With the Fire on High(66)

“Will you be coming inside?” I ask Mr. Jagoda as he helps lift my bag from the trunk.

He smiles, and I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his big bright teeth peek past his lips. “Oh, no. I’ve already seen Gloria this week and I think today she has eyes only for you.” He pats my cheek and hops back into the driver’s seat.

I run toward the front stairs. When I open the door, ’Buela bursts into tears from the center of the living room, where she’s holding Babygirl.

Babygirl squeals and reaches for me from ’Buela’s arms, and I don’t even worry about the open door—I just run in and grab her to me. Inhaling her baby smell. A smell I know better than my own name. I blink up at the ceiling.

I move to ’Buela. I don’t want to let go of Babygirl, so I just turn and hug ’Buela with my loose arm. She smells different, like expensive perfume, but her hands when she holds my face and kisses both cheeks still smell like vanilla.

“Pero tú sí me hiciste falta, nena.” I press my cheek into her palm and nuzzle close, my eyes drifting shut.

“I missed you more, ’Buela.”





Acceptance


Later that night I’m on my bed reading a magazine with Babygirl tucked into my side. Lunch with ’Buela and Babygirl was so sweet and I know all of us ate too much of ’Buela’s mofongo. I only wish the jet lag hadn’t hit me so hard. It wasn’t until my plate of food slid off my lap that I even realized I’d been asleep. I definitely needed a little nap.

Babygirl looks twice as big as when I left her even though I know it’s not possible.

“I talked with Angelica this week and she told me a lot of admission decisions went out last week. Were you able to check email in Spain?” ’Buela doesn’t walk all the way into the room.

She plays with the fringes of the long gray scarf I bought her, and I notice she isn’t wearing her wedding band. I want to snuggle into her familiar Spanish accent, her soft wavy hair, how firm she stands in her uniform of dress slacks and pale pullover. I don’t want to tell her I was too afraid to check any of the school decisions.

“How many schools did you apply to, again?”

“Four four-year colleges and a community college,” I mumble. She stands by the door, waiting. I grab my phone and log in to the first school. A rejection from Temple University. I log in to the second school. A rejection from LaSalle. I sign in to my third school. A rejection from Arcadia.

Oh shit. If I don’t get in anywhere, I don’t know how I’m going to tell ’Buela. There’s a difference between not wanting to go to school and not even getting in.

“’Buela, I think we should wait until tomorrow. I don’t want to ruin the rest of your night.”

“C’mon, nena. Just finish it. Whatever it’ll be, I’d rather be with you than you find out the news alone. Faith, Emoni.”

I sign into the Drexel portal.

And I slow down at what I’m seeing. ’Buela must realize my silence this time is different, because her hand stops playing with her scarf. “?Qué fue, nena?”

I pull Babygirl into my lap and she cuddles into me without waking up. I drop a kiss on the top of her head.

I hold my phone out to ’Buela. I want her to read it herself. She closes her eyes as if saying a prayer. She scans the electronic letter and when she looks at me a big tear rolls down her cheek. She fans her face with the scarf as if it will stop the onslaught of tears, but then she’s hugging me and laughing and even when Babygirl wakes up crying, all ’Buela can do is hold me on the bed and rock me, saying over and over, “Mi ni?a, mi ni?a, is going to college. Call your father. He’s going to be so proud.”





Surprises


I didn’t think I would be accepted into Drexel. My grade point average was a little below what they say a student needs, so I’m still shocked. Unlike the guidance counselor in middle school, Ms. Fuentes pushed me to apply even though it was a reach school. It’s close to home. It’s a great school. And it has a culinary arts program that focuses not only on cooking, but also on restaurant management.

But I don’t know how I’ll help pay bills if I’m also paying for school.

“’Buela, I need to talk to you,” I say to her the next day after dinner. She mutes the TV and beams at me. Ever since my Drexel acceptance all she can do is smile at me or tear up.

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up about Drexel. I didn’t get full financial aid, and well, doesn’t it make more sense for me to get a job instead of going into debt?”

’Buela doesn’t stop smiling. She blinks as if she’s waiting for the punch line of the joke but when I just repeat myself she shakes her head. “What do you mean, Emoni? This is a dream come true.”

I shake my head. “I want to be in a kitchen, not in a classroom. You know I’m no good at school. What if I waste time and money and still fail my classes?”

“Emoni, you’ve loved your Culinary Arts class this year. I know you told me this would have more chemistry, and you’re afraid of not doing well, but once you have a degree no one can take that away from you. You’ll just have to work hard.”

I wish I could explain that I do work hard, even in the classes I don’t do well in. It’s not my effort that makes learning in those classes so difficult for me. But I also know I’m not thirteen anymore. Last time I let a guidance counselor convince me I wasn’t good enough to go to the school of my choice. This time around will I be the one holding myself back?