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

We can't agree on what it was she'd started cooking. She says it was a stew and nothing that would burn quick, but although my own memory is childhood-fuzzy, I remember it being a pot of moro—the rice and beans definitely something that would soak up water. 'Buela says she just stepped out onto the stoop to clear her head, and when she came back ten minutes later I had pulled the step stool to the stove, had a bunch of spices on the counter, and had my small arm halfway into the pot, stirring.

It goes without saying: She. Had A. Fit. Thought I had been about to burn myself, dinner, or worse, the house. ('Buela would argue that's not the right order of things, and I know she would have definitely been upset if I hurt myself, but if I burned the house? Girl, there's no coming back from that.) All that to say, nothing charred. In fact, when 'Buela tasted it (whatever "it" was) she says it was the best thing she'd ever eaten. How it made her whole day better, sweeter. Says a memory of Puerto Rico she hadn't thought about in years reached out like an island hammock and cradled her close. When she tells the story, it's always a different simile, but still sweet like that. All I know is she cried into her plate that night. And so at the age of four, I learned someone could cry from a happy memory.

Ever since then 'Buela is convinced I have magical hands when it comes to cooking. And I don't know if I really have something special, or if her telling me I got something special has brainwashed me into believing it, but I do know I'm happier in the kitchen than anywhere else in the world. It's the one place I let go and only need to focus on the basics: taste, smell, texture, fusion, beauty.

And something special does happen when I'm cooking. It's like I can imagine a dish in my head and I just know that if I tweak this or mess with that, if I give it my special brand of sazón, I'll have made a dish that never existed before. Angelica thinks it's because we live in the hood, so we never have exactly the right ingredients—we gotta innovate, baby. My aunt Sarah says it's in our blood, an innate need to tell a story through food. 'Buela says it's definitely a blessing, magic. That my food doesn't just taste good, it is good—straight up bottled goodness that warms you and makes you feel better about your life. I think I just know that this herb with that veggie with that meat plus a dash of eso ahí will work.

And that if everything else goes wrong, a little squeeze of lime and a bottle of hot sauce ain't never hurt nobody.

The Authors

"All right, girlie, see you at lunch?" Angelica says as we stop outside my advisory. Advisory is Schomburg's fancy name for homeroom.

"Yeah, save me a seat by the windows if you get there first. Oh, and grab me—"

"Some applesauce if they look like they're running out. I know, Emoni." Angelica smirks and walks away. And she does know me. I love the school applesauce—extra cinnamony.

Ms. Fuentes has been my advisor since my first day at Schomburg Charter, and her classroom has never changed. Lady still has the same motivational sign above her door: You're the Author of Your Own Life Story. That sign has stared at us twenty advisory students from the time when we walked in as little-bitty freshmen. And even though it doesn't make me roll my eyes anymore, I still think it's corny. Nonetheless, Advisory is my favorite class period of the day, even though it's also the shortest; it's where Ms. Fuentes takes attendance, makes announcements, and gives us college prep and "character-building" exercises. But most important, it's the only class that has had the same students in it since freshman year. So we can talk here the way we can't in any other class.

Ms. Fuentes looks up from the classroom window shades to see me staring at her inspirational sign. "Ms. Santiago, how was your summer?" she says as she adjusts the shades so they let in more light. She does that, the Mr. This and Ms. That. Has since we walked into her classroom at fourteen. I sit at my desk in the second row, closest to the door. It was clutch when I was pregnant and had to rush to the bathroom every five minutes, and I haven't switched seats since.

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.