With the Fire on High(36)
I’ve seen chefs on TV time and time again say they had to pay their dues. And I never knew exactly what that meant but now I think I get it. It’s about doing the grunt work behind the scenes, washing dishes, folding napkins, taking stock, before you ever touch a recipe. It’s about being the creative mind behind raising a shit-ton of money so you can go on a trip abroad.
I hold my hand out. Chef looks at it and shakes it, super serious.
He pats me on the shoulder. “You’ve got what it takes, Emoni. I don’t doubt that if you keep yourself focused and your knives sharp, you’ll be running a kitchen one day. I won’t treat you any different from anyone else just because you have something special, but let’s both take a moment to acknowledge that you’ve got what it takes.”
I put on my jacket, my scarf, and my game face. I’ve got what it takes.
Guess Who’s Back?
When the rest of the class walks into the room, most of the students don’t seem surprised to see me—they must have just thought I was absent. Malachi raises an eyebrow and his lips perk up on one end. We haven’t talked since Saturday. We texted a little on Sunday, but after the phone call with Tyrone, talking with Malachi lost some of its glow. I look away from him to where Pretty Leslie cuts her eyes at me then inspects her nails. Passion-fruit purple, I’d name them. I go to my old station but Chef flags me down.
“Over here, Emoni. You will work with Richard and Amanda. As a trio. I think you’ll work better as part of a team.” He claps his hands together. “Okay, everyone, your recipes are on your boards.”
I walk over to Richard and Amanda and offer a weak smile. Richard smiles back and Amanda tightens her cap. I run a hand down my jacket front; it feels good to be back in uniform. The next hour passes by in a blur. I spend the majority of the time listening to Amanda and Richard as they ask me to dice, chop, and sauté root vegetables. I pay more attention to the little details than the overall dish. By the time everything is plated I’m surprised at what it actually is. The chicken breast is perfectly cooked, and the thinly sliced carrots look beautiful underneath it, and although I didn’t have anything to do with the seasoning or the plating, I’m proud of how the whole dish came together. Even if I would have used a bit of balsamic vinegar in the sauce.
We place the plate in front of Chef and he scoops a clean fork from his bowl and tries it. “Very good. Very, very good. Well done, team.”
I roll my eyes at him and he winks at me as he shoos us away so the next group can be graded. As class lets out I glance at Malachi’s station, but he’s already gone. I’m halfway down the hall when an arm comes around my shoulder and with a loud smack a kiss is placed on my left temple.
“Glad to have you back, Santi,” Malachi says with a grin that I return.
“Glad to be back.”
Visitation
The rest of the school week goes by quickly and before I know it, it’s Saturday morning.
“Babygirl, hold still,” I say, tugging her little Jordans onto her feet. She keeps wriggling around, trying to climb up to Tyrone. “Can you help, please?”
I’ve been trying to get her dressed for more than five minutes, and he’s just been sitting across from me like a dodo bird. Fine, he’s still mad about the Malachi thing, but lord knows he has all kinds of girls up in his house, so why he’s hung up on my friends is beyond me. He didn’t even say hello to ’Buela, and she has nothing to do with this. As much as his mother loves sticking her nose in the air, some days Tyrone has no damn home training.
Finally he lets go a long sigh. “Emma, let your mom put your stuff on.” But Emma tugs her foot, flipping the sneaker up, and it bangs me in the nose.
“Ouch! Emma!” Babygirl looks up, startled at her government name springing from my lips, and starts to cry.
“Here, let me help,” ’Buela says, and picks up Babygirl and the sneaker. “I’m going to take her onto my bed; it might be easier to get her dressed there.” She raises an eyebrow and gives me a pointed look. I know what she’s thinking: She doesn’t like it when Tyrone and I are mad at each other. She says it’s bad for Babygirl because she gets stuck in the middle.
I stop rubbing my nose and take a deep breath. “You still feel some type of way? Let’s just go ahead and talk about it.”
Tyrone readjusts the brim of his fitted. “I don’t have anything to say.”
Which is clearly a lie. Tyrone knows so many words to sweet-talk a girl, but when it comes to talking about his feelings he always swears he has nothing to say. “You turned eighteen a couple of months ago, which means you’re an adult. We can talk like grown-ups. So, why are you angry? You date girls all the time. And this wasn’t even a date. He’s just a friend.”
He shakes his head. “Maaan, ‘a friend,’ who I don’t know, who was around my daughter.”
“Is that why you’re actually angry? You tell me about every girl who meets you at the playground when you have Babygirl with you? Or the shopping-mall trips you go on that aren’t dates, but somehow, photos get posted on social media of you and girls and my daughter asleep in a stroller? Thing one, he’s new to Philadelphia, so you’d have no reason to know him. Thing two, Tyrone, we have a child. We can’t play silent-treatment games. For the rest of our lives, God willing, we’ll have a child. So, I can’t afford to act like one and neither can you.”