Excerpt from With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Angelica officially came out last year and once she'd dusted the closet lint off her Air Maxes, she never looked back. A couple of months after coming out at home and at school, she met Laura at a graphic design workshop held for teens at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Her girl Laura is built like the Vikings she says she's descended from: tall, thick-shouldered, and with an artist's gentle hands that I knew would take care of my best friend's heart.

"Man, whatever. I see all your posts about Laura. If you and that girl take another cutesy kissy picture, I'm going to delete my account. Actually, I'm going to hack in and delete yours!"

"Don't hate, Emoni. Is Tyrone still being a dick?"

I swat her on the arm. "This is why I don't let you around Babygirl; you have such a potty mouth."

"And you don't?" She gives me one of her pursed-lips looks.

"Yes, but I picked it up from you. And I've been working on it." I accidentally slipped in front of Babygirl a few weeks ago and almost died when I heard her saying "sh-sh-sh" as if practicing the word. I've cut out my cursing since.

"How is my niece? I haven't seen her since ... when? Saturday?" We laugh. Despite her potty mouth, Angelica is great with Babygirl and always comes in clutch when either 'Buela or I can't watch her. Now that Babygirl's two, 'Buela insists that I have to take on more responsibility in raising her. Which I don't mind, since Babygirl is the coolest kid on the block. It's just hard juggling work, her, and now the new school year, without 'Buela taking on the big role she took the first two years of her life. And although I don't say it, I don't have to; Tyrone is still being a dick—an ass—a prick. Who uses the word prick?

"Hello! Emoni, are you listening?" Angelica snaps her fingers in my face.

"Sorry ... I spaced out for a second. What'd you say?"

Angelica sighs dramatically. Anytime Angelica sighs, it's dramatically. "You never listen to me anymore."

I unhook my arm from hers. "Get out of here with that mess. All I do is listen to you."

"I was asking about the dinner you left for me and Babygirl when I babysat. What'd you call it?"

"Pollo guisado—stewed chicken. Was it good?" Angelica's been eating at my house since we were little girls, but since I always tweak what I cook, it's never the same thing twice. "I thought I might have messed up when I added in the collards at the end. They weren't in the original recipe."

"It was so good. I was wondering if you could make it for Laura and me. Six-month anniversary coming up in a month! I was thinking we could do a romantic dinner at my house since my moms is going to be out of town."

"Dinner at home is never romantic, Gelly," I say. The bus pulls up and we climb on with the rest of the people who, like us, are going to school and work near Yorktown and Fairmount and even farther south into Center City.

"Dinner at home will be romantic if it's catered by you!" We find a place to stand and hold on to the straps above us as the bus begins the jerky ten-minute ride.

"Now I'm a caterer? You're lucky I love you."

"No. I'm lucky you love to cook, and you never turn down an opportunity to practice on your friends. Chef Emoni Santiago, next Chopped champion!"

I laugh and pull my phone out to take notes for Gelly's dinner.

Magic

If you ask her to tell it, 'Buela starts with the same story.

I was a little older than Babygirl is now and always following 'Buela into the kitchen. I would sit at the kitchen table eating bootleg Cheerios or rice or something I could pick up with my fingers and shove into my mouth while she played El Gran Combo or Celia Cruz or La Lupe loud on her old-school radio, shimmying her hips while stirring a pot. She can't remember what made that day different—if my pops, Julio, had been late in arriving on one of his yearly visits from San Juan, or if it'd been a time she'd gotten reprimanded at work for taking too long on someone's measurements—but this particular day she didn't turn the radio on and she wasn't her usual self at the stove. At one point, she must have forgotten I was there because she threw the kitchen rag down on the floor and left. She just walked straight out of the kitchen, crossed the living room, opened the front door, and was gone.

Excerpted from With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo. Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Acevedo. Excerpted by permission of HarperTeen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.