Fifteen Candles (10 page)

ALICIA WENT
back into the house, determined to see her vision through. She didn't need Jamie's diva antics anyway. She would just do Sarita's hair and makeup.

A few minutes later, Sarita arrived. She looked superadorable in a white tank, a long blue and gray boyfriend cardigan, and denim shorts.

“Hey!” Alicia gave her an
abrazo
.

“Sorry, I'm a few minutes late,” Sarita apologized. “The bus took forever!”

“Don't even worry about it,” Alicia said. “Come on in.”

“Tough break about you being fired like that,” Sarita said.

“I'm not worried,” Alicia said. “Now I can give your
quince
añera
my full attention.”

“But I thought the internship was the cornerstone of your master plan to get into Harvard and conquer the world.”

Alicia cringed. That
had
been the plan. But things had changed. She was only a sophomore. If she built Amigas Inc. into the top
quince
-planning business in southern Florida, not only would Harvard have to bow down, but she would be able to pay her own tuition. She smiled for a moment, imagining the scene: her senior year; the day they'd all been waiting for. The big fat envelope from Harvard would arrive. It would say—to paraphrase—
Congratulations, Alicia Cruz,
you are the bomb. We'd be honored to have a fab Latina sister
like you attend our school. In fact, we'd like to do something un
precedented and enroll all of the founding members of Amigas
Incorporated.

Alicia smiled, lost in the fantasy. Her mother would faint, of course. Her father would apologize for firing her from her very first internship. Then, after her prom and her graduation, Alicia's parents would drive her to Cambridge—a long road trip from Miami, but her parents would need the time to tell her how much they'd underestimated her. When she arrived at Harvard, after she'd gotten unpacked at her dorm, said hello to her roommate, and gone to the business office to settle that year's tuition, her parents would take out their checkbook. But Alicia, the most successful teen entrepreneur that South Beach had ever seen, would say, “No worries, Mom and Dad, I've got this.” And she would pay her own tuition, because Amigas Inc. would be such a radically successful business. And it all started way back when, with Sarita's
quince
and an unfortunate incident that they'd all have preferred to forget.

Alicia didn't realize she'd been standing in the hallway, staring at the David Siqueiros lithograph hanging on the wall, until…

“Are you okay,
niña
?” Sarita asked. “It's been a rough day; I get it. I can come back tomorrow.”

Alicia smiled, trying now to fake the confidence that had been stripped away from her along with her internship. “No way, I'm cool,” she said.

They walked into the kitchen, where Maribelle was preparing dinner.

“Are you two hungry?” Maribelle asked.

“I'm good,” Alicia said.

“Me, too,” said Sarita.

Maribelle raised an eyebrow. “Don't get too skinny. Men don't like it. Real
chicas
have curves!”

Alicia smiled. “We know, we know.” She turned to Sarita and asked, “Do you want some of Maribelle's famous cucumber lemonade?”

“Agua de pepino?”
Sarita asked.

Maribelle beamed. There were few things she loved more than teenagers who knew their
cultura
.

“Ay, qué bueno,”
Maribelle said.
“Tú lo conoces?”

“Claro!”
Sarita answered.
“Mi abuela lo hacen todo el
tiempo en Loreto.”

Alicia scowled playfully. “Enough already! Come on, Sarita, let's go to my room,” she said. “We've got a ton to do.”

“Te veo,”
Sarita told Maribelle, hanging on to her lemonade as Alicia dragged her away.

“Buena suerte!”
Maribelle said with a wink.

“This is, like, the coolest room ever,” Sarita said, when they got upstairs. She was looking through the bay window toward the pool.

Part of Alicia's fifteenth-birthday gift was the chance to redecorate her room any way she wanted. She had gone with a black-and-white theme. The ceiling and fixtures were all a creamy alabaster white. The walls were charcoal blackboard paint, which Alicia had covered in inspirational sayings. The bedspread was a black-and-white zebra print that matched the ottoman in front of Alicia's dressing table. Two chairs, one black and one white, of course, faced the window, which overlooked the pool. Alicia had to admit it was pretty fierce.

“Thanks,” she said. “Why don't you sit at the dressing table and we'll get started on your hair?”

“Aren't we going to wait for Jamie?” Sarita asked, looking a little concerned.

“Um, something came up with Jamie,” Alicia said nervously. “I'm going to be doing your hair.”

“But I liked the style that Jamie had come up with,” Sarita said. “She's even going to loan me her favorite pair of Me&Ro earrings, that she got in the East Village.”

“This'll be better,” Alicia said. “And you don't need to go to New York to get Me&Ro; we can order them online.”

“It's just that Jamie has been so sweet to me,” Sarita said.

“No te preocupes,”
she said. “I'm going to hook you up.”

Sarita shrugged. “I guess that's okay. Your hair always looks supercute.”

“Thanks,” Alicia said. She was wearing her hair in a side ponytail that day, with loose curls that she'd hot-rollered earlier that morning.

“So, can I look at some pictures?” Sarita asked. “Jamie said she was going to make me a portfolio of styles to pick from.”

“Well, I've got a really cool idea,” Alicia said. “But I want it to be a surprise.”

“If you say so,” Sarita said.

Alicia put some Shakira on the CD player and faced the dressing-table chair away from the mirror. She opened a drawer and took out her teasing comb, a bag of plastic clips, and a pair of scissors.

She combed Sarita's curly hair back, then divided it into sections with clips. Holding one section up, she said, “Are you ready?”

“Born ready,” Sarita answered.

Alicia cut the first piece. And another. And another. She kept snipping until there was no more hair to snip in that section. Sarita, who had been idly flipping through a magazine, looked up. She looked at the cut hair on her shoulders and the ground. Grabbing a hand mirror off Alicia's dressing table, she held it up so that she could see the back of her head. And then, she screamed.

“You cut off all my hair! You cut off all my hair!”

“I told you to trust me!” Alicia cried.

“To style my hair, not destroy it!” Sarita started sobbing. She rubbed her hand over the scratchy exposed piece of scalp. “Now I've got a bald spot. My
quince
is less than two weeks away, and I'm going to look like a total freak!”

“Not if you let me finish the cut,” Alicia said.

“Finish the cut? Are you
absolutamente, completamente
loca
?” Sarita cried through her tears. “This is the worst day of my life!”

She stood up and raced out of the room.

Alicia ran after her. “Don't you even want to see the inspiration photo? I was going to give you a Natalie Portman cut for your
quince
.”

Sarita stopped. “Natalie Portman?”

“She's cool, right?” Alicia looked hopefully at the other girl. “Totally modern, totally classic style, right?”

Sarita was still crying, but her sobs had dwindled to a whimper.

“I'm listening,” she said.

“I'll be right back with the photo.”

Alicia ran back to her room and grabbed the picture.

“See?” she said, coming back. She handed the picture to Sarita. “It totally goes with your
quince
theme.”

“Bald?” Sarita said. “
V for Vendetta
bald? Did you think I was going to go to my
quince
with no hair? I
love
my hair! I want to look beautiful at my party, not like some science-fiction character.”

“You asked me to make you a cool
quince
,” Alicia insisted. “That's all I was doing.”

“That's right,” Sarita said. “A cool
quince
. Not some sort of freak show. You're crazy.
Eres loca, loca, loca
.”

Sarita started crying again. “This is the worst day of my life,” she repeated. Then she raced down the hallway and into the kitchen. Pausing, she turned and made herself clearer. “No, the worst day of my life was when I met you.
Loca, loca,
loca
.”

Alicia shuddered as Sarita slammed the front door.

Maribelle, who had been sautéing chicken for the arroz con pollo, turned the burner down on the stove.

“What's wrong,
mi amor
?” she asked.

Alicia sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. Before she could get the words out of her mouth, she felt her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, let's see,” she said. “My dad fired me from my internship. The Amigas' first client just deserted us. And, oh, yeah, all my friends hate me. All I was trying to do was help people. Sarita needed a fabulous
quince
on a budget. Gaz wanted to work on his music. Carmen wanted to show off her designs. Jamie wanted to launch her career as a stylist. At least I
thought
they did. I
know
I wanted to start a business. I thought I could kill all of these birds with one stone. Instead, I've just ruined everything.”

Maribelle rubbed Alicia's shoulders and gave her a big
abrazo
. “When everything goes wrong, there is only one thing to do.”

“What's that?” Alicia said.

“Make it right,” Maribelle said.

Alicia sighed. “That's easier said than done.”

“Come on,” Maribelle said, reaching into a kitchen drawer for pen and paper. “You're a smart girl, and I am a very smart woman. Together, we'll figure this out.”

She handed the pen and purple-lined notepad to Alicia. “Let's make a list.”

“I don't think it'll help,” Alicia said, grumpily.

“Well, it couldn't hurt,” Maribelle said. “What would you need to do to fix things?”

Alicia stared at the blank notebook page. Across the top, she wrote:

How to Fix My Life


1. Change my name.


2. Move to Alaska.


She handed the list to Maribelle. “Done,” she said.

Maribelle smiled.
“No seas tonta,”
she said, handing the pad back to Alicia. “Try again. What can you do to patch things up with everybody? Take it one person at a time.”

Alicia took the pen and began to write. She was silent for a very long time. Maribelle went back to her cooking, but she watched as Alicia wrote things down, tore the page out, crumpled it up, and began again. Alicia threw out page after page. She drank five glasses of cucumber lemonade. She went to the bathroom. Not once did she say a word to Maribelle. She started writing again and, a while later, looked up and said, “I think I'm done.”

She handed Maribelle her list.

How to Make Things Right, by Alicia Cruz


1. Apologize to Daddy and ask him for a second chance with my internship.

2. Work very hard at City Hall. Do not make quince calls or do quince business at the job.

3. Apologize to Sarita.

4. Stop micro-managing Carmen, Gaz, and Jamie.


“This is a
very
good list,” Maribelle said.

“What if it doesn't work?” Alicia asked.

“When you follow your
corazón
,” Maribelle said, giving Alicia a
besito
on the forehead, “things always work out.”

THAT NIGHT, ALICIA'S
parents arrived home together—and in silence. Maribelle, aware that Alicia needed all the help she could get, had scrapped that evening's dinner plan of arroz con pollo and had instead driven to Whole Foods to shop for a meal that would put Alicia's dad—and mom—in the mood for forgiveness. The chicken dish she had been preparing would keep, but that night they would dine on saffron rice,
tostones
, ripe avocado sprinkled with Hawaiian pink sea salt, and plantain-encrusted snapper. Upon hearing her parents' car in the driveway, Alicia reached into the freezer for two ice-cold glasses of Maribelle's special
mojitos
.

She waited and watched as her mother kicked off her eggplant purple Manolo mules and her father slung his suit jacket over the dining room chair. Following her parents into the family room, she handed them each a drink. They both said a quiet
gracias
, but Alicia could tell that their moods were as frosty as the
mojitos
.

“Dad, I'm so sorry,” she began. “If you'll just give me a chance—”

Enrique Cruz looked at his wife. “Please tell her not to speak to me right now.”

Alicia's mother sighed deeply, took a sip of her
mojito
, and said, “Your father says…”

Alicia couldn't believe it. They were acting as immature as kids at her school. “I heard him,” she said, sulkily. She walked back into the kitchen, where Maribelle was slicing an avocado into mini works of art.

“They're never going to forgive me,” Alicia moaned. “No matter what I do, they're going to be mad.”

Maribelle put down the knife and considered Alicia, her dark curls, her sad brown eyes, her long lashes wet with tears. She had no children of her own, but she had Alicia and Alex. Loving them, raising them, had been the best part of her job.

“You're growing up, and you have to learn how to take responsibility for doing wrong,” Maribelle finally said. “‘Sorry' is not always going to make things go away like
that
.” She snapped her fingers.

“But you said that all I had to do is follow my heart and make things right.” Alicia knew that she was whining. But she was starting to get frustrated.

“I never said it would be easy,” Maribelle said.

“So, what do I do?” Alicia asked, genuinely confused.

“Stay humble, pay attention, apologize as soon as your
papi
gives you the chance,” Maribelle said.

“And if that doesn't work?” Alicia said.

“It will work,” Maribelle assured her.
“Ten confienza.”

Maribelle had finished her handiwork on the avocado and, as they had done a hundred times before, she and Alicia began to set the table.

“You know, I'm not entirely sure that it was a good idea for you to skip your
quinceañera
,” Maribelle said.

“I didn't skip it, I just chose to to take a cool trip instead of having a corny Cinderella theme party and a big poufy dress.”

“But being a
quince
is more than the party and the big dress,” the older woman said. “Planning the party gives you time to consider the kind of woman you want to be and how you hope to present yourself to the world. I'm not sure you get the same experience from buying plane tickets online.”

“I didn't even buy the tickets. My mom did.”

“My point, exactly,” Maribelle said. “When you're standing at the altar in front of your family and friends, there's no way to just read those vows without some of it sinking in.”

Alicia put down the stack of plates she was holding. “Wait a second, Maribelle. Did you have a
quinceañera
?”

Maribelle put a hand on her hip and gave Alicia a saucy look. “Of course I did,” she said. “You and your friends did not invent
quinceañeras
, you know.”

Alicia was dumbfounded. “But you never told me that before.”

“I'm a grown woman, and I've had a very full life,” Maribelle said. “There are many things I haven't told you.”

“Will you show me your
quince
pictures?” Alicia asked.

“Maybe,” Maribelle said.

“And who was your lead
chambelane
?”

“The man who would become my first husband,” Maribelle said, with a wink.

“First husband!” Alicia squealed. “I didn't know you had more than one!”

“As I said, there's a lot you don't know,
preciosa
,” Maribelle said.

Alicia hugged her, grateful to have Maribelle as her substitute
abuela
, thankful that for at least a few minutes, she had managed to forget exactly how much trouble she was in and how scared she was that she might not get out of it.

Luckily, the forgiveness dinner seemed to have the desired effect. Her father spoke only to her mother and Alex through most of the meal. But Alicia could see that his shoulders were not as hunched, and the furrow in his brow was softening. Finally, when Maribelle emerged from the kitchen with dessert, lavender crème brûlée, Alicia summoned enough confidence to take her chance.

“Dad, can I say something?” she asked.

Her father's expression was stony, but he nodded. “Fine, say something.”

“I messed up big-time,” Alicia said. “You gave me a really great opportunity, and I took it for granted. I became completely obsessed with Sarita's
quince
and the business, and the way that I behaved at the office didn't show how proud I am of you and being your daughter.”

Both of Alicia's parents looked at her with more than a little surprise. Her mother spoke first.

“Well, Alicia,” she said, “while I don't condone your behavior, I have to say, I'm very impressed with the way you are taking responsibility for your actions.”

“Yeah, who's your speechwriter, Squeak?” Alex asked, using the old nickname from the time when Alicia was a baby and her first attempts at talking came out as a series of high-pitched squeaks. Hardly anyone ever called her that anymore, except for members of her extended family who hadn't seen her in years—and Alex, when he wanted to give her a hard time.

Alicia ignored her brother and tried to focus on what Maribelle had said about becoming a young woman and how you wanted to present yourself to the world. Maybe she had missed out on more than she'd realized by not having a
quince
. But she was going to be fifteen for five more months; nothing was stopping her from making every last moment of that year count.

“Dad,” she said. “Is there any way you can get me another shot at that internship? If not this summer, then maybe for the fall?”

Her father paused. “Actually,” he finally said, “I did not get a chance to speak to Lori today, so they haven't made your quitting official yet.”

“Dad, I didn't quit,” she said softly. “Lori fired me. And you let her.”

Her father showed a hint of a smile for the first time all evening. “That's because you had it coming! Making calls about
quince
shoes in my office! Dance lessons in City Hall!”

Alicia could feel her heart beating faster. Maybe Maribelle was right—maybe she could fix the situation.

“Actually, I was—” Alicia started to explain, but Maribelle was standing behind her parents, motioning for her to zip it.

“So, Dad, will you rehire me?”

“Well…okay. One more chance,” he said. “We'll consider it a trial period.”

“That's all I need,” Alicia said.

The next morning, Alicia set her alarm clock for five a.m. She'd laid out her clothes the night before—a crisp white button-down shirt with three-quarter-inch sleeves and a red and white toile skirt that Jamie had scored for her on eBay. She didn't know how Jamie had found the vintage items, but it had been a gift. Anytime Alicia went to the Salvation Army or on eBay, all she ever found was junk. She got dressed quickly and didn't bother to blow-dry her hair. She couldn't risk waking her parents up with the noise. Then she grabbed a can of mango juice and a banana and dashed off to make the bus.

By the time her father arrived at the office, she'd done a week's worth of filing, restocked all of his dwindling office supplies, read through ten proposals for video shoots, and signed his name on 150 form letters to constituents. She'd even had time to pick him up a doppio espresso at Starbucks.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“I got in early,” she said proudly.

“Well, you've certainly gotten a lot done,” he said. “But Lici, let me tell you right now. If tomorrow you're back to your same old ways, I'm going to be very disappointed.”

Alicia took a deep breath. “The last thing in the world I want to do is disappoint you, Dad.” And although she knew it wasn't standard internship behavior, she gave her father a hug.

Later that afternoon, her internship duties completed, Alicia made her way to the bus stop. She had her phone in her hand and was about to call Carmen to begin her apologies. Suddenly it rang. Looking down at the screen, she smiled. It was Carmen.

“C., I'm so sorry I went all
quince
-crazy,” Alicia said before her friend could even say hello.

“No worries,” Carmen said. “I've already forgiven you. I figured it was just temporary insanity.”

“Something like that,” Alicia said, smiling.

“Guess where I am?” Carmen asked.

“No idea,” Alicia said.

“Outside the DiaNoches boutique,” Carmen said. At least once a month, Carmen visited all the high-end boutiques in town and took notes about the latest trends in designer clothing. “And Sarita's inside. It looks like she's being brainwashed by some fembot salesgirl.”

“Don't move,” Alicia said. “I'm on my way.”

Half an hour later, Alicia and Carmen walked into DiaNoches. Alicia was glad that she had on her internship clothes; they made her feel—and, she hoped, look—more businesslike.

Sarita was standing on the runway, where the owners sometimes staged fashion shows. She was wearing a truly hideous poufy teal green dress that made her look like a mermaid. She was also wearing a blond wig. The end result? She looked
busted
.

“Why is Sarita wearing a wig?” Carmen whispered.

“Long story,” Alicia whispered back.

Just then, Sarita turned. Seeing Alicia, her face filled with fury. “What are you doing here?” she screamed. “Did you come to cut off the rest of my hair?”

“You cut her hair?” Carmen asked. She wasn't whispering this time.

“Yes, she scalped me!” Sarita said, ripping off the wig. “She made me bald for my
quinceañera
.
Esta tipa es loca. ¡Nunca en
mi vida he encontrado una chica tan exigente y mandona!
”

Carmen was still dumbfounded. “You
cut
her hair?” she repeated.

“I can explain that,” Alicia muttered, mortified anew by her own
quince
-zilla behavior.

“What were you thinking?” Carmen gasped.

Of all the things that had gone wrong in the past forty-eight hours, more than anything, Alicia wished she could have made that particular incident go away.

“I was going for Natalie Portman in
V for Vendetta
,” she whispered to Carmen.

The salesgirls were all cracking up. “You cut this poor
chica
's hair,” one of them, named Karina, cackled.

Alicia thought she was going to cry. Nobody seemed to understand—she had just been trying to help Sarita! “I didn't shave her head,” she mumbled. “I just snipped it with the scissors.”

“‘Snipped it'!” Sarita said, pointing to the bald spot.
“Fíjase. Mira lo que tú has hecho. ¡Espero todo mi vida por esta
día, mi quince, y tú me cortas el pelo!”

Suddenly something inside Alicia clicked, and she found her
confienza
. She needed to stand up for what she knew was right.

“Sarita, look in the mirror,” Alicia said. “Is that the supersmart, supercute chicana who wants to pilot spaceships one day? This mermaid thing isn't you. I know I went off the deep end for a minute. But I promise you that if you give Amigas Inc. another chance, if you give
me
another chance, I will listen more than I talk. And we—me, Jamie, Carmen, and Gaz—will work night and day to give you the
quince
of your dreams.”

Sarita turned to look at herself in the mirror.

Alicia walked up to the runway. “The
quince
of
your
dreams,” she repeated. “Not
my
dreams.”

Sarita did not look at Alicia. Instead, she stepped down from the raised stage and walked up to Karina.

“Thanks for everything,” she said. “But she's right, this isn't me.”

“Let's try another dress,” Karina suggested.

“It's not the dress.”

“You don't like the Little Mermaid theme,” Karina said. “I'm cool with that. We can do something different. ‘Pirates of the Caribbean' or ‘Aladdin.'”