With the Fire on High(63)

Heart-to-Heart


Pretty Leslie wakes me mid-dream and for a second, I forget where I am. I think it’s Babygirl’s voice startling me from sleep until the words penetrate.

“Emoni, I think I drank too much. I feel awful,” Pretty Leslie moans from her bed. I flail around trying to find my phone. It’s six a.m.

“Good. You should, after drinking so much and talking so greasy to me,” I say, sending a quick text to ’Buela saying good morning and asking after Babygirl. She usually goes to sleep by eleven so I know she won’t read it for another seven hours, but at least it will be there when she wakes up. I stand. “Lucky you, my grandmother made sure I was a walking pharmacy and I’ve got some Alka-Seltzer in my bag. I’ll go get you some water.”

I walk through the dark house, running my hand along the wall to find my way to the kitchen. Pretty Leslie is curled into a ball when I get back to our room. I drop two Alka-Seltzer tablets into the glass and hand it over.

“Here. I think this should help some. My ’Buela swears by this and ginger tea when I have any kind of ache. Does your throat hurt from throwing up so much?”

“I threw up?” Pretty Leslie asks. At least I think that’s what she says, since it’s muffled by her pillow.

“Yeah, all over your shoes.”

She groans and eases her way to sitting in order to take the glass of water from me. She downs the medicine.

“What do you remember?”

“Umm . . .” She bites her lip. “Being at the bar. You and Malachi came in, too, right? I think I sat down with you all, but I don’t really remember much else.”

I shake my head. “You said some really terrible things. You basically called me a ho. And you embarrassed yourself.”

Her eyes widen and for the first time I see a Leslie who isn’t performing the diva, or pouting, or trying to get over on someone. This girl has mascara dust on her cheekbones, her falsies twisted out of shape, and vomit crusted on her lip—a lip that’s quivering as if she’s about to cry. “Oh my God. How did I get home?”

“Malachi and I brought you back. You drank too much. But I still have something I want to say to you. First, I’m not trying to be better than you and I’m not trying to show you or anyone else up. I’ve always kept to myself. And I don’t know what you and Malachi had going on, but if he didn’t want to continue with you, you can’t blame me for that. I wasn’t out here chasing anybody.”

“Oh my God, Emoni. I don’t even remember saying those things. I wasn’t thinking.”

“But it’s how you feel, though, right?” I press.

“I mean—” She stops herself midsentence and drinks a big gulp of water. “I really liked Malachi. And I didn’t know why he was so into you. But he was—is—and so I—” She shrugs. “I guess I was just angry. Jealous. Everything is always perfect for you. Teachers like you. Your friends are loyal. We get one cute transfer this year and he’s in love with you from day one. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? Is that how you see it? Leslie, I have a kid. I’ve had to go to summer school since I got pregnant to make up for the credits I fell behind on. I had to fight not to be put in a special program for young mothers so I could take senior-level classes and graduate on time with you all. I’ve worked since I was thirteen and done double that since having a child.”

She shrugs again. “I’m not saying it makes sense. It was just hard to like you. I don’t really have anyone at home supporting me or pushing me. But even though everyone pitied you at first you just walked through the halls like you were Queen B. Like you couldn’t even see us.”

I smile. “Well, yeah. How else are you supposed to act when people pity you?”

She smiles back. “Yeah, I guess I hope that if I’d been you I woulda acted the same way. Listen. I was wrong. Malachi ain’t the only guy at Schomburg. I’ll fall back.”

We’ve shared a lot today, Pretty Leslie and I. And it’s the first time I feel like she’s being honest with me.





Ready?


“Where’s your host family?” I ask as I wander through the house. Malachi’s host parents are college professors at the local university and are some of the few host parents who speak perfect English.

“They had an event at the school. A reading or something.”

I nod and stop in front of one of the paintings in the hall. It’s a pretty scene of the city. The light on the stones, the awnings of the marketplace, and the plaza. Malachi tugs on one of my curls before reaching his hand up my neck, to my scalp. It feels good to have him play with my hair.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. This is a nice painting.”

“Are you nervous? To be here with me? I can stop. We can go out or something.”

It seems a shame not to enjoy one of our last nights in the city, and a Friday at that, but it also seems a shame to waste a perfectly empty apartment. Decisions, decisions.

“Let’s just hang out on the couch for a bit before going out. Maybe we can watch TV?”

A Harry Potter marathon is on and I sit with Malachi’s arm around me. I translate some of the lines but Malachi has seen the movie before so he can work out a lot of the dialogue without me. We get up to the part when Harry emits his Patronus against a dementor for the first time, when Malachi starts playing with my fingers. Then his hand is on my thigh. I sit still. I want to lean against him.