simply being overly friendly to get that tip. So, no, I don’t plan on giving him my opinion on anything.
I take a look at the menu and keep my smile on my face even though the prices drop-kick me in the gut. I look for the cheapest items on the menu, then smile up at the server.
“May I have the duck appetizer on the bed of risotto? My grandmother will have the partridge. And can we have pommes frites for this little one?” I gesture to Babygirl, who gives a huge smile and bangs on the table.
The server removes our menus and stacks them in his arms. “Very well, your bread is on its way.”
Buela neatly folds and refolds the napkin in her lap. “Those sounded like very nice orders. How is class going? I haven’t heard you mention any special quizzes lately,” ’Buela asks, and sips her water.
She knows. I can see it in her face that she knows. “Who told you?”
“Told me what, nena?” ’Buela says. She smiles at the busboy, who sets a basket of bread on the table. He has a tattoo of the Puerto Rican flag on his neck, and although ’Buela hates tattoos, she loves her island. I bet she’ll pass him a tip later. “Oh, lord, m’ijo. Bringing us all this bread! I haven’t been walking as much as I used to. This bread is going to go straight to my hips,” she says as she grabs a roll and breaks it in half. She gives the other half to Babygirl, who bites into it with enthusiasm. The busboy smiles at her.
“And what would be the point of hips if we couldn’t enjoy bread every now and then?” the busboy says in Spanish. And although this whole exchange is cute, I need him to walk away. As soon as he does, I pounce again.
“I know you know I’ve been skipping class. It’s written all over your face. Who said something?”
’Buela takes a huge bite of bread and makes me wait until she’s done chewing to speak. “What is most important is that you didn’t tell me.”
Angelica must have found out somehow. Or maybe Ms. Fuentes saw last week’s attendance sheet and called home.
“You’ve never had an issue with attendance, not even when you were pregnant. It seems to me like you were really excited about the class for a while and maybe when it got hard you got scared about the challenge.”
I look away from ’Buela, and use my napkin to wipe crumbs from Babygirl’s chin. ’Buela reaches across and stills my hand. “I’m not saying I don’t understand. Or that I don’t know you well enough to say that you’ve climbed higher hills. I only mean to say, I hope you didn’t sell yourself short.”
I squeeze her hand. “I haven’t dropped the class entirely yet.”
“So are you going to go back?”
I shrug and look down at my plate where I’ve crumbled a bread roll into nothing but dust. ’Buela takes the hint. “Tell me about your other classes.”
She listens as I tell her about physics and English. About the college essay I’m working on. When the food comes out the scents fill my nostrils and I close my eyes and inhale deeply.