by Donna Cooner
Alex reaches for my hand. “This will go on forever if we don’t interrupt. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
I follow him across the room until we are standing in front of the TV and finally have the attention of the three people on the couch.
“Linden, this is my abuela Maria and her best friend, Mrs. Annie Florence.”
I smile and give an awkward sort of half wave.
“And you already know my sister, Isabella,” he says. Isabella is wearing purple shorts, a purple hoodie, and a purple T-shirt. Even the tiny rubber bands on her braces are purple. She looks back and forth between Alex and me, then leaps up off the couch and gives me an enthusiastic hug. It takes me by surprise, so I only hug back with one arm, but it doesn’t seem to faze her.
“Aren’t you a pretty girl,” Mrs. Annie Florence, the taller woman with the gray curls, says, looking at me over the top of her blue polka-dotted half glasses. I feel my face catch fire at the inspection.
“Do you know my other grandson, Luis?” Abuela Maria asks me. “I think his girlfriend is your age. Torrey?”
I nod. “Yes, I know who she is.”
“Such a sweet girl,” she says, and Mrs. Annie Florence nods vigorously.
“We’re planning my quinceañera,” Isabella says, before flopping back down on the couch. She tells me the theme of her upcoming “sweet fifteen” celebration is Beauty and the Beast. According to her expert opinion, that is not nearly as obvious as Cinderella.
I smile. “Beauty and the Beast” is my favorite fairy tale. I love the idea of loving someone for who they are inside, even when no one else can see it.
“If you have a traditional quinceañera, people think it’s boring,” Isabella explains. “People expect a big production.”
“Well, we can’t have boring, that’s for sure. Besides, you only turn fifteen once,” Mrs. Annie Florence says. “You only get one chance to have a quinceañera.”
“We have some candelabras at the funeral parlor that might work perfect for decorations,” Abuela Maria says.
Alex explains to me, “My grandmother lives with my uncle and cousin Luis at the Rivera Funeral Home, but she spends a lot of time on our couch now that the party planning is at a fever pitch.”
Sort of like prom?
Isabella makes a pouty face. “I don’t want to use dead people’s decorations.”
“Why? They don’t care,” Abuela Maria says.
Alex tries to interrupt the conversation. “We’re going to go study in my room.”
Isabella ignores him, but I feel like I can’t just walk away while she’s talking. I shift from one foot to the other and she keeps chattering away.
“My court is going to do a waltz with me first, and then we’re going to do a salsa, but sort of a hip-hop version,” she says. “I have the most amazing choreographer.”
“We need to verify everything with the florist. One red rose on each folded napkin,” Abuela Maria says.
“Yes, and one rose under glass on each table for the centerpiece.”
“Oh, yes! Perfect,” says Mrs. Annie Florence, clapping her hands enthusiastically.
“It will be amazing,” Isabella says.
I nod because it does sound incredible and also because they all seem so excited to share it with me.
“I could audition the attendants,” Mrs. Annie Florence says.
“We both could. It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Alex’s grandmother says, and Mrs. Annie Florence nods so hard all the gray curls on her head shake with enthusiasm.
Alex’s grandmother punches her in the arm and grins; then they giggle like they are all fourteen.
Alex rolls his eyes. “Come on.” He tugs at my hand.
Then, before we can walk away, Isabella stops us. “You know about the doll, right?” There is a beat of complete silence, and it takes a moment to realize everyone is looking at Alex. They are all three staring him down, so this must be important.
“What doll?” Alex asks.
“The brother of the birthday girl gives her a doll to signify she is leaving childhood behind,” Abuela Maria says.
Mrs. Annie Florence nods her head again. I think it is going to fall right off her pear-shaped body and roll under the couch.
“Lorin Lucero’s quince doll is huge. It’s in her bedroom,” Isabella adds.
“Right. Doll,” Alex says, and makes a check mark in the air. I follow him toward the stairs, but I can hear the conversation on the couch continuing all the way up the steps.
“Maybe you should have a cotton candy machine,” Abuela Maria says. “I like cotton candy.”
“Not sure how that will go with the theme,” Isabella says. “But make a note of it.”
Alex’s room is cluttered but surprisingly clean, with a sunny window that looks out over a bricked-in patio and a pool. I stand there for a moment, taking it all in. Baseball is everywhere—posters of favorite players on his walls, mini trophies on his bookshelf, and signed baseballs inside plastic cases on his nightstand. There is a row of photos on top of his dresser, and I walk over to take a closer look. I recognize one of his sister and him when they were younger. They are standing on the beach with a boogie board propped up in the sand between them. They are grinning at the camera, squinting into the sun and covered with sand. Their smiles are the same, even now.
All of a sudden my heart is beating really fast, and all I’m thinking about is how cute Alex looks.
“Your sister is very pretty,” I say, to take any potential attention off my flushed face.
Alex frowns. “Too pretty.”
“What do you mean?” No one is ever too pretty. The beauty bar is set high, and it is always moving higher. Better outfit. Curlier hair. Straighter hair. Short skirt. Long skirt. Bare skin. Tanned skin. High heels. Too high.
He picks up a baseball glove out of the window seat, pushes some athletic shoes out of the way, and motions for me to sit down. When I do, he sits cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, still holding the glove in one hand.
“She’s always been oblivious to how she looks, but now she’s starting to notice how others are looking at her. Especially boys,” he says.
I know all about transformation. Not the dramatic, stepping-into-the-spotlight kind of transition Izzy will soon see. My change was much more gradual and not nearly as spectacular.
When I was Isabella’s age, I was that kid in the background, with jeans that dragged around my feet and no thought of makeup. But then, when everyone came back to school the fall of their freshman year, suddenly my jeans weren’t dragging around my pudgy legs anymore and, in fact, my legs weren’t even pudgy. The front of my shirt stretched out with new curves, and whether I liked it or not, I was suddenly in the game.
“I see the way they look at her, and I don’t want her to change.” He is quiet for a minute. “At least not on the inside.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I don’t really know why. I’ve never thought about it from a boy’s perspective, but I know what pretty girls are like. This is how it works. We learn to get used to the looks, or at least we try. I glance at the picture one more time. Isabella is going to have lots of guys looking, but there is no guarantee she will ever see herself in the mirror the way they see her.
“When you came to the library the first time, you described yourself as a good big brother.”
“I think I am,” he says. “It’s just hard these days to think about how to best support Isabella right now. There’s so much tradition to this quinceañera thing. It’s all about becoming a woman, but it’s also tied to a lot of things that seem so … ” He pauses. “Superficial.”
“Growing up as a girl can sometimes be complicated … ” I stumble for the right words, but Alex waits while I think. “It’s just … confusing.” I shrug helplessly.
“Isn’t growing up confusing for everybody?” Alex asks.
“Sure. It’s just that girls get so many messages from so many different places—friends, television, inter
net.” I tick them off on my fingers. “ ‘Be grown up, but don’t look too grown up. Wear make-up, but don’t look too made up. Work out, but love your body the way it is. Be smart, but don’t act smart.’ ” I sigh. “That’s only the tip of the iceberg.”
Alex is silent for a moment, then he says, “I guess Izzy is going through a lot.”
I sit back in the window seat and Alex leans against his bed, closing his eyes. I try not to think about how the tops of his arms are so defined by muscle and how I could just lean over and kiss him right now before he even opens his eyes. But then he opens his eyes and I’m caught. I swallow hard and quickly look down at my lap. My skirt is too short. I tug the hem of it down toward my knees for the fiftieth time. If I had worn tights I might have felt less exposed, but it is March in Texas and tights are out of the question.
When I glance back up, he’s still looking at me. My stomach is doing something crazy, but I try to ignore it. “It sounds like Izzy’s quinceañera is going to be a big deal,” I say.
“The party planning had been going on for months, probably even years, but now it’s down to the last few weeks. Every little detail is being analyzed and overanalyzed.” He hits his fist into the palm of the glove. “Centerpieces. Dances. Dolls. I want nothing to do with any of it. But I can’t ever say no to Izzy. No one can.”
“I had no idea it was such a major event,” I say, surprised at the emotion in his voice.
“Everything is about this party. Everything.” He shakes his head. “Every dish my mom serves brings up the topic of what food we’ll have and who is catering it. The laundry pile on the couch leads to talks of clothes and costumes. A song playing on the radio results in a lengthy conversation about music and the first dance—elaborately choreographed. Even the bouquet of flowers Sam brought home for my mom started this huge discussion about the flowers for the quince.”
“Sam?” I ask.
“My stepdad,” Alex says. “They met when he showed my mom some space for her newest restaurant. Sam was a horrible real estate agent. He said her eyes were the exact same color as the rusty pipes in the bathroom underneath the stained sink.”
I laugh. “Smooth talker.”
Alex finally smiles. “But for some reason known only to the two of them, it worked, and they were married six months later.”
“How romantic,” I say.
He shrugs. “Sam is the only dad I’ve ever known and he is pretty good at it, but sometimes he gets confused by all the traditions of our big Mexican family. Especially this quinceañera thing. He can never say anything right. If he says the caterer seems too expensive, then Isabella huffs off to her bedroom and won’t speak to him for the rest of the evening. If he mentions a choice for the music, Abuela Maria goes crazy. It’s a no-win situation, but it’s like he can’t help himself.”
“And your real dad?” I ask.
“He died when I was little.” Alex shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“My mom and Sam argue a lot about Izzy’s party. It’s a lot of money and my mom wants it to be better than what she had, or better than any of her friends’ daughters had. That is a lot of pressure, but she’s one of the most competitive people on the planet.”
I think about the pool outside in the backyard and the size of his house. Is money really an issue? Instead, I ask, “Is that where you get your competitiveness from?”
“I guess. I’ve always loved baseball, but no one else saw me as being good enough to really play. I was always too little or too slow.” He picks up the ball lying on the floor beside him and wraps his fingers around it. “But this year is different. It’s like everything clicked.”
I saw how everyone in the stands at the baseball field reacted at the game. Alex was amazing.
“Your mother must be proud,” I say.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “She hasn’t been to one of my games yet. She’s either doing something for Izzy’s quinceañera or at the restaurant trying to make the money to pay for it.”
“Well, it sounds like that doll is going to be even better than Lorin Lucero’s.” I try to tease him to lighten the mood.
He laughs. “According to my sister, Lorin Lucero’s quinceañera is the standard by which all other birthday parties are measured. Everybody knows that.”
I smile. “Obviously.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Alex calls.
A dark-haired woman with Alex’s smile stands at the door. “I heard you had a friend over.”
“Mom, this is Linden.”
The woman in the doorway is wearing a sleeveless blue eyelet dress and white open-toed heels. Her makeup is flawless and her bright red lipstick looks freshly applied. I wish I’d worn something nicer besides this short skirt and T-shirt. I stand up from my seat in the window. I’m not sure if I should shake her hand or not, so I give her this little half wave. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rivera.”
So awkward.
She doesn’t seem fazed. “You too, Linden. I wanted to ask you to join us for dinner.”
My mom is at the firehouse, so everyone will probably be on their own for dinner at my house. “Sure,” I say, though my stomach does a little wobble at the idea.
“Well, finish up your homework and come down in about thirty minutes,” she says. She leaves the door open when she walks away.
Alex shrugs at the open door, grinning at me, and instantly I think about kissing him in my front yard. I can feel a giggle bubbling up inside of me, but I don’t want to look like some kind of loon, so I hide it by walking across the room and picking up my book bag.
We settle onto the floor and study for the next half hour until my phone buzzes.
NIKKI: ASK HIM ABOUT PROM!
I exit out of the message. Now doesn’t seem the time.
“Who’s that?” Alex asks.
“Just Nikki,” I say. “I’ll call her later.”
Later, I sit at the dining room table thinking this is the way family dinners should be—noisy and crowded. Abuela Maria decides to stay over for dinner, which evidently isn’t unusual, but Mrs. Annie Florence says she has to go home to perfect her dewberry cobbler recipe for the upcoming Walker County Fair.
Alex introduces me to Sam, his stepdad, who sits next to Isabella, and the conversation continues as though I am not even there, but not in a bad way. I take a long sip of iced tea and let the words blur around me, but then I feel Alex reach for my hand under the table. He squeezes it, gently, looking straight ahead.
“Mom, Alex is smiling at the potatoes. Weird,” Izzy says.
“Alex, why are you smiling at the potatoes?” his mom asks, putting a piece of meat loaf on my plate, even though I didn’t ask for it.
“Sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to smile. I won’t do it again.”
“There, Isabella,” Mrs. Rivera says. “Your brother won’t be smiling at vegetables anymore.”
“Maybe it’s because he has a girlfriend,” Isabella says slyly. “Love makes you stupid.”
My cheeks burst into flame.
“Ouch.” Isabella turns to Sam. “Alex kicked me.”
“Don’t tease your brother, Izzy,” Sam says, stabbing at his meat. “It’s his business.”
For the moment, the spotlight is off us, and I slowly relax into my chair. I’m glad Isabella drops it and shifts the topic to her upcoming quinceañera. Alex is right. It’s the focus of everything. The conversation buzzes on. Alex’s grandmother and mother talk in Spanish about the order of the ceremony, with Izzy throwing in comments in English every so often.
“What do you think, Sam?” Isabella asks. Sam and Alex both freeze with forks halfway to mouths. I take a bite of meat loaf and chew slowly, feeling the shift in mood.
“About what?” Sam still doesn’t look up from his plate.
“The crown!” Izzy says. “Should I have one or not?”
“I think you call it a tiara,” Abuela Maria says.
; “How much does it cost?” Sam asks, then seems to realize he said the wrong thing once again, so he quickly adds, “Just wondering.”
“Don’t worry, mija,” Alex’s mom says, reaching out to stroke Izzy’s hair. “Money is not a problem.”
Sam’s neck gets red and blotchy.
“Never mind,” he says.
Alex’s mom gives him a look that makes me feel sorry for him, and the redness spreads up his neck to his ears.
“My quinceañera was so much simpler. Just the mass and a cake,” Abuela Maria says. “Now you have to have costume changes and limos.” She laughs. “My mom made my dress. The party was in the church hall, and my family prepared the food—tamales, beans, and rice. We had mariachis and I danced with my cousins.”
“I’m sure it was perfect, but things are different now,” Alex’s mom says. “I’ve been planning this party since the moment Izzy was born, so money is no object. We will find you the most beautiful tiara in the history of quinces. Won’t we, Sam?”
Sam nods slowly and stuffs another piece of meat loaf in his mouth. He hasn’t said much since we sat down, and now the pale white skin on the back of his neck turns red again.
“What song should we play for the brother-sister dance?” Isabella asks.
“We have to dance together?” Alex asks.
“We talked about this, Alex. You’ve been practicing the dance, right?” Her voice gets higher and higher until probably only the dogs in the neighborhood can hear it. “Mom, Alex has been practicing, right?”
“Of course he has,” his mom says. “Haven’t you, Alex?”
Alex grins at Isabella across the table and she sticks her tongue out at him.
“It’s not funny,” she said. “The very first dance will be the brother-sister dance, and it has to be perfect.”
Alex’s smile vanishes. “I thought the first dance was supposed to be the father-daughter dance,” he says. He looks over at Sam, who is very intently staring at his meat loaf.
“I’m not that good of a dancer,” he mumbles. He knew about this.
Sam’s neck turns even redder, and I can’t help but feel sorry for him.