by Nancy Osa
Abuela came through with the listing in her electronic notebook, and Flora handed Mom her cellular phone.
“No answer!” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, Violet, we’ll dash over to the shop. You girls, stay here and hold the fort,” she said to everyone else.
Mom drove across town like one of Sammy Sosa’s homers on its way out of the park. We screeched to a stop in front of Flores R Us and banged on the door, but the shop was closed up tight as a rosebud.
There was nothing to do but get back in the car. Mom sat there with her hands gripping the steering wheel, keys dangling from the ignition, berating herself. “I should’ve known I could never juggle school and kids and parties and everything else too. I’m just a disaster, a disaster, I tell you.” And on and on.
“Mom, Mom,” I cut in. “Chill. You’re doing fine. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even be having a party.” I patted her shoulder. “Let’s just get back to the hall. I’m sure Señora Flora can . . . nip this in the bud.”
She looked at me, unconvinced.
I tried again. “We have better things to do than play ring around the posy.”
She held desperately to her frown, which was melting like cheap sealing wax.
And the two-oh pitch: “I say, let’s put the petal to the metal and get out of here!”
A smile laminated her face. “HA!” she barked, followed by three involuntary tremors. “Petal to the metal. That’s a good one, Vi.”
She fastened her seat belt, put the car in gear, and took us back across Lincolnville under the speed limit.
When we returned to the hall, the flowers had arrived— hundreds of purple and white irises. My backstage contingent was madly stuffing them into glass vases.
“Look, Violet! The stage is set up,” Janell said, breaking away and dragging me to the large riser hung with a purple theater curtain. Flora had really outdone herself. A rented crystal chandelier hung above a white baby grand piano upstage. Colored spotlights shone from the ceiling, and a huge relief map of the world acted as backdrop.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, squeezing Janell’s hand. “I can’t wait to get in costume.”
I didn’t have to wait.
“Violet!” called Mom. “Time to go home and change.”
So she and Abuela and I drove back home.
We arrived to find the men serenely watching the Cubs play the Cards again on TV. “Why aren’t any of you dressed!” Mom yelled.
“Is plenty of time,” said Abuelo, who would be wearing a new white guayabera and trousers. I had reminded him to wear shoes, not slippers.
“Sammy’s on deck,” argued Mark, who would be wearing a white-on-white tuxedo with black accents, a white boutonniere, and no Cubs hat.
“Maldito monkey suit,” Dad muttered, leaning forward to watch someone get thrown out at second. He would be dressed just like Mark.
Mom didn’t have to say a word. Her glare erupted, venting hot steam and shooting fiery molten lava at the three of them—a look promising a quick ticket to hell. They reacted appropriately.
“On second thought,” said Abuelo, rising, “I should be going.”
“It might take a couple tries to get my bow tie right,” murmured Dad.
Mark just ran.
37
When I came downstairs in my dress, Mom, Mark, Abuela, and Abuelo were waiting.
“Ay, qué bonita,” said Abuelo, kissing my cheeks.
“¡Magnífica!” Abuela exclaimed.
Mom took my hands and held me at arm’s length. “It’s you, dear,” she said softly.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Why don’t you run back upstairs and see what’s keeping him?”
I flew on my purple-dyed ballet slippers and planted a knock on Dad’s bedroom door. “Dad?”
No answer.
“Dad?”
He opened the door in his white tuxedo pants and a T-shirt, a mournful expression on his face. “I can’t go on,” he whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t go onstage and dance with you.”
“If it’s about last week . . .”
“No.” He pushed the door open and gestured me in, looking like he was about to cry. “I came out of the shower to . . . to—this.” He pointed at the bed, where his tuxedo shirt and jacket were laid out.
There, alongside the rented clothing, stretched Chucho’s colorless, hairy mass. The industrious poodle took no notice of either of us as he methodically finished picking off and swallowing down the last of the row of shiny black tuxedo buttons.
Dad stood, beaten, frozen to the carpet. I had to think fast.
“No te preocupes,” I told him. “Here’s what we’ll do . . .”
When we were all packed into Mom’s minivan, I remembered something at the last second.
“My tiara!”
I ran back inside to get the velvet bag. On the way out, I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. It was like one of those moments when you see your reflection in a store window, and not realizing it’s you, say to yourself, She’s looking good! And then you go, Hey, that’s me!
I’d scrutinized myself earlier, getting my hair and makeup right, tugging my gown on straight. Making sure I wore matching socks—just kidding. But all of a sudden, here was this stranger’s view of me. And you know what? I looked pretty darn good.
It wasn’t just looks, though. If I wasn’t mistaken, for a moment there you might say I had a certain . . . presence. I smiled at myself in the mirror.
“Who’s on first,” I murmured.
Dad honked impatiently outside.
At last, I sat alone backstage, out of sight, waiting for the guests to arrive and sign in. Leda and Janell were busy greeting people at the door while my family held court at our table. Señora Flora was off helping the caterers prepare.
“Violet? Are you in there?” My aunt Luz slipped behind the curtain. “Vi, you look beautiful!” Luz looked pretty sexy herself in a long black evening gown scattered with delicate red flowers. She wore a few gold bangles on her bare arms, and her black hair hung to her waist in refined curls.
I got up and hugged her. “Thanks for being here, Tía Luci. I am so nervous.”
“A little bit nervous is good,” Tía counseled. “I just want to say happy fifteen, chica. I hope it’s everything you dreamed of.”
“Nope. It’s better. You never get to eat as much cake as you want in your dreams.”
“Maybe not in your dreams,” she teased. “Well, I hope you like the music. I’m going to make a live recording.”
“Awesome,” I said, feeling the spark of readiness.
She air-kissed my cheek. “Break a leg, kiddo,” she said, and slipped back out.
I went over and did something I’d always wanted to do, peeked through the curtain at the gathering house. It looked like the setting for a big production. My relatives on both sides—the Chicago-area Cubans and the Philly contingent—were dressed to the nines. It was great to see Grandma and Grandpa Shavlovsky laughing with Abuela and Abuelo, and odd to see my piano teacher, Mrs. Lowenstein, swathed in a shiny blue cocktail dress. She gravitated over to Luz’s sound board, and they fell deep in conversation.
I was surprised to see Mark quietly chatting with a cousin, until I recognized her as Celina, Eva’s little sister with the fashion-model face and the beginnings of a figure that hinted at greatness. Mark looked different in his tux. Maybe even elegante. My worm of a brother seemed to have a modicum of taste; maybe he wouldn’t grow up to be too much like Dad.
The Lundquists and Williamses and Janell’s mom all sat together, talking as though they’d known each other forever. And Clarence looked Fine, with a capital F, in a tan suit and new buzz cut. Seeing the other faces I didn’t know as well was a little scary—I had to make these people laugh, after all. But then I remembered that most of them had invested money in this affair, so they must have held a reasonable expectation of getting some return on their dol
lar. If they didn’t like my routine, they could always ask Dad for their money back. They were used to him making change.
Dad. I half expected to see him winding through the crowd with his coin pouch, handing out dimes and cigars. I picked him out of the knot of people standing around our table. I had never seen him looking so stylish as in the well-cut tuxedo suit. He had unnecessarily shined the white patent leather shoes the night before, and ironed his white socks and T-shirt twice. He was the picture of fashion coordination, from the white bow tie, which Mom had tied, to the white buttonless coat and creased pants. Except for one minor detail.
In place of the de rigueur pleated white tuxedo shirt, which Chucho had divested of its buttons, Dad wore his favorite sunshine-yellow long-sleeved good-luck shirt with the multicolored monkeys printed on it. Improvisation, I called it.
I skimmed over my lines. “The story you are about to hear is true. . . . The story you are about to hear is true. . . .”
Now Leda and Janell came jostling through the curtain.
“Three minutes,” whispered Janell.
“Remind me again why we have to do this?” Leda said, suddenly all nerves.
I rolled my eyes at her and shrugged helplessly.
“Here,” said Janell, “let me help you put your crown on.” She pulled the jeweled tiara from its velvet bag and set it on my head, adjusting it a few times.
“Perfect,” Leda pronounced.
I reached into my purse for a sugar cube, and something rustled. I drew out a narrow sheet of paper alive with crinkles that somebody had done their best to smooth out. My permission slip for the trip—and it was signed.
Dad! He’d signed his full name in formal-looking script in blue ink:
Alberto Ricardo Paz
I drew a sharp breath, turning the flattened page over in my hand. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he’d ironed it!
I smiled.
As Luz set the tone with a recorded fanfare of trumpets, the house lights dimmed.
“Let’s go, Violet,” whispered Leda, dragging me stage right to the wings. “This is it!”
Out front, Señora Flora quieted the guests. “Bienvenidos, everybody, and welcome to the quinceañero for a girl who is very near and dear to your hearts. Please give a big hand to a young woman who has learned in her fifteen years what took Guillermo Shakespeare nearly a lifetime to know: that all the world’s a stage.”
I popped the sugar cube in my mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your very own . . . Violet Paz!”
The curtain parted magically.
I hesitated, one beat, two. I hesitated just long enough to make my damas worry, so that together they gave me a strong push from the wings.
I let out a siren wail and zigzagged across the stage like I was being chased by the Spanish Inquisition. My tiara started to slip, but I righted it. Then I hit my mark and froze, making eye contact with the roomful of friends and family. A single spotlight illuminated me.
The audience looked back, speechless, riveted—faces I knew, faces I didn’t know . . . here, for me. Funny how so much in life can swirl around you, I thought, whole traditions and civilizations you know nothing about until someone points them out.
The sugar cube let me zip ahead of my thoughts, collect myself, even recall the lines I’d rehearsed so many times.
I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, and let the truth come out.
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. Violet says that in her family “Spanish was currency. Currency I didn’t have”. What does she mean by this? What else is “currency” in the Paz family? What is currency in your family?
2. Señora Flora asks Violet, “How do you see yourself?”. How does Violet reply? In what ways do you think Violet’s definition of herself changes between the beginning and the end of the book?
3. Violet describes herself as having “a lot of half talents” that she’d like to make full talents. What are your half talents? How would you choose some to focus on and develop? Do you see yourself as having one great passion or endeavor in life, or a lot of little ones?
4. The quinceañero marks the transition from childhood to adulthood. How do you see Violet making that transition in the course of the book? Is there any event or experience (it doesn’t have to be a fancy ceremony) in your life that marks this transition as the quinceañero does?
5. In your eyes, what does it mean to become an adult? Consider the roles of your parents and friends; your education, religion, government, and culture; and your feelings in determining when you are an adult. Do you ever get mixed messages from these sources about what it takes to be considered an independent adult?
6. Some of Violet’s adult relatives have their own reasons for wanting her to have the quinceañero. Why is Abuela, for example, so insistent? Have you ever felt that adults in your life wanted to experience something they’d never encountered in their youth—or relive an experience they had had—through you?
7. Why do you think Violet’s father resists telling her about Cuba? Have you ever had to go around your parents or other authority figures to learn about something and form your own opinion? Are there issues about which you’ve taken your parents’ opinion as your own without really thinking about it?
8. Abuela asserts that it is the woman, not the man, “who carries the tradition forward”. What does she mean? Can you think of an example—from your own family or culture or a different one—that supports her claim, and an example that refutes it? What are the traditions in your life, and who makes sure they are carried forward?
9. What would be the theme of your quinceañero? What would you include in the ceremony to make it reflect your personality (or just for fun)?
A CONVERSATION WITH NANCY OSA
Q. Readers—and aspiring writers—are often curious about what inspires a story and from where authors get their ideas. How did Cuba 15 originate? Did you draw from experiences with your own family and adolescence?
A. Like Violet, I had to actively learn about my Cuban side. While my American Cuban family may have eaten turkey and frijoles negros on Thanksgiving, we were more “apple pie” than “flan.” When I started researching Cuban culture in order to write a novel, I was thunderstruck to find that I had never heard of the quinceañero tradition. I never celebrated Sweet Sixteen, either. Not exactly a social superstar, I wondered how I would have reacted if I had been faced with a quince party to plan. That’s where Violet came in. I think she handled it all fabulously. That’s where we differ— she’s stronger, and funnier, than I am. But I gave her a lot of help. Yes, there are some reflections of my family in the Pazes . . . although I never met my Cuban grandparents.
Q. Violet experiences a lot of anxiety regarding her role in the quinceañero and her performances for speech class. Do you ever experience writer’s anxiety, or moments of doubt regarding your work?
A. A writer’s life is so filled with doubt and risk on the business side that it leaves no room for creative doubt. The phrase “finding one’s voice” means that a writer gains the knowledge needed to arrive at a style that works for her. All she can do is write with all the honesty and trust she can muster. Obviously, it’s not a scientific process, so of course I make many false starts. But whether a work is published or not, everything I write becomes part of my pool of creative resources, to which I can return at any time. When I am unsure of which direction to go with a story, I use my time-tested remedy: Think about it. Then write. I also find that discussing work in progress is vital. Early readers keep a writer honest and on track. Belonging to a fantastic writers’ group keeps me down to earth and propels me to higher heights than I could ever scale alone. And it feels great when I can make them laugh.
Q. On that note, do you ever get up onstage and perform as Violet does?
A. Hmm. I wrote, directed, and starred in my first play when I was in third grade. In grade school classes and Girl Scouts, I reigned as the queen of skits. Puppet shows, h
orse shows, piano recitals . . . yep, I guess I am and always have been a performer. I enjoyed mild success in Original Comedy and Reader’s Theater on my high school speech team, and now I enjoy performing slices of Cuba 15 for readers at book events, complete with all the voices, drama, and humor involved. When I write, it’s like performing for myself, inside my mind. Though sometimes I find myself laughing or crying out loud!
Q. Violet has keen comic perception. Where do you get your sense of humor? Ever think of becoming a stand-up comic?
A. Cubans have a unique sense of humor, and some of it seems to have flared up in me. I use humor in my writing because it puts the reader at ease and makes learning—a wonderful side effect of reading—more fun. I have always loved stand-up comedy; George Carlin and Steve Martin are my idols. But there wasn’t much of a comedy scene for women until I had already become interested in writing fiction. Some of my comic chops were cut in a college play-writing class; my professor passed on a good instinct for slapstick. Pa-dum-pum!
Q. How did you become interested in the politics and history of Cuba? How can the average kid become informed and involved in foreign policy issues like this?
A. I have family in Cuba whom I have never met, and this is a direct effect of U.S. foreign policy. When I began corresponding with my Cuban relatives as an adult, I faced many legal and cultural hurdles. Suddenly I needed to know why ordinary citizens—family members—in both countries were still being kept apart. As an American born between the 1959 Cuban revolution and the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis (which posed a direct threat to the United States), I had only a hazy notion of the bad blood between the two countries. When I tried to send pens and paper to my cousins in Cuba, to ensure that they could answer my letters, I was refused. The postal clerk told me small packages were not allowed, and told me to “say hi to Castro.” Dealing with postal regulations and ignorant remarks brought the whole international affair down to a personal level.