“Hello, Gaz; hello Alicia,” she said in greeting. “Dame besitos.”
Alicia and Gaz complied. Gaz put his arm around the older woman and asked, in Spanish, “What are you cooking that smells so amazing?”
Carmen’s grandmother smiled. Older people always did when Gaz broke out his flawless Spanish. He was the only one of the group who was completamente fluent. And he used it to his advantage whenever he could, especially if food was involved.
“I’m just making a few little things,” Abuela Ruben said modestly. “Chorizo Argentino and salchicha parrillera, grilled chicken, grilled steak, papas fritas—what you call french fries—with garlic and parsley, grilled corn on the cob, zucchini, fennel, and asparagus. It’s a picnic, you know. So I’m keeping it simple.”
Carmen hooked arms with Alicia and said, “The crazy thing is that she honestly thinks that’s a simple meal. Come outside with me for a few.”
The two girls walked into the herb garden and sat down on the two little wrought-iron chairs that stayed outside almost all year-round. They were painted white, with heart-shaped ironwork at the back. Carmen loved the chairs almost as much as she loved all the fresh smells—parsley, basil, radishes—in the garden.
“So, you and Gaz are good?” Carmen asked.
“Better than good,” Alicia said, nodding. “Excellent.”
“Yeah!” Carmen squealed. “I knew it would all work out, and when I saw your smile when the two of you walked in . . .” Her face grew serious. “But that’s not why I dragged you out here. I asked Domingo about Raymunda. He’s never heard of her. But he’s got a cousin who works in the school office who’s going to try to pull her records.”
“Sneaky,” Alicia said. “I like it.”
“Carmen, your camera crew wants to come inside,” Abuela Ruben called out in the singsong voice of someone who knew she was being recorded for television.
“I’m so sick of all this taping,” Alicia said. “They snuck up on me and Gaz—midkiss!”
“Keep your eyes on the prize, darling. With cash money, we all get to go to New York with Jamie for Freestyle,” Carmen said diplomatically as they walked back into the small house.
Sharon swooped in, blowing air-kisses at the girls. “Look, honey buns, we’ve already taped B-roll of Carmen’s grandma doing the tango. It’s sweet; it’s going to edit into the piece nicely. Now all that’s left is for you to really bring it at the ceremonies. That will be the moment of truth that will decide which team will be the winner. Thank you very much, to all of you. We’re out of here.”
Sharon sailed out of the room.
“What do you think? Do we even have a chance?” Carmen asked when she was gone.
“Well,” Alicia said, “it’s like what Barack Obama said in New Hampshire: ‘while we breathe, we hope.’”
At the picnic dinner, Carmen and her novio, Domingo, shared a blanket with Alicia, Gaz, and Abuela Ruben. Jamie begged off dinner because she was on a roll spray-painting the gift bags, and wanted to get home.
As they balanced plates on their laps, Carmen said, “I really hope you like the way that I’m incorporating Jewish elements into my quinceañera, mi abuela. I never want you to be disappointed in me.”
Abuela Ruben reached over and put a hand on her granddaughter’s knee. “Was I disappointed that you didn’t have a bat mitzvah? Yes,” she said. “But that was in the past. I’m an old woman. I don’t have time to hold grudges. I just thank God that He gave me the long life to dance at my granddaughter’s quinceañera. You will have Latin music there?”
“Yes,” Carmen answered. “Gaz’s band is wonderful.”
Abuela Ruben looked Gaz over with a haughty, slightly disparaging air. “And what kind of wonderful music do you play, young man?”
Gaz, who could hold his own with anyone, even a “snooty” abuela, said proudly, “Reggaeton, salsa, cumbia, merengue.”
“What about tango?” Abuela Ruben asked. “Somos argentinos.”
“We’re working up some tango tunes, too,” Gaz said. “Don’t you worry.”
Abuela Ruben laughed. “Me, worry? Worry about yourself when I get you on the dance floor.”
She got up and began to teach him how to do the tango. Sitting on the blanket, Alicia grinned broadly. This night was turning out to be pretty darned perfect.
• • •
The next day after school, Carmen visited her dad, who was filming a scene from his latest telenovela, when she saw Simone and her flunky, Ellen, who was wearing white makeup like a geisha’s and a traditional Japanese outfit.
“Why is Ellen dressed up?” Carmen asked, moving closer to investigate.
Simone looked surprised to see Carmen. She tried to affect a calm look. “This isn’t Ellen, it’s Raymunda Itoi.”
Carmen couldn’t believe it! No wonder Domingo had never heard of a girl named Raymunda at Hialeah High. She didn’t exist! Simone must have hired someone to play her (who then canceled), and now, somehow, Ellen was supposed to take over. Curious about how Simone was going to try to pull this stunt off, Carmen decided to play along.
“You remember me telling you about Raymunda,” Simone continued. “She’s Brazilian Japanese. From Hialeah.”
“So nice to meet you,” Carmen said.
Ellen just bowed. As. If. She. Were. A. Genuine. Geisha.
It was all Carmen could do to keep herself from screaming, You’ve got to be kidding me! She knew that Simone had guts, if not a whole lot of morals. She just hadn’t known until now just how much in the way of guts and morals she really had.
“Since Raymunda’s theme is Memoirs of a Quince, we’re transforming the Biscayne Bay ballroom of my father’s hotel into the red-light district of old Japan,” Simone went on.
“That’s pretty cool,” Carmen told Simone insincerely. Then she turned to Ellen/Raymunda. “I gotta run. But it was nice meeting you, Raymunda. Have a great quince.”
The minute she had gotten a safe distance down the hallway, Carmen texted the group: S.O.S. Everyone meet at the Whip ’N’ Dip. ASAP.
Over bowls of fro yo, Carmen told Alicia, Gaz, and Jamie all about how Simone was putting together a fake quinceañera for a nonexistent girl.
“What do we do?” she asked when she had finished. “If we rat her out, she’ll be disqualified and we won’t win fair. If we don’t, she could win. And Jamie won’t get to show her sneakers at the Freestyle show in New York.”
“This sucks,” Alicia groaned. “I hate to be the one to say it, but Simone’s got to be put in her place.”
Jamie nodded. “Call the producer. We can’t risk our New York trip on this crap.”
Gaz shook his head. “No, let’s not stoop to her level. Let’s give Simone a chance to come clean. It’s better if she confesses what she’s done.”
Reluctantly, everyone agreed. But one thing was certain: if Simone refused to speak up, they’d speak up for her.
After school the next day, Carmen and Alicia waited for Simone by her locker.
“What do you want?” Simone asked, walking up. She was very good at giving attitude, but Alicia could tell that her voice held just the faintest tremor of fear.
“Look, we know that Raymunda is really Ellen,” Alicia said. “And we want to give you the chance to drop out of the competition before you get caught.”
“Or what?” Simone asked, haughtily.
“Or we’ll tell Sharon and Mary the truth,” Carmen said.
Simone reached into her bag and took out a big manila envelope of receipts: for caterers, DJs, fabric stores, dry cleaners, party-supply shops. They were all receipts signed and paid by Amigas Inc. She waved them in the air.
“What’s this?” Carmen asked, trying to grab the papers out of Simone’s hand.
“Seems to me you spent well over the thousand-dollar limit, chica,” Simone said.
Carmen was floored. “But these are all receipts from other quinces we planned.”
“Not after I was done with my Wite-O
ut pen and my father’s photocopier,” Simone said. “One look at these and Sharon will have you disqualified from Project Quince.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Carmen asked, hardly able to believe that Simone would really resort to blackmail.
“Don’t start none, won’t be none,” Simone chortled, a big, fat, smug smirk on her face.
ON THE morning of Carmen’s quinceañera, the Project Quince television crew arrived early at her house at 117 Millington Lane. They planned to capture Carmen’s every move. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize until 7:30 a.m., when the entire household woke up, how chaotic it would be to try to film a show in a small four-bedroom house with eight residents and twelve visiting guests, including a saucy grandmother from Argentina who let them know in no uncertain terms, “If you even point that camera in my direction when I have no makeup on and I am not dressed, voy a matarte!”
The twins, when not running between the crew’s legs, made faces at the camera and jumped in Carmen’s lap nonstop. Her brother, Tino, who was never far from his soccer ball, flubbed a pass that almost shattered an expensive light the crew had set up in the kitchen. Carmen’s uncle Rogelio, who was slightly suspicious, refused to sign the press release until his lawyer had reviewed it—which he informed Sharon and her crew would take between forty-eight and seventy-two hours. At the same time, he would not vacate the kitchen, where Carmen’s entire extended family was having breakfast, so the camera crew had to shoot around him, which was no easy feat, as he was six feet four and well over two hundred pounds.
“You know what?” Sharon Kim said to Carmen after about forty minutes. “We’ve got everything we need now. We’ll see you at four, when the party starts!”
“Sounds good. And the deal is, you only stay at the party for the first hour,” Carmen reminded Sharon. “I want everyone to be able to relax and have a good time, not feel self-conscious because the cameras are on them.”
“That’s what we agreed to,” Sharon said. “We’ll keep up our end of the deal.”
Carmen was relieved to hear it, because she was still putting the finishing touches on her dress. She locked herself in her room, while the familia enjoyed a long brunch and the amigas set up the tent. She finished sewing at one. Her makeup was on by two. She was ready to go by three.
She kept poking her head out to look at the tent where Gaz was arranging palm trees, Jamie was still tagging gift bags, and Alicia was walking around with her clipboard, looking stressed.
“Let me help,” said Carmen, coming outside in a robe. She knew better than to put her dress on until the last possible second.
“Go back inside,” Alicia insisted. “You’re the quince today, not the hired help.”
So Carmen went inside, where her mother had assembled a slide show of photos dating from the time Carmen was a baby until the present. Carmen groaned and went back out to the tent.
“Don’t make me go in there,” she begged. “My mom is showing the most embarrassing baby pictures.”
“Well, you don’t have to go back inside, but you can’t stay here,” said Alicia, who was now helping Michelle set up the food stations, including a table for the cake.
“Why don’t you go for a boat ride?” Alicia suggested.
“Mind if I go with you?” someone said.
Carmen spun around. Domingo was there, and early. She wanted to pinch herself. He looked unbelievably hot in his tux.
“You’re not supposed to see me until the quince starts!” she said, giggling nervously.
“I think that only applies to weddings,” Domingo said sweetly. “Let’s go for a boat ride.”
“In my robe?”
“I think that’s best,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with boats. I’d hate to have you fall in in your quince dress on my watch.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nudging ahead of him. “It took over two hours to hook up my hair and makeup. I’ll row.”
“No problem,” Domingo said.
At 3:45, Sharon Kim and her crew returned and began to film the guests as they arrived. It was a beautiful day—and scene, with the canal on one side and all of the houses on the left. At four o’clock, Alicia, who had changed into a simple red tank dress and a pair of Jamie’s custom-made yellow and green sneakers, began to let guests into the tent.
There were audible oohs and aahs, as the guests walked around and read the words that Jamie had emblazoned, graffiti style, on the walls of the tent:
The potted palm trees that lined the perimeter of the tent, along with the high-topped bar tables covered in simple white linen, provided an elegant counterpoint to the words of graffiti:
There were seventy-five guests in total, and the tent felt full, but not crowded. Capacity control was a huge thing with quinceañeras because both friends and family members tended to invite their friends to crash. It was always, “Yeah, come to my friend’s/niece’s/cousin’s quince. There’ll be free food, cute girls/guys. It’ll be fun.”
“Nobody ever thinks about how much planning goes into a quince,” Alicia muttered, “or how the head count, even with a buffet, is a very serious thing.”
Gaz popped out of the tent. “Talking to yourself, chica?” He came over and kissed her on the cheek, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Alicia was surprised at how much she liked it.
“Just going over all the details,” she said.
“Well, stop worrying, and come to the backstage of the runway. Carmen’s ready for you to do your part,” Gaz said.
The quinceañera was to begin with a fashion show. But first, Carmen wanted to speak. The guests watched in admiration as she sashayed down the runway, which placed her smack-dab in the middle of the tent. She was resplendent in her red, green, and gold dress, and in a nod to her Mexican-Argentinean heritage, her hair was braided Oaxacan style, with gold, red, and green ribbons carefully stranded through. Her lips were ruby red, and her smile was as wide as the canal that faced the house. She held a stack of index cards in her hands, and those who looked closely could see that her hands were trembling even though her voice was strong.
“As most of you know, typically, quinces begin in a church,” she said, reading from the cards into a microphone she held in her other hand. “There are traditional steps that you all know, so I won’t go into detail. But I wanted a quinceañera that honored both my Latin culture and my Jewish religion, so I created this as a place where all of my roots could live. Bienvenidos a mi Tropical Synagogue.
“I wanted to point out that I am not wearing either the flats of the pre-quince or the heels of a girl who’s gone through a church ceremony. I’m barefoot, with a rather cute pedicure, if I do say so myself, to symbolize my humility for the long roads my people—all of my people—have walked in this world and in this life.
“I wanted to tell you something about this dress. All of you who know me know that I have dreamed my whole life of being a fashion designer. My abuela Ruben taught me how to sew. When I was a little girl, I used to go down to Buenos Aires every summer, and she taught me a little more each time. First, how to hand-stitch without sticking myself, then how to use the machine, then how to make and cut patterns. I made all the dresses you’ll see on the runway tonight. But I couldn’t have done any of it if it hadn’t been for her.”
She paused to catch her breath and went on. “I have been studying Hebrew, and I want to read a poem by the contemporary Israeli poet Amir Or that symbolizes to me how you connect the past to the future.”
Carmen read a stanza in Hebrew. Then she read the English translation.
This poem will be a poem of another century, not different from this one.
This poem will be securely concealed under heaps of words, until, between the last sand grains of the hourglass, like a ship inside a bottle, it will be seen, this poem.
She finished by saying, “There’s one more thing. In a traditional quince, there are damas and there are chambelanes, because the girl whose quince it
is is supposed to be like a princess in a court. But I wanted to change it up today, and instead of presenting a court to you, I wanted to introduce you to, and say a formal thank-you to, my Latina-Jewish tribe. All the girls are wearing Viva Carmen, and I do custom orders! Thank you very much!”
She jumped offstage, Gaz cued the music, and the show began.
Abuela Ruben was the first to go. She wore a red dress and a brocaded gold jacket and did a dramatic tango down the runway with her new dancing partner, Gaz. When she got to the end of the runway, she stopped. In the wings, Carmen was puzzled. This wasn’t part of the plan. The music grew softer as Abuela Ruben spoke. “Everybody knows me as the Jewish grandmother from Buenos Aires. I’m very proud of my granddaughter, Carmen, today, on her quinceañera. In Judaism, we have a tradition called the bat mitzvah. But quinces and bat mitzvahs share a common theme. This is when we welcome our girls into womanhood.”
Abuela Ruben threw open her arms. “Carmen, where are you? Ven acá, niña.”
Carmen ran onstage and gave her abuela a huge hug. Gaz went back to the turntable, and Carmen and her grandmother held hands and did a tango move back down the runway.
Then Carmen and Domingo did a sexy salsa dance down the runway. When he reached the mike, the ultrasuave, ultrahandsome Domingo also surprised Carmen by saying, “Tonight is all about my girl, Carmen. She’s got brains, she’s got beauty, and she’s got that Jewish Argentinean swagger. Feliz cumpleaños, preciosa.” He twirled Carmen around, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.
Sharon and the camera crew came running forward. “Do the twirl again!” Sharon shouted breathlessly. “We didn’t capture it on camera.”
“Sorry, guys,” Domingo said. “You’ve got to move like the paparazzi to catch a star on film.”
Then he and Carmen danced back down the runway.
Carmen was in for more sweet blessings. Next up were Carmen’s mom and stepdad. Sophia, dressed in a classic green shift with a rhinestone neckline, danced onto the runway with Christian to the tune of the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love.” Microphone in hand, she said, “This celebration is such a reflection of my daughter, Carmen. She is a person who doesn’t seek to define cultures, but lives it. Feliz cumpleaños!”
Lights, Camera, Quince! Page 11