With the Fire on High(51)
I swallow hard. It won’t help to chew him out. I let go of a long breath. “Of course, Steve. I understand that. I appreciate the exceptions. I know how much work you do to make sure all of your student employees can balance both their jobs and school.” Steve likes it when you kiss his ass and if that’s what I have to do, fine. I can tell it works because he stops sitting so stiff and uncrosses his arms. He places them on the table with a long, dramatic sigh.
“Fine, what is it this time?”
I step closer to his desk and keep an equal balance of calmness and perkiness, although what I really feel is irritated I have to grovel at all. “I got an opportunity at school to go on a trip to Spain. During my spring break at the end of March. It’ll be a week long and I know you usually schedule me for three days a week, but maybe I can work six days the following week when I get back? It’s not for a couple of months but I wanted to ask in advance so I can add any hours I might need to balance it. And I worked a lot during the holidays.”
Steve leans back in his chair. “This trip sounds like a vacation. You already used vacation days before Christmas. What was that for? Taking your daughter ice-skating or something? Those holiday days you worked were already making up for previous hours.”
That was not what we agreed at the time but I don’t think correcting Steve will help right now. Steve keeps talking before he lets me answer any of his questions. “Emoni, I want to help. I really do, but aren’t you a senior? You probably won’t be here next year anyway. Maybe it’s time we start looking at other options?”
My heart stops for a second. It sounds like he’s trying to fire me. “Am I fired because I asked you for time off? Several months in advance? Even though I’m willing to work the days the following week?”
“No, no. Of course not.” Steve sits up straight and holds his hands out, like an alien coming in peace. “I was merely making a suggestion that since it doesn’t seem like you can fulfill the hours required for this job that we . . . start considering alternatives.”
And I know what he’s not saying. I’ve seen him do it to other employees: he cuts their hours until it costs more money to get to work than you make at work. I nod. “Let’s keep it all the way real, Steve. You’re cutting my hours?”
Steve folds his hands. “I’m just going to look for other workers to help you balance the hours you can’t work.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but I lean over the desk and force his eyes my way when I reply.
“You’re a nice man, Steve. So kind. I’m going to tell my grandmother to pray for you.” And I hope he can see in my face that I just sprinkled the juju of a spiteful Puerto Rican grandmother all over his life.
Money Talks
Abuelo died before I was born. And he worked a job with little benefits, and definitely no life insurance or any of that. But luckily, by then my father was full-grown and the only mouth ’Buela had to feed was her own. That is, until she adopted me and also realized that her son wouldn’t be helping much with my parenting.
When she injured her hand and began receiving disability, money around the house got a lot tighter. The disability check she gets only goes so far, and although she still does small sewing jobs for the church or our neighbors, it takes her three times as long as it used to to get anything done, because her hand begins to ache. Her stitches, slow as they are, are still precise as ever. And she says even though it was her dominant hand that got stuck in the machine, she’s thankful it wasn’t the hand with her wedding band that’s all scarred up.
But once I got pregnant with Babygirl, it quickly became clear that her disability money and side-hustle jobs were going to barely be enough to cover rent and feed the three of us. I’ve known since I was little that we had to learn to treat money like a rubber band and stretch that jawn until it almost snaps. As soon as I was able to get a work permit in eighth grade, I did. I worked summer jobs, I worked after school, I’ve always worked to help ’Buela around the house.
And losing my hours at the Burger Joint means I have to find a new way to help, and not just for the rest of this year.
Flash
January and February move fast as we prepare for state tests, begin work on our final projects, and give one last push to get our grades up before it gets too close to the end of the year. Before I know it, March rolls around.
I should be happy. In three and a half weeks, I’m actually going to Spain, but the first week in March finds me anxious. Steve reduced my hours to two or three a week, and the money I was making wasn’t enough to make a dent on most of the costs we have. I finally quit when I realized it wasn’t worth the round-trip fare when I was mostly breaking even.
Malachi and I are still circling each other. Friends who hold hands and sometimes flirt, but nothing more. We don’t talk about the future and we don’t push for more than this. He found out he was accepted to Morehouse back in December, and regardless of what I end up doing there will be distance between us. Angelica has been busy with Laura and some last-minute applications. And the icing on the cake: Tyrone is taking Babygirl this weekend and I can’t even look forward to hanging out with her.
When I hand her over to him Saturday morning, the fist around my heart squeezes tight and it takes everything inside me to not ask him if we could skip this weekend. Tyrone bundles her up, and she waves goodbye to me while jibber-jabbering in his ear. I turn in to a hug from ’Buela and she pats my hair.