With the Fire on High(39)

I don’t answer. Call me salty.





Coven


“Angelica, where did you get all of this stuff?” I ask her as she bursts through the door carrying bags and bags of fabric. She’s changed her hair to a black bob but the ends are bright pink.

Angelica really is like one of those tropical storms we keep getting warnings about on the news, swirling until she descends in a pile of mayhem. “You know that Laura works for the theater at her school. She gets access to all the extra fabric from the set. She hooked us up! And not a moment too soon, since Halloween is only a week away.”

Angelica sets the bags down and walks to where Babygirl sits on the couch in front of the TV, where she’s been spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth. I finger a piece of gold spandex peeking out from one of the bags.

“Oh my God. Babygirl isn’t even three yet. She’s not big enough for a costume to need this much material. What are we going to do with all of it?”

“Make her the best damn—I mean, darn—costume anyone has ever seen.”

“Angelica, I told you I don’t even think I can take her trick-or-treating.” I shuffle from one foot to the other. “And she needs to go to bed soon.”

“Me and your grandmother will figure out trick-or-treating. She’s not my godbaby for nothing, right, Em?” Angelica leans down and blows kisses onto Babygirl’s feet.

“Hola, Angelica,” ’Buela says. She’s wearing pink pj’s and her hair is up in rollers. It’d be late for any other friend to come over, but this is Angelica.

“?Bendición, Abuela Gloria!” Angelica sings out. She hugs ’Buela so tight that they’re swaying.

“Que Dios te bendiga, m’ija.” ’Buela dances with Angelica for a moment before gesturing to the bags with her chin. “What’s all this?”

“We’re going to make a costume for Babygirl. Aren’t we, Babygirl?”

“Ah, bueno. It’s getting late and she needs to be going to bed, no? Why don’t I help? I can take measurements quicker than you two put together.”

Angelica pulls out the measuring tape and her design notebook. She starts flipping through the book with her fuschia-tipped hair swinging.

“I was thinking we could do a doctor! Or maybe even an astronaut! A Chiquita Banana girl with a fruit crown? It all depends on what you want. What should it be?”

’Buela chimes in, “A beauty queen? Or how about a movie star? Como la Audrey Hepburn.”

I look at Babygirl, patiently spooning food into her mouth like she hasn’t a care in the world. And suddenly I know exactly what she should be for Halloween. “I think it’d be cute if she was a chef. With a little smock, and a hat, checkered pants, and a spatula. Maybe even some of those little clogs. She could be ‘cooking’ up a bowl of popcorn.”

Angelica snaps her fingers. “Yes! That’s so cute! Maybe you can put on your chef jacket and take a picture before you go to work.”

“A chef,” ’Buela says, a smile lighting up her face. “That’s perfect. And maybe Cheerios instead of popcorn!”

All of a sudden the three of us are pulling fabric out, and ’Buela has grabbed the measuring tape. Angelica clicks on a playlist on her phone. We all smile at Babygirl, who shows off her teeth as if she knows she has a coven of women holding her down, and that she can be anything and everything we dream for her.





Dreams


I sometimes wonder what my mother might have dreamed for me if she hadn’t died when I was born. If she would have wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, if she would have been pushier to ensure I did better in school. I love ’Buela, and I’m so lucky to have her, but as supportive as she is, ’Buela isn’t the type to run down to a school and smack a counselor upside the head for discouraging me from applying somewhere. ’Buela isn’t the type to demand the school test me to see why I get so mixed up with directions or struggled to speak early on. ’Buela walks through the world with her hands palms up; she takes what’s given to her in stride and never complains or cries.

I dream every single day for Babygirl. I see people in business suits on the bus, and I imagine Babygirl grown up with a briefcase and a nice executive office job. I watch a TV show and imagine Babygirl as a famous actress winning an Oscar. There’s so much I want for her that sometimes I think the seams of my skin aren’t enough to contain every hope I have. And I whisper it to her all the time. When I’m feeding her. When she’s asleep in my arms. When we are playing at the park. I whisper all the everything I know she can be and the ways I’ll fight for her to be them. I want her to know her entire life her mommy may not have had a powerful job or made millions, but that her moms did everything so that she could be an accumulation of the best dreams.



From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Friday, November 1, 8:18 PM

Subject: Pics

Hey Aunt Sarah,

I hope you’re good! I’ve kept playing around with that recipe you sent me for your mac and cheese. I’ve attached a picture of it plated. I added some gruyère cheese and it was finger-licking good.

I also attached a picture of Babygirl for Halloween. Isn’t her apron the cutest? I wasn’t able to go trick-or-treating with her, but ’Buela and Angelica took her all around the neighborhood and to the rec center, where there was a contest for best costume in different age groups. Unfortunately, she lost to an infant T’Challa, but next year we are going to plan in advance and we will win that contest, Wakanda or no Wakanda.