With the Fire on High

by Elizabeth Acevedo

And so at the age of four, I learned someone could cry from a happy memory.

And sometimes focusing on what you can control is the only way to lessen the pang in your chest when you think about the things you can’t.

Ever since Tyrone, I don’t really talk to boys like that anymore. Boys at this age will say whatever they need to say to get what they want, and I’ve learned to trust pretty words even less than a pretty face.

Where we come from leaves its fingerprints all over us, and if you know how to read the signs of a place, you know a little bit more who someone is.

but I also got more than one city, one hood inside me. And anyone who wants to get to know me has to know how to appreciate the multiple skylines.

Doesn’t she know I still need her? That I still wish someone would look at the pieces of my life and tell me how to make sure they all fit back together?

I break away from everyone and pick her up, letting her sweet baby scent ground me. I don’t know how I’ll get the rest of this money, but I know that I did more for this single day than I ever thought possible, and that’s something to be proud of.

We look beautiful and hood and excited to see the world, and none of us are hiding from this world seeing us. All of us shining despite what it took us to earn our way here.

I know the past isn’t a mirror image of the future, but it’s a reflection of what can be; and when your first love breaks your heart, the shards of that can still draw blood for a long, long time.

Although I don’t have all the answers for what is coming next, I can finally see a glimpse of where I, Emoni Santiago, am going.

“How soon can you start?” I let go of her hand and tug on the book bag I have around my shoulders, the one that holds my chef’s jacket and clogs. “Today. Today seems like a great day to begin.”