Last summer they’d spent some time working on a vintage scarf business; they were going to sell the scarves, with Jamie’s help, on eBay. But after a month of scouring all of Miami’s best vintage shops and finding a really cool lamp for Alicia’s room and a great dressmaker’s dummy for Carmen’s designs, they’d decided not to go into the vintage scarf business after all.
But all that was in the past. Alicia was convinced that the idea of a quince-planning business was, hands down, the best business plan that she had ever had.
Her mother smiled gently. “You know, you have a tendency to take on a lot, Lici,” she said. “This internship in the mayor’s office will look so good on your college application. I would hate to see anything jeopardize it.”
“You know what quinces are like in Miami,” Alicia said. “If my business is so successful that I have to give up my internship to run it, then I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.”
Alicia’s mom rolled her eyes. It was just like Alicia to go from zero to sixty when dreaming up new ideas. “Oh, yes, because every Ivy League college in the country is going to turn down a mayoral intern in favor of a girl who runs a party-planning business. Those party-planners always make dean’s list and are an asset to every intellectual community.”
Alicia couldn’t believe what her mother was saying. She had always been an A student, except for math, and her mom knew just how hard Alicia had worked to eke out a B in honors calculus. But her mom was clearly in rare form today, and when Mrs. Cruz was like that, arguing with her was nothing more than a colossal waste of time. “You will give one hundred and ten percent to this internship and you will thank your lucky stars that your father was able to create such a wonderful opportunity for you at the eleventh hour,” Mrs. Cruz added. “Help your friend out if you must, but you will not waste your entire summer planning parties.”
“A quinceañera is more than a party, Mami,” Alicia said. “It’s a sacred ritual. It’s a way to connect to our community and our heritage.”
Her mom considered this, and when she spoke, her voice was slightly less severe. “It’s a sacred ritual for some people,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s a way for some people to connect to their community and to their heritage.”
Alicia knew that her mother was referring to the class differences that were demonstrated with respect to quinces. Among her parents’ friends, most of the girls—following their parents’ desire to be more American—didn’t have quinceañeras. They had Sweet Sixteen parties, or their parents offered them a trip—to Buenos Aires or Madrid or Punta Cana—for their fifteenth birthday instead. Quinces were most popular among Latinas who lived in Latino neighborhoods and retained closer ties to their patria than Alicia’s parents did. When Alicia had turned fifteen, six months before, she had taken the trip her parents offered her and spent ten days in Barcelona, with a side trip to Bilbao.
“Just because your friends don’t have quinces for their daughters doesn’t mean it’s not an important part of nuestra cultura,” Alicia said.
Alicia’s mom sighed loudly. “I think you are just trying to make me angry.”
“Quinces are important, Mom!” Alicia cried.
“Alicia, watch your tone,” her father said gently.
“No, they’re impractical, and they’re old-fashioned,” Alicia’s mother retorted. “Why are these parents spending all of this money on a party, when they could be using that money for college tuition? You didn’t even want a quince. Now you want to spend your summer planning other people’s quinceañeras? Es una locura!”
“Marisol, this is not a decision you are making as a judge on a bench,” Mr. Cruz said. “I, for one, think it’s great that Alicia is honoring her culture.”
“I would much prefer it if Alicia would honor her culture with something more substantive than big-budget parties that put working-class people more into debt.” And on that note, Marisol got up and walked into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Alicia looked at her father.
“Give her time,” Mr. Cruz said. “She’ll come around.” He stood up, gave Alicia a squeeze on the shoulder, and followed his wife inside.
Sitting alone, Alicia wanted to cry. It was as though she and her mother were fighting about something much bigger than whether she was going to start a quince business. Her mother was wrong. She could do both jobs, and both were important.
That night, she didn’t see her parents at dinner, as they had season tickets to the Miami Ballet. And the next morning, Alicia woke to find her father having breakfast alone.
“Good morning. Where’s Mami?” she asked, kissing her father on the forehead. She loved his dark, curly hair with its silky threads of gray.
“She’s already left for work,” her father said, putting down his newspaper.
“I get it. She’s mad at me, so she went in early,” Alicia said, helping herself to the fritura that was on the table. Maribelle had outdone herself, and the Mexican ceramic serving plate was piled high with all of Alicia’s favorite breakfast treats: empanadas, carimonolas, croquetas.
“Believe it or not, Alicia,” her father said in a teasing tone, “the world doesn’t revolve around you. Your mother had a lot of paperwork to catch up on at her office.”
“Maybe so, but she’s also furious at me,” Alicia said. “It’s not my fault if she wants to be a gringa American and I want to form a business to help my Latina sisters.”
Enrique Cruz raised an eyebrow. “So that’s what your business is about? Your Latina sisters?”
“Sorta,” Alicia mumbled, her mouth full of food.
“I see,” Enrique said.
“That’s what Mami doesn’t understand,” Alicia went on. “If she knew anything about quinces, she wouldn’t stand in the way of my business.”
Alicia’s father looked at his only daughter and wondered if she had any idea how much she and her mother were alike. Then he did what he did best: he played peacekeeper.
“Alicia, do you know that when your mother was your age, she wanted nothing more in the world than to have a quinceañera party?” Enrique asked.
“No,” Alicia said with a sigh. She knew that tone of voice. It meant her father was going to tell her one of those stories about their immigrant background that would make her feel totally bad for her mom—and guilty for behaving, ever so slightly, like a spoiled brat.
“Well, she did,” Enrique said. “You do know that your grandfather, Señor Toto, owned a shoe shop on Palmera Avenue?”
Alicia nodded. “The shoe repair shop.”
Enrique shook his head. “That’s the thing. Your grandfather did much more than repair shoes. He made custom shoes for the Miami Opera, for the mayor, and he did a brisk business in quinceañera heels. You’ve been to enough quinces to know the significance of the shoes in the quince ceremony.”
Of course Alicia knew. The ceremony of changing from flats into high heels signified a girl’s walk into womanhood. But her grandfather making quinceañera heels? And shoes for the opera? Her father had to be making this up.
“If Abuelo Toto was such a hotshot shoemaker, then how come he wasn’t rich? And how come Mami couldn’t have a quince if she wanted one?” Alicia asked.
“Niña,” Enrique said, reaching out to squeeze his daughter’s shoulder, “your grandfather was not Bill Gates. Making shoes is not like making computers. A custom-made shoe takes a very long time to create. The profit margin is very small. He did make a good living, but he poured it all into the education of his children. It takes a lot to send five kids to Catholic school and then to college, especially when your eldest daughter has got her heart set on a school like Harvard.”
Alicia put her hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “Okay, you win. I am officially a horrible, ungrateful American daughter and I will happily focus all my energy on my unpaid internship at City Hall. I mean, who wants to own her own business? Who wants to make money? Not me. That sounds awful. I will do my penance as a good Latina
daughter.”
Her father feigned surprise; his mischievous smile reminded Alicia of Antonio Banderas in the old Zorro movies.
“Did I make you feel guilty?” he asked sweetly. “That wasn’t my intention.”
He stood up from the breakfast table and picked up his paper and his book, a biography of Thomas Jefferson. Her father loved biographies.
“Don’t give up on your idea yet, Lici,” he said. “In the art of negotiation, there are always three ways of looking at an argument: your way, my way, and the third way.”
“What does that even mean?” Alicia asked.
“The third way is the way of compromise,” her father said, as he headed toward the garage.
Alicia stifled a groan. She hated word games. But one thing was for sure—no matter what she’d just told her dad, she would find a way to make Amigas Inc. work…and get her parents’ approval. It might just take some time.
But before she could prove herself right, she had to actually start the business. To make that happen, she needed her peeps.
THAT DAY at work, Alicia called her friends and asked if they wanted to come over for lunch on Saturday. She quickly explained about Sarita, then said they’d talk more when they met. It was not a hard sell. All of them liked to hang out at Casa Cruz, and not just because Alicia had a pool and Jacuzzi. The Key West–style house on Espanola Drive was beautiful without being flashy, like the other opulent homes in the neighborhood. There were two coral stone fireplaces, so during hurricane season, when it rained every other day, Alicia and her friends hung out in front of them, playing board games and chilling out. There was an exercise room with a huge flat-screen TV, a treadmill, an elliptical machine, free weights, and a Wii Fit. There was, of course, the pool. But the real reason that Alicia’s house was the number one hangout was Maribelle.
Maribelle always kept the fridge fully stocked, and she seemed to delight in feeding Alicia and her friends. Eating at Alicia’s was like going to a restaurant. All you had to do was go into the kitchen, give Maribelle a hug, and tell her what you wanted. Pizza with barbecue chicken? Coming right up. Puerto Rican pasteles with pork, or pressed Cuban sandwiches with ham and cheese? Claro que sí. Vanilla ice cream with homemade dulce de leche? No problema.
Even though she still felt guilty that her mom wasn’t 100 percent behind it—she had said she could try if it didn’t take away from the internship—Alicia couldn’t wait to tell her friends about the Amigas plan. There were lots of quince services in Miami—caterers, photographers, dress shops, and party-planners—but Alicia felt as if their business would have an edge. The message boards on Facebook made one thing perfectly clear: most adults had no idea what girls really wanted. Alicia knew that she, Carmen, Jamie, and Gaz could do what old-school quince pros couldn’t: something new, something fresh, and something fabulous.
By noon on Saturday, when Carmen, Jamie, and Gaz arrived, Alicia was bursting at the seams. They’d barely walked through the door and gathered in the Florida room, the bright indoor patio that overlooked the pool, when Alicia passed out the business plan she’d spent all week working on.
“So, I take it you’ve come up with an idea for where that girl Sarita can have her quince?” Jamie said. Alicia hadn’t given them very many details.
“Even better,” Alicia said, handing out the packets she’d photocopied at the office, using the code that Lori had warned her not to use for personal jobs.
“Wow, you really put some time into this, Lici,” Carmen said, looking over the stapled packet.
“Well,” Alicia said, “I was online the other night until two o’clock in the morning. There are hundreds—scratch that—thousands of girls just like Sarita, who want to have a fabulous quince and don’t know how to do it. They need help with everything from negotiating with hopeless moms and pushy tias to picking out their dress, their music, and their theme. We are going to help them. We’re starting a quince business!”
Gaz smiled, causing Alicia’s heart to thump. He looked as if the idea were something he actually could get into. “This could be a great chance for my band to pick up some more gigs.” He and his brothers had a Latin rock band called La Dulcinea, but it hadn’t gone anywhere so far. It was more than a little tough to break into the Miami music scene, since the clubs were constantly booked with the biggest bands from Spain and Latin America.
“You have me down as the designer of all the quince dresses,” Carmen said, looking at her packet. “I can’t believe I never thought of that before! Those dresses cost a fortune in the stores. Even if I offer a supersteep discounted rate, I could still rake in the bucks.”
“What about me?” Jamie asked. “Where do I fit in?” She was wearing a red, yellow, and green tie-dyed T-shirt, a long denim skirt, and a Rasta cap. Alicia couldn’t help thinking that only Jamie could pull off an outfit like that. If Alicia had worn a skirt below her knees, she’d have looked like a crazy grandmother.
“Image consultant, what else?” Alicia replied. “You’re in charge of everything from hair and makeup to invitations and thank-you notes.”
In addition to putting together the most stylish outfits, Jamie was a whiz with Photoshop. She made everything from cool birthday and Christmas cards to photo collages that she would then have printed on canvas.
“Your brother could do the sets or any decorations,” Gaz offered.
“That is a genius idea,” Alicia said. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I mean, I thought we might need his help. Alex is taking a summer engineering course at the University of Miami, but that’s only three days a week.”
They were all so excited about the idea that they didn’t notice that Maribelle was standing at the doorway.
“Knock-knock,” she said. “Anybody hungry?”
“Oh, yeah!” Gaz called out. “What’s for lunch?”
Maribelle put down a humongous tray. “Let’s see, I’ve got ceviche, tostones, guacamole, tortilla chips, and I’ll be right back with a pitcher of pomegranate punch.”
“You are like a goddess to me,” Alicia said, digging in.
“Me, too,” Jamie added, reaching for the ceviche.
“Me, three,” Carmen said, going for the guac.
Gaz stood up and walked over to Maribelle, who was so petite her head barely came up to his shoulders.
“Eres un angel, Maribelle,” Gaz said. “Cásate conmigo y vamos a mi isla y vivimos todos nuestros días en felicidad.”
“Stop showing off with the Spanish,” Alicia said. “I didn’t get all of it, but I know that Maribelle does not want to marry you.”
Maribelle just giggled and hit Gaz on the shoulder. “Eres malo.”
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of contented chewing and plates being passed back and forth as everyone devoured the feast that Maribelle had prepared. Alicia broke the silence. “There is one little problem with my plan, guys.”
“What’s that?” Carmen asked, her long legs stretched so far under the coffee table that her electric blue toenails could be seen sparkling all the way on the other side.
“My mom and dad are worrying that the quince-planning will interfere with my internship,” Alicia said. “They want me to focus on what will look good on my college applications.”
“Won’t starting your own megasuccessful party-planning business look good on your college application?” Jamie asked.
“My point to them exactly,” Alicia said.
“So, talk some more,” Carmen said. “Your folks aren’t unreasonable.”
“Wish I could stay and help with the ’rent situation, but I’ve got to head out,” Gaz said, suddenly standing up. “My shift at the Gap starts in an hour. But count me in.”
“And, as you know, he’s our ride,” Jamie said, giving Alicia a hug. “But I’m in, too.”
“I love this idea,” Carmen said, trading high fives with Alicia. “I have to say one thing about you, Alicia Cruz, you know how to keep things interesting.”
Alicia
shrugged. “No matter what happens with my parents and the business, we’ve got to help Sarita out. I told her we would. So, can everybody meet tomorrow at eleven a.m.?”
Everybody could, and Alicia walked them out to Gaz’s car, which was a rusty Toyota Corolla.
“Yo, Gaz, you need some new wheels. This car is seriously clashing with my outfit,” Jamie said as she climbed into the front seat.
“Yeah, like you could wear those ridiculously high heels on the subway in New York,” Gaz said.
“Yeah, whatever. You’ve never even been to New York,” Jamie said.
Alicia and Carmen exchanged looks. Jamie and Gaz were always going at it. Maybe it was because they were so different: Jamie was this hard-core girl from the Bronx; Gaz was the sweet island boy from P.R. But looking at them, Alicia wondered whether their tension stemmed from something else entirely. Could it be that Jamie and Gaz were always fussing because, deep down inside, Jamie wasn’t really the tough New Yorker she pretended to be, and Gaz’s memories of Puerto Rico weren’t as sweet as he claimed?
“Tell me about your village in Puerto Rico,” Jamie said, intent on having the last word. “Have they even paved the roads yet?”
Alicia could see that the jab had gotten to Gaz. “You better cool it, Jamie,” she said. “Unless you want to walk home.” Then, turning to Gaz, she said, “Don’t pay her any attention. I like your ride.” Which was really code for “I like you,” but she and Gaz didn’t roll like that. Not yet, anyway, she added to herself. So she waved to her friends and started walking across the circular driveway back toward the front door. She had planning to do and parents to convince. It looked as if the summer would be anything but relaxing.
Sunday morning, Alicia woke up to the sound of her parents leaving for church. She walked into the living room and opened the sliding doors. When her parents were home, the air-conditioning was always on full blast. But Alicia liked the fresh air—even on days like this one, when what little air was circulating was impossibly hot and sticky. She also didn’t mind the bugs. Whenever her mother caught her like this, a thin film of sweat covering her face as she absentmindedly swatted away mosquitoes, she said that Alicia was “tropical, heart and soul.”
Fifteen Candles Page 3