Playing for Keeps

by Veronica Chambers

  Perched just a little stiffly on Maguire, Alicia followed Valeria past the cottages that housed the ranch staff and into a grove of cypress trees. As good a guide as any host on the Discovery Channel, Valeria named everything they saw.

  “That’s Indian paintbrush,” she said, pointing to a dark red flower. “The Chippewa used it to make a shampoo that made their hair beautiful and glossy. They also made a medicine out of it. And those there are Texas bluebonnets.”

  “I have a question,” Alicia said when they’d been riding for a while. Ever since arriving in Texas, something had been on her mind.

  “Shoot,” Valeria called back as her horse trotted a few feet ahead of Alicia’s.

  “Are quinceañeras not a big deal here?” Alicia asked. “’Cause, you—um, and don’t get me wrong—but you sort of left it to the last minute, and in Miami, we usually plan from, like, the womb.”

  “Oh, they are,” Valeria said. “This is Texas. Everyone loves a big party, especially one that involves good music, good food, and folks traveling in from all around.”

  Alicia, who was still slightly afraid that her horse might go tearing off in the opposite direction, asked shakily, “Then why leave yours for the very last minute?”

  “Well, in my experience, the Castillo women are cursed with a quince-zilla gene,” Valeria explained. “I’m trying really hard to avoid it.”

  Settling into a light trot, Alicia rode up next to her and said, “It happens to the best of us. I went all quince-zilla once, and it wasn’t even my birthday.”

  “Trust me, you haven’t seen a real quince-zilla until you see someone in my family. All of my cousins have turned their fifteenth birthday into some kind of crazy debutante-ball/quinceañera/let-me-show-you-how-much-money-my-family-has extravaganza.

  “I want my quince to reflect my pride in my Latina roots, and I want to be honest about who I am,” Valeria went on. “A slightly off-center, slightly goth, animal-loving, independent-thinking, Chicana skateboarder. I want it to be traditional, but organic and loose—like riding a horse. And that’s a tall order.”

  Alicia smiled. She loved a challenge. “Well, you called the right people,” she said. “We’ll come up with a quince that suits you perfectly.”

  BY THE TIME Alicia arrived back at the ranch, all of the warm and fuzzy feelings from her ride and heart-to-heart with Valeria had faded. She was moaning in pain, a picture of misery. Her pretty clothes were covered in dirt, she was a pool of sweat, and her face, torso, and arms were all a bright beet red.

  She was slumped in a La-Z-Boy in the great room, soaking her blistered feet in a bucket of cool water when the rest of her friends came back.

  While the other girls went to shower, Gaz, ever the gentleman, who perhaps felt a teeny-tiny bit guilty that he had shirked his party-planning duties, sat down on the arm of the chair and began applying aloe to Alicia’s burning limbs. “You know, Lici,” he said gently, “sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be so stubborn. If you had taken Valeria’s advice, you wouldn’t be looking and feeling like a fried tamale.”

  “Stop rubbing it in,” groaned Alicia. Gaz stood up.

  “No! I don’t mean stop rubbing in the aloe! What I mean is, I don’t need you to remind me that I acted like a know-it-all and an idiot. What I need you to do is to kiss me, before I start to cry.”

  Gaz leaned in. Minutes passed. Alicia forgot about the pain. Seemingly, they were trying for the world’s longest lip-lock when Marisol and Ranya interrupted their marathon make-out session.

  “Hey, Mom,” a now even more red faced Alicia said, after she and Gaz pulled apart.

  “Hey, Mrs. Cruz,” Gaz said, looking down.

  “Well, this is interesting,” Marisol said. “How long have you been wearing Riviera Pink lipstick, Gaz?”

  Startled, Gaz reached for a napkin and began to wipe his mouth.

  “You missed a spot on your cheek,” Marisol said as he turned a dark shade of crimson.

  Ranya and Marisol looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Ain’t young love grand?” Ranya said. Then she got serious. “Gaz, I have some good news for you. I was able to pull some strings and get you tickets to a couple of panels for South by Southwest.” She handed him a packet.

  “You’re kidding,” he said, staring at the large manila envelope as though it would disappear at any moment.

  “Not kidding,” Ranya said. “I know a guy who knows a guy. Besides, I listened to your CD last night. Alicia gave it to me to review for Valeria’s party. You’re good. We want to show all of you the best that Texas has to offer. And maybe you can show those conference folks what Miami has to offer.”

  Gaz stood up and gave her a giant hug. “You probably changed my life today,” he said solemnly.

  “Well, remember me when you’re famous,” she replied, waving good-bye as she and Marisol left the room.

  “Wow, that’s pretty cool,” Alicia said when they were gone. “Right?”

  Gaz didn’t answer. Instead, he ripped open the envelope, and then his mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, my God, Lici,” he said, quickly scanning the contents. “You should see the panels she’s gotten me into: Building a High Value Fan List Online; The Ins and Outs of Indie Touring; Music Publishing: Making Money While You Sleep.”

  “Making Money While You Sleep,” Alicia repeated. “That sounds good.”

  Gaz got to the last item in the packet and shook his head. “Wait. This can’t be right.”

  “What?” Alicia asked.

  “It says here that she’s got me a spot in the new-artist showcase. Hundreds of artists compete for each of the twenty-five three-minute slots. That showcase has been booked for over a year now.”

  “Well, whoever Ranya’s friend is, they definitely know the right people,” Alicia said.

  “The first panel starts in three hours,” Gaz said, getting up to call the ranch transportation crew. He stopped and looked back at his girlfriend. “Lici, are you okay with this? I know I need to get all the music together for Valeria’s party, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me. But I promise you, I’ll figure out a way to not fall down on the job.”

  “Promise?” asked Alicia.

  “I promise,” answered Gaz, giving her a hug and flashing an irresistible grin.

  “Then vaya con Dios, mi amor,” Alicia purred.

  “Primero,” he said, growing serious. “I just have to tell you thank you for being such an amazing girlfriend. You know how much my music means to me, and if it wasn’t for you, this amazing opportunity would never have come my way.”

  “Well, you know, I try,” Alicia said, kissing him again softly on the lips. “But right now you’ve got to go make music history, and I’ve got a quince to plan.”

  Throughout the van ride into downtown Austin, Gaz clutched the envelope with his conference passes so tightly that his knuckles were white. Despite the fact that it was a perfect spring day—balmy, breezy, and not too hot—he kept his window firmly shut, lest the envelope fly out of his hands right out the window, and with it all the dreams he had for his career.

  Luis, the driver, tried to engage him in conversation, asking him questions about Miami, the weather in Florida, gator sightings. But Gaz was too nervous to talk, and eventually Luis gave up. Gaz kept thinking about his late father. Felipe Colón had been a musician in Puerto Rico before he passed away from cancer. When he was a kid, Gaz loved to hear his father play at the small concert halls in San Juan. His music made people laugh with joy, dance in the streets, sing along, and sometimes even cry. Gaz hoped to be able to do the same thing one day.

  Finally, they arrived at the conference. Luis made his way through the crazy traffic and dropped Gaz off at the conference registration hall. “Hey, man,” Gaz said speaking for the first time. “Thanks for the ride. Sorry to be so distracted. I just have this feeling that everything I do or say today has the potential to make or break my career.”

  Luis smiled. “I get
it. South by Southwest. It’s a big deal. But try to relax; enjoy yourself. Let some of the good stuff come to you, or you’ll find yourself always chasing the next big thing. Adiós, chico, and buena suerte.”

  Luis drove off. For a moment, Gaz didn’t move. He just stood in front of the building, wishing his father were still alive to see him play, to see that even at sixteen, Gaz was taking the music seriously.

  Finally, he walked inside and over to the registration desk. After checking in, he hung his laminated credentials card around his neck and began to explore.

  His first panel of the day was called Songwriting 101 and featured names that the ordinary music public would never know—Edith Norell, Susanna Toobin, Shawn Brinks, and Hiro Utada. Even though their names weren’t well known, among them, the four songwriters had written sixteen number-one songs and won two dozen Grammys. Gaz remembered fondly how he and his brothers had played Shawn Brinks’s “Bump This. Jump This. Thump This” at their very first school talent show, in the sixth grade. They had been kind of pathetic, but also had been so excited to be up on a stage that it hadn’t even bothered them.

  Finding his way to the designated room, he took a seat in the back. While the panel members spoke, he took notes more fervently than he ever had at any class in school. At the end, when the moderator, Kenneth Sanchez, a popular Austin radio DJ, called for questions, Gaz willed his hand to rise, but couldn’t find the courage.

  However, when Kenneth called, “Last question!” not only did Gaz’s hand shoot in the air, but his whole body went with it.

  Kenneth laughed, and the whole room joined him. “The last question goes to Mr. Enthusiasm, sitting in the last row,” the DJ said.

  Gaz stood up. He cleared his throat nervously. “All of you have written songs that have touched literally millions of people. But to hear you talk today, each and every one of your songs is incredibly personal. How do you make your personal feelings matter to the world?” He was surprised to hear his voice sounding deep and confident when he spoke, even though he felt nervous inside.

  “Good question,” Kenneth said. “Who wants to answer?”

  Susanna Toobin lifted her microphone. “I’ll take this one.” She was a petite woman with long dark hair and blunt-cut bangs. Even though she hadn’t played a note, she sat cross-legged with a guitar on her lap, as if the inspiration to jam might hit at any time. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Gaspar,” he told her.

  She smiled. “Well, Gaspar, I love your question. As I mentioned before, I’m from Chicago, and for me one of the touchstones of my writing life is the great Chi-town playwright Lorraine Hansberry, who said—and I’m paraphrasing—‘to achieve the universal you must pay incredible attention to the specific.’ That’s the way to make the personal reach out and touch others. At least, I hope it is, or else I’m going to go out of business real fast.”

  The room was filled with chuckles. “Thank you,” Gaz said, softly, flushing because he was aware that so many of the eyes in the room were still on him.

  The moderator stood. “I think that’s a great note to end on,” he announced. “Please give our panelists a round of applause.”

  Gaz clapped loudly, and when the room was nearly empty, he finally picked up his backpack to leave. He was outside the seminar room fumbling for his schedule when a girl approached him.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Saniyah. And you’re Gaspar, right? What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said, blushing.

  Saniyah tilted her head and smiled. “I can handle ‘complicated.’”

  Gaz shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say next. The girl seemed to be flirting, and he wasn’t used to flirting—unless it was with Alicia. Saniyah was not especially tall, but with boots on she could nearly look Gaz directly in the eyes. She had olive skin, dark curly hair, and her lips were stained a shade of burgundy that made Gaz think of red wine and old-fashioned movie stars.

  “Good job in there,” she went on when he didn’t flirt back—or speak. “Your question really made an impression on Susanna Toobin and Kenneth Sanchez. I heard them talking about how it was one of the most insightful questions either of them had been asked since this conference began.”

  Gaz didn’t know what to say. How could such a thing be possible? He felt as though he were back in elementary school, when the kids would declare it Opposite Day. Girls who couldn’t stand you would tell you that they loved you. Guys who normally shunned you during gym invited you first to play on their team. You’d be feeling pretty good about yourself, and then they’d scream, “Opposite Day!” and everything would come crashing back down to crappy normal.

  Gaz couldn’t let himself believe it. “Really?” he finally said.

  “Really. They clearly thought you were the smartest guy in the room,” Saniyah said. “And you know, this business is all about relationships. You did give Susanna Toobin your business card before she left, right?”

  “Business card?” Gaz repeated.

  “Uh, duh. Please don’t tell me you came to South by Southwest without any business cards,” she said, as if the thought of it caused her real physical pain. “This is more than an industry conference, it’s a celestial event! The biggest names in media, music, film, and technology are all here, and you don’t have business cards?”

  Gaz fished around in his wallet. “I don’t have any for my music, but I do have this.” He pulled out a card. Saniyah scanned it quickly.

  AMIGAS INCORPORATED

  GAZ COLÓN

  DJ and Live Music

  Because your quinceañera is much more than a party

  “Amigas Incorporated,” Saniyah read, emphasizing the word amigas. “You are a man, aren’t you?”

  Gaz felt a familiar rush of annoyance. “I didn’t choose the name. It’s a quinceañera business I have in Miami with my friends.” Gaz knew that this would have been the perfect moment to bring up Alicia. All he had to say was, It’s a business I have with my girlfriend and her friends. But he was in a new city, at an amazing music conference, talking to an admittedly very pretty girl. He didn’t want to just be Gaz from Miami, who lived with his mother in a rich family’s guesthouse so he could be eligible to attend the elite public school nearby. He didn’t want to be Gaz, who worked double shifts at the Gap to help his family out and played quince gigs on the side to bring in extra cash. He wanted to be something more, something new, and being in Austin gave him the clean-slate feeling that he craved. He could tell Saniyah about Lici later.

  Saniyah handed the Amigas Inc. card back to him. “This isn’t going to cut it here at South by Southwest. Lucky for you, I have a friend who works at a local copy place. He can whip you up a hundred business cards in an hour.”

  She took out her cell phone and started dialing. Then she rattled off Gaz’s name, his cell phone number, and all the relevant details. Before she hung up, she said, “Thanks for this, Toby. I owe you one.”

  Turning back to Gaz, she said, “Business cards are in the hopper. Let’s talk sched. Where are you playing this week, Gaspar?”

  Saniyah was like a tornado. She just had swept in and was changing everything. Actually, Gaz thought, she was more like a fairy godmother—a really cute, funny, and young one. And he liked the way she used his full name. She made it sound so much better than his mother did when she was mad at him and screamed, “Gaspar Roberto Orlando Colón, clean up your room!”

  “I’ve got a slot in the new-artist showcase,” he said proudly.

  “Impressive. I couldn’t get in, and I’ve been working the conference angle for months.” Saniyah sighed. “But where else are you playing? You’ve got to try to get a gig locally. Restaurants. Barbecue joints. Open-mike nights. All the talent execs in town are going to be out eating and drinking. You’ve got to book some casual walk-in spots. Give somebody famous an opportunity to discover you.”

  Gaz’s head was spinning. There was so much to take in an
d so much he was clueless about. He had thought the panels would be enough, but obviously there was way more to the conference. “Wow,” he said, sighing. “I had no idea how little I knew. Thanks for looping me in. How can I pay you back?”

  Saniyah smiled. “Well, you can start by taking me to a late lunch. I’m starving.”

  THAT NIGHT, the Castillo family invited the Miami gang out to the Hacienda Cafe in San Marcos, one of the family’s favorite Hill Country spots.

  In the van on the way over, Valeria was quiet until Carmen asked her about their destination. At that, she perked up. “The Hill Country is famous for its rolling hills and miles and miles of wildflowers. Its been recognized by several of the world’s leading magazines as one of the ten best places ‘to live the simple life.’ And to top it all off, Willie Nelson sometimes hangs out there. How cool is that?”

  “How do you know all these things?” asked Alicia when Valeria paused to take a breath.

  “My daughter is a bit of a Texas history buff,” answered David. “If there’s anything you want to know about the Lone Star State, she’s your go-to girl.”

  Valeria blushed. “My dad’s exaggerating, of course, but what I do know about Texas is that the Hacienda has great eats and even greater line dancing. Their house band is one of the best Tejano groups in the city. I really think you’re going to like it.”

  Alicia grinned. “Sounds awesome. But I thought you hated dancing.”

  Valeria shrugged. “I hate to dance, but I love music, and I love to watch people dance. I just know my limits,” she explained. “Speaking of which, while I loved our ride this morning, I’m sorry you’re so sore.”

  “Sore” was an understatement. Alicia was sitting with an ice pack on each thigh. “I wouldn’t blame you if you played the I-Told-You-So card,” she replied.