With the Fire on High(47)

“Not so bad. Nothing a little peroxide and a Band-Aid won’t fix.”

I shake my head. “Dr. Malachi Johnson, here to save the day.” He applied to Morehouse early decision weeks ago and should be hearing back any day now.

“Not yet. But that’s the plan.” Malachi and I have talked about his dream to start a practice back in his hood. He insists they need more people from home trying to help home, and I think about the way he cradled my hand and inspected my cut; how he makes me smile when I’m upset. I think about how sure he is when he walks into a room and how he participates in every class he takes, and I know Malachi is going to be an amazing doctor one day. Sometimes, when he talks about returning to Newark, he reminds me of my father; a love for home so deep you go out into the world with the sole purpose of bringing the world back to your hood. And the similarities make me smile and hurt at the same time. Malachi has his future planned out. He knows exactly what he wants and how he’s going to get it. And me? I’ve barely finished my college essay, much less submitted it anywhere.

Malachi awkwardly shuffles his feet. I take my hand out of his. I want to hold my own hand when I ask the question.

“Malachi, what is this? What are we doing?”

He takes a step back. “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s a question I need to answer by myself, is it? You seemed to want to take it slow so we’ve been taking it slow.”

I remember what Angelica said the last time she was here. About designing my own kind of reality. And I think part of that is owning when I don’t know what I want that reality to look like.

“Thank you for taking it slow. To be honest, I’m not sure what I want. Not with you, not with college, not with anything. Babygirl is the only thing in my life I’m clear on.” It costs me to say the words; I feel like I’m giving him a picture of all the different questions I have, of how much of a mess I am. But instead of stepping back and saying I’m right, Malachi takes my uncut hand in his. And even though I didn’t think I wanted him to hold it a second ago, I’m glad we are touching again. He doesn’t say a word. And somehow the silence lets me push more words out.

“I think I like you.” Each word is a small piece of myself I hand over. “And I want to keep doing this. Being friends. Who like each other. Not that you’ve said you like me.”

Malachi gives my fingers a squeeze and smiles. Not his full dimple smile, but a smile that seems like it’s just for me. “You need to hear me say it, huh? I like you.”

I gulp. “I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t know . . .” What I don’t know is what to say next. My hand is still in his and this moment feels too awkward. I’m not used to asking for anything. “I don’t know what I want from you. Or if I want anything more than this. I don’t know if or when I’ll be ready for more than this.” There. I said it.

But maybe I didn’t say it, because Malachi seems confused. “Emoni, are we talking about sex?”

I try to tug my hand out of his but he holds mine fast. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for that. Or to be your girlfriend. Or anything more than this.” I can’t stop repeating myself but it’s like the words have dried up and all I have left in the bottom of my cup are the same phrases I’ve been saying.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We’ll figure it out, right? And if one of us needs something different, we’ll say that. Right?”

He leans down and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he just rests his forehead against mine. This can’t be real life.

“I think I’m going to head home. It sounds like Babygirl might be waking up upstairs.” And I realize he’s right. Babygirl is babbling from her crib.

“Are you going to call a car again?” I ask.

“Nah, I’ll walk to the train,” he says, zipping up his coat and pulling his hat down tight over his ears.

“That’s, like, a twenty-minute walk. In the cold.”

And then the dimples are back. “I know. I think it’ll do me some good.”

I walk him to the door. And just as he leaves he turns back one more time. “Did you hear the last song that played in the car on our way here?”

Of course I did. I was even singing along; the Roots are legends and that song is a classic. I nod.

“Don’t worry, Emoni. You got me.”





When It Rains


With only three days left of school before winter break, things have been busy. Angelica has been spending her lunch periods working on a final project for her Graphic Design class. Malachi has been using all his free time applying for scholarships. And me? I’ve been holed up in the school library studying for these last exams before the quarter finishes.

It’s probably because I’m so distracted that I break the one rule every student at Schomburg Charter knows better than to break: I get caught on my phone in between classes. I was trying to call ’Buela after lunch to remind her I was going grocery shopping today, and the next thing I know, a guard has plucked it out of my hand and is already writing me up. I try to explain but he won’t budge.

The guard is new, and I know he doesn’t know me or my circumstances because all he can do is remind me of the same tired rules. “If you want your phone back, you’ll need a signed release form from your parent or guardian.”