With the Fire on High(41)
When I walk into class the third week in November, I see that there are no recipes on our boards. I button up my jacket and stand next to Richard. “Today we’re going to come up with some creative solutions to the problem we are having. Emoni has been doing a great job brainstorming ideas to raise money, but I think this last push needs a collective effort. We want to go to Sevilla, yes?”
As if our heads are attached to puppet strings, we all nod.
Malachi raises his hand. “What if we built onto what we already have? I don’t know how the Winter Dinner is done every year, but wouldn’t that be a good time to do more than just cater?”
“My father does landscaping,” Richard says. “What if we auctioned off his services? People donate money for that sort of thing, right?”
Amanda nods. “What if we also made the dinner open to the public, not just family and friends? My sister has over thirty thousand followers on Instagram and I’m sure my parents would promote it to their clients. If we moved it to the gym instead of the cafeteria we could fit more tables.”
No one I know can offer much but I begin taking neat notes of the suggestions. Chef Ayden claps his hands and he looks like he’s about to shut down our brainstorming. The thought of adding anything more to our dinner is probably giving him a conniption, but these ideas are too good to stop now. I rush in before he says anything. “I think we should expand the dinner. What if we asked the graphic design kids to make us a flyer and we posted on social media? My friend Angelica would do it.”
Someone from the back yells, “Word! We could tag some famous folks. Meek Mill sometimes promotes things like this to his fans, and Joel Embiid might show love.”
Chef Ayden looks like he wants to interrupt, but people keep calling out other suggestions and my hand flies over my notebook as I record them all. When the recommendations die down I raise that same hand and wait on Chef Ayden to give me a nod. “As the fund-raising chair, I want to propose we bring our ideas to Principal Holderness. We don’t have much time, but the worst that could happen is he says no. Sometimes you have to ask anyway, right?”
Chef gives us a long nod. “I have some friends from my culinary school days and colleagues who might be willing to attend or contribute. It doesn’t hurt to ask.”
By the time we leave class, I think we’re all feeling a bit high. Not only might we raise the money we need, but this is also an opportunity to show off our chops to the school and our families, and possibly the whole city.
To the Bone
The next week zooms by like a train: I move from one thing to the next without stopping and I’m left tired to my very bones. I mean that literally—even my bones need a nap. Between my weekend shifts at the Burger Joint, finishing college applications, creating flyers, using social media to boost the fund-raiser, and mornings cooking for the lunch crowd or afternoons serving them, I never have time to breathe. Even at home, I’m making dinner or washing dishes, and as much as I love cooking, I could use a pause.
And none of that even touches on the fact that I’m usually exhausted just from having to run around ensuring Babygirl is fed and clothed, has been to the park, has been read to, has slept well, is up on her checkups, and is ready for her visits with her father.
There are some nights I want to cry myself to sleep from how much I’m carrying, but even my eyes are too tired to make tears work properly.
Thanksgiving in our house this year is a quiet event. Since I get Babygirl for Christmas, New Year’s, and Three Kings’ Day, Tyrone and I decided it makes sense for him to take her for Thanksgiving. So this year it’s just me and ’Buela eating a small pernil and arroz and rainbow chard, watching the Eagles in an away game.
When my cell phone buzzes I know it’s Malachi before I even look at the screen. All of ’Buela’s family has already called her, Aunt Sarah called me and we spoke for a few moments, then she promised to send me an email with a pie recipe I requested, and Gelly is caught up with Laura’s family so she won’t be pressed to reach me.
“Hey, Santi. I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving. What’d you make?”
I hesitate before answering. “Chocolate pudding, Malachi. You should try some,” I say, my face splitting into a smile.
Winter Dinner
It’s the afternoon of Monday, December 9, and Schomburg Charter High School is quiet as the last of the students leave. The only people still in the building are the teachers finalizing their grading, and the custodians setting up tables and chairs in the gym. In about two hours the school will reopen for the public to come enjoy the Winter Dinner. But in our small part of the building, game time is right now.
“All right, class! Tonight is the big night. People have paid money to be here in our fancy gymnasium, and we are almost sold out. The basketball team even rescheduled a game so we could use this space, and Principal Holderness has invited folks from the superintendent’s office. Black Thought from the Roots retweeted a post and over a hundred people from the community have bought tickets. We did everything we could to have people show up, but now we have to show out.”
It’s almost like a mini prom. We’ve wheeled in the long tables from the cafeteria and covered them with cloth (it turns out Angelica’s fabrics did not go to waste!). We have little Christmas lights set up throughout the entranceway to give the room a nice winter-night effect. The basketball hoops have been pushed back and the score screens are covered with the menu printed on large poster paper. And each of us is in our clean uniform, our caps pinned on tight. It’s not some swanky rooftop affair, but damn if it ain’t good for being a high school gym transformation in less than two weeks.