Alicia was wearing one of her mom’s old Missoni dresses that she’d cut so that the wavy knit fabric hit just above her knees. She’d cinched it with a wide purple patent-leather belt that emphasized her tiny waist and showed off her hips. Kicking off her purple leather flip-flops, she sat down in her favorite chair with her ideas notebook. Even if it ended up that she couldn’t start her quince business, she was still determined to hook Sarita up.
An hour later, Alicia looked at her watch, then at her still blank notebook. It was a good thing that Carmen, Gaz, and Jamie would be coming over. She needed help.
The first thing Gaz wanted to know when he arrived was “Where’s my sweetheart Maribelle?”
Alicia laughed. “Down, boy. Today’s her day off.”
“So, what are we going to have for lunch?” Gaz asked, looking nothing short of forsaken. “No offense, Lici, but half the reason I come to your house is because nobody cooks like Maribelle.”
“Yeah, I know we’re here to talk business,” said Jamie. “But I am a creative person, and I need food to be inspired.”
“Me, too,” said Carmen. “And I don’t do my best work over regular old takeout.”
Alicia walked over to the huge Sub-Zero fridge in the kitchen. “Y’all know you’re spoiled, right?” she said.
“And?” Jamie said, spinning on a mahogany bar stool.
“And it’s a good thing that Maribelle left us a crispy calamari salad with hearts of palm, banana, and chayote. Calamari’s on the side, so that it stays crisp. And…”
She reached for the fridge, but Gaz beat her to it. “Maribelle’s homemade sesame-orange dressing,” he said, letting out a sigh of happiness.
He dipped a finger into the bottle of salad dressing. “You guys think I’m kidding when I say that I want Maribelle to marry me, but I’m not,” he said. “This woman’s food is out of this world. She and me could be the next Ashton and Demi.”
“She and I, you moron,” said Jamie.
“Don’t hate, appreciate,” Gaz retorted.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” said Jamie.
“Si tú no fueras una tonta, sería completamente claro,” Gaz said.
“Oh, here we go with the Spanish,” said Jamie, as if Gaz had dealt a particularly low blow.
Of all three of the girls, Jamie spoke the smallest amount of Spanish: meaning, none. Her parents had been born in the Bronx and were of the generation that had never bothered to learn; the grandparents spoke the language, then the parents didn’t, and then their kids—kids like Jamie, Carmen, Alicia—made varying attempts to learn.
Carmen took a seat at the dining room table and began looking over the sketches Alicia had finally made—minutes before her friends’ arrival. They were seriously lacking. “Chica,” she said, “tell me you have a better plan for Sarita’s quince than—are those alien?—chambelanes. Otherwise, this business won’t even have a chance.”
Alicia grinned, handing Carmen a plate of calamari salad and sitting down next to her. “What? I was thinking outside the box. But you’re right. It’s a terrible idea.” She sighed. “I just wish my parents could be as supportive of my planning this quince as they are of anything college-related. To them, the thought of the business is horrible.”
“Well, what do you expect?” Gaz said. “Your parents are mad successful. They want you to be a big shot, too. If I had someone who could open doors for me at the record companies, I’d jump at the chance.”
“And if I had a crib like this and a closet full of clothes like yours, I’d never complain the way you do,” Jamie said.
“I’m not complaining, I’m just saying that my parents don’t get how important being a Latina is to me,” Alicia said, correcting her. “All they really want is that I go to Harvard and get a law degree, which is what they did. You wouldn’t understand, Jamie.”
Jamie looked hurt, then angry. “Why? Because my parents didn’t go to college? Because they didn’t go to Harvard?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Alicia said.
“Of course you did. You’re extra, chica. I’m used to it by now,” Jamie said.
Alicia blanched. Even though she knew that Jamie was just jerking her chain, it was always a short leap between someone inferring that her parents were snobs and sellouts to her feeling like a sellout herself.
“You know it’s not like that,” Alicia said. “It’s just, for some Latinos, they feel like they pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and that everybody should do the same.”
“Oh! So starting your own business isn’t good enough?” Jamie said.
“Cállate, Jamie,” Carmen said, holding up one hand. “Stop ripping on Alicia’s parents when we’re in their house, eating their food—”
“Maribelle’s food,” Gaz said, as he helped himself to a giant bowl of homemade rice pudding.
Carmen, who was sitting next to him, dipped her spoon into the pudding and continued, “Eating the food that they paid for. If Alicia’s parents are really dead set against her doing this and the internship, maybe we’ll just have to wait and start our quince business next summer.”
The room grew quiet as everyone finished eating, Carmen’s—and Jamie’s—words ringing in their ears. Finally, Alicia got up from the table and started to clear the plates. She scraped the uneaten food into the compost can and then began to load the dishwasher in silence.
“Come on, Boca Grande,” Gaz said to Jamie. “Apologize, so we can all move on with our lives.”
She began to protest, but Carmen gave her a look that stopped her cold.
“Okay, fine, whatever,” said Jamie, turning to face Alicia. “I’m sorry that I stated the obvious and offended you all by being up-front.”
“Maybe we should go,” Gaz said.
“What about Sarita’s quince?” Jamie asked.
“What about it?” Carmen said. “Do you really care?”
Alicia still hadn’t said a word. She was rinsing glasses slowly and carefully, as if one clumsy move would make everything shatter to pieces.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Jamie said again, as she walked to the door. “But you shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“Te hablo más tarde,” Gaz said to Alicia, reaching for his keys.
A subdued “okay” was all that Alicia could manage.
Carmen lingered behind Gaz and Jamie. “I’ll stay here with you,” she said gently. “I can take a bus later, or my mom will come pick me up.”
“You don’t have to,” Alicia said.
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” Carmen said, wiping down the counter. Alicia smiled. At least she had Carmen.
When the kitchen was clean enough to meet Maribelle’s standards, Alicia and Carmen poured themselves huge glasses of papaya punch and went out to the pool.
“Don’t stress, it’s not even worth it,” Carmen said, getting comfortable on her lounge chair. “It’s like, every once in a while, Jamie’s got to prove how Bronx she is, so she starts to act like a pissed-off homegirl.”
“I don’t really think it’s her that’s making me so upset,” Alicia said, shrugging. “It’s more that Sarita’s quince has brought up all this stuff between me and my mom. I always felt like my mom thought having a quince was too ethnic or something. Then, the other morning, my dad told me that my mom hates quinces because, when she was my age, she was too poor to have one. Then Jamie gets in my face about how we’re so rich, when I know that my parents used to be really, really poor. It just feels like one big mess.”
“It’s not a mess,” Carmen said. “Your family is a Latino success story. That’s something to be proud of, not something to be ashamed of. My mom always says no one handed us anything; what we’ve got, we worked for. That’s as true of your family as it is of mine.”
Alicia let the words sink in. Carmen was, of course, right.
“And what about this stupid internship?” Alicia said.
“It’s not stupid, you’re working for the Office of Film an
d Cultural Affairs. That’s awesome. It could actually lead to something. So, stop complaining, before I take Jamie’s side.”
Alicia felt tears pressing against her eyelids. “What if my mom’s right? What if, in trying to do everything, I fail at everything?” she asked, choking back the tears.
“Alicia the Talented, you’re good at everything! You’ll be good at this, too,” Carmen said reassuringly. “Besides, you can’t quit the internship until you find some cute guys for us to date. That’s a perk of working in government, right? And needless to say, I’m meeting no one in the women’s department at Saks.”
Carmen lay back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Alicia, what if you met some cute young politician, got married, and lived happily ever after? Wouldn’t that be magical? Would you name your first child after me?”
“Married? At fifteen? My first child? Is that how they do it in el campo, in Mexico?”
“Don’t dis Mexico!” Carmen said, getting up. Kneeling by the pool, she scooped up water with her hands to splash Alicia.
“Oh, so you want to play dirty?” Alicia said. “You know we Cubans aren’t afraid of a little water. We’re just ninety miles from home, baby.”
Smiling devilishly, Alicia pushed Carmen—who was fully clothed—into the water. Carmen gasped, then erupted in giggles. Alicia, also fully clothed, quickly jumped in after her. And for the first time since Jamie’s hurtful remarks and her fight with her mom, Alicia felt as if things were back to normal.
ALICIA WAS in the kitchen later that night when she heard her mother’s voice calling from the garage: “Anybody home?”
“Just me,” Alicia called back. She had spent the rest of the afternoon hanging with Carmen, until she left to babysit her younger sisters. Then she’d run on the treadmill for a bit, showered, and changed into her favorite pair of Juicy Couture sweats.
“How was your day?” her mother asked, walking into the kitchen. As always, Mrs. Cruz looked stylish—even when working on a Sunday. She was dressed in a sleeveless burgundy dress and matching jacket. She kicked off her charcoal gray Jimmy Choo kitten heels; Alicia said a quick prayer that her mom would not scuff the Choos up before she passed them down to her.
“Okay,” Alicia said. “Carmen came over to swim.” She didn’t mention the quince, Gaz, or the argument she had had with Jamie.
“That’s nice,” her mother said. She paused and reached for a wineglass. “Sweetie, I’m sorry that I was so angry the other night.”
“I’m sorry, too, Mom,” Alicia said sincerely.
“I just want what’s best for you, Lici. I want you to have everything I never had.”
“Like a quince?” Alicia regretted the words the moment she said them.
Her mother poured herself a glass of wine, took a sip, and sighed. “Like whatever you want,” she said.
“I know,” Alicia said, “and I actually do enjoy the internship. I’m grateful for everything you and Dad have done for me.”
“Who the heck are we, the Brady Bunch?” her brother asked as he breezed into the kitchen, interrupting the moment.
It was a well-known fact that Alex Cruz was genetically gifted. While Alicia was five feet four inches tall on a good day, Alex was over six feet. In hot weather, Alicia’s hair was often a dark mop of loco curls. Alex’s hair was dark blond, and he wore it long and surfer shaggy, as if he were always six weeks behind with his haircut appointments. The siblings were both creative, though. Alicia had her dancing, and Alex was a genius at building things. He was the kid who took apart the waffle maker to see how it worked, then put it together just like new.
He and Alicia were only eighteen months apart, and even though the touchy-feely thing was not big in the Cruz household—hence Alex’s joke about the Brady Bunch—Alicia and her brother were close. For as long as she could remember, he had always been by her side. Whether she was learning how to ride a bike, flying on a plane for the first time, or attending her first day at C. G. High, she would always catch, out of the corner of her eye, a glimpse of her brother’s hair, the Lacoste shirts that were his uniform, a flash of his sideways smile. It was comforting.
“Don’t let me interrupt the mamapalooza,” Alex said. “It’s just that I’m starvin’ like Marvin. Can somebody holler when Dad gets home and we’re ready to eat?”
He reached for an apple and headed for the Florida room.
“Don’t eat, it’ll ruin your appetite,” his mother said, on autopilot.
Alex turned and smiled. “Don’t eat this very healthy apple because I’m a growing boy and I crave my fruits and vegetables?”
“Vaya,” his mother said, shooing him away. “Your father will be home soon.”
“So,” Alicia said, again eyeing her mother’s Jimmy Choos. “If I’m going to work at City Hall, then I’m going to need to get some grown-up clothes. Or borrow some stuff from you. For example, those shoes you were wearing today…”
“Ha, niña,” her mother said, “you do this internship, you go to Harvard, you go to law school, then maybe we’ll talk about me buying you some outrageously expensive designer shoes. For now, help me with dinner.”
They had just put the pernil in the oven when Alicia’s father came home from playing tennis.
“What’s the qué pasa?” he said, tugging on Alicia’s ponytail.
Then he walked over to her mother and kissed her full on the mouth. “Hola, mi amor,” he whispered to his wife.
“Consider me officially grossed out,” Alicia said, mostly because they expected her to. But she liked it that her parents still kissed. Some of her friends had such complicated family lives. Carmen’s dad, Javier, had remarried: a blond cubana named Natalia, who was only nine years older than Carmen’s eldest sister. Carmen’s mom, Sophia, was now married to Christian, an Anglo history professor at the local college. But Carmen also spent time with Mariella, who was her father’s first wife—her mother was her father’s second wife, and Natalia was his third. Mariella rented the guest house from Carmen’s dad and was like a second mother to Carmen, who liked to say, “Es un pocito confundido. A little confusing.” Her affectionate—even if kind of gross to Alicia—parents were at least less confusing.
“Alex!” Alicia screamed. “Papi’s home!”
“Call me when the food’s on the table! I’m watching the soccer game!” Alex yelled back from the living room.
“No,” Alicia said. “Come help me set the table.”
“It’s four plates, four forks, four knives,” Alex said, coming to stand at the kitchen door. “You can’t possibly need help with that.”
“Help your sister,” their father said, tossing his jacket over a kitchen bar stool. When the table was set, the family sat down to eat.
“Alicia, your mother and I have talked about it,” her father said after he had taken a few bites of food, “and it’s fine for you to help your friend plan her quince as long as you understand that your internship comes first.”
Alicia tried not to jump out of her seat. This was great news—no, make that fantastic news!
“Do not embarrass your father at his job,” her mother added.
“Never!” Alicia replied, thinking that even if her father hadn’t been the deputy mayor there was no way that Lori, the wicked witch of South Beach, would let her slack off on the internship. She would show her parents that she could handle this—she hoped.
After dinner, Alicia jumped up from the table. “I’ve got to go call Sarita, and Carmen and Jamie and Gaz; then I’ll come back and load the dishwasher, promise!” She couldn’t wait to tell everyone the good news.
“I got it,” Alex said with a wink. “It’s only four plates, four forks, and four knives. It’s not exactly a two-person job.”
Alicia gave her brother a quick hug and said, “Thanks for having my back.”
“Always,” he said.
And although she rarely thought about how much she leaned on her big brother, Alicia was glad to hear him say it. He did have her bac
k, and that felt good. It wasn’t every girl who was cool with her seventeen-year-old brother. She smiled. And it wasn’t every girl who got to plan quinceañeras—as a job!
The next weekend, Alicia gathered the Amigas at Lario’s on Miami Beach for their first official meeting since her parents had given the okay. She was so excited she’d arrived ten minutes early. She’d dressed in her new favorite outfit: a one-shoulder black blouse, a pair of boot-cut white jeans, and a pair of worn Chanel sandals that her mom had given to her. The sandals were a little torn, but the double C’s always made Alicia feel extra grown-up.
She asked for a table for five, and as she waited for the rest of the group to arrive, she laid out all the materials she’d prepared. There were so many details of a quince to work out. No wonder so many moms went a bit loco with the planning. But if she and her friends could make Sarita’s party completely cool and completely unforgettable, then all of Miami would look to them for quince planning, and they would have themselves a legitimate business.
Carmen came in soon after Alicia, looking fabulous in a red sundress with a bubble skirt.
“Hola, loca,” she said, giving Alicia a besito on the cheek.
She sat down at the table and took a sketch pad out of her World Food Program bag.
“I’m so excited about designing my first quince dress,” Carmen said. She took out an ad for DiaNoches, a fancy boutique in Coral Gables that specialized in quince dresses. The owner of DiaNoches also happened to be Simone Baldonado’s mom. “Have you seen this?” Carmen asked.
“Nope, but it’s good research, right?” Alicia said, flipping through the pages.
“Hardly,” Carmen scoffed. “It’s one poufy dress after another. These girls don’t look like quinces, they look like plastic wedding-cake toppers!”
Alicia laughed. “Look at this one! I feel like the hosts of that show What Not to Wear. These girls are serious fashion victims, in need of help that only we can provide.”
Fifteen Candles Page 4