Fifteen Candles (3 page)

“That's crazy; who knew Miami was so popular?” Sarita said.

“Not me,” Alicia said. “I grew up here, and I love it, but I tend to take it for granted.”

For the next few hours, Alicia and Sarita worked side by side in happy silence. Then Alicia realized that it was two in the afternoon and she hadn't had any lunch. “I'm starving!” she cried, glancing around the nearly empty office.

“Me, too,” Sarita said. “Let's go up to the cafeteria. We can grab something and bring it back to our desks. Lori won't mind.”

Just to be sure, before they went anywhere, Alicia made sure that Lori had a fresh cup of coffee, with hazelnut vanilla cream, and four sugars.

A few minutes later, they were back at their desks chowing down on City Hall burgers and Town Crier fries as they caught up on their personal e-mails. They both agreed that the Food Services attempt to give every item on the cafeteria menu a catchy name was a little corny.

Suddenly, Sarita let out a groan. Alicia looked up. “I've got a million things to do for my
quince
,” Sarita said. “My mom e-mails me about it every hour on the hour. Since we're new, we don't even know where to start. My uncle lives here; he's one of the mayor's aides, that's how I got this internship. But he's single, and he doesn't have kids, so he knows
nada
about
quinces
.”

Alicia smiled. This was something she could handle. “I could help you out if you needed it. I
am
something of a
quince
expert, you know.”

Sarita looked impressed. “Expert, huh? Did you have multiple
quinces
or something? I heard that girls down here are serious about their
quinceañeras
.”

“Actually, I took a trip abroad for my
quince
, but I've
been
to
hundreds
of them,” Alicia said.

Sarita raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That is a lot of friends.”

“Who said anything about friends?” Alicia cracked. “Maybe it's not hundreds, but believe me, I've been to a lot. So, when is your
quince
?”

“In a little over a month,” Sarita said.

Alicia tried not to fall off her very unergonomic office chair. “You're kidding, right?”

“Nope. Five weeks from Saturday. My mom's already invited all of our relatives in Atlanta, and they've booked their tickets. We just need to find a place.”

Alicia looked stricken. What had Sarita and her mother been thinking? There was planning to be done. Dresses to be bought. Dances to be learned. It would take months!

“Five weeks isn't enough time to plan a
quinceañera
,” Alicia said, trying to sound calm.

“Sure it is,” Sarita said. “We don't have a ton of money, and I'm not planning on anything fancy.”

Alicia breathed a sigh of relief. If small was the plan, maybe Sarita could pull it off. She'd honestly been afraid that her sudden panic was going to cause some very unsightly sweat marks on her seersucker jacket (which, to be perfectly honest, was her mother's seersucker jacket that she'd
sort
of borrowed). “So you're having a house party?” she asked.

Sarita shook her head. “No can do. Me and my mom are in a tiny condo on the beach, and we're expecting more than seventy-five people.”

Alicia pulled her dark hair up into a ponytail. It was time to get down to business. She liked Sarita, and moreover, she felt as though she could really help her.

She began with the basics. “Okay, you need a hall. So what's your theme?”

Sarita shrugged.

Then Alicia asked, “Well, what kind of dress are you going to wear?”

Sarita shrugged again.

“And your
quince
is only five weeks away?” Alicia said. “What are you thinking,
niña
?”

“I don't know. In Atlanta, none of my friends had a
quince
. That's why they're all excited to come down here for mine.”

Alicia nodded, but she couldn't help thinking that Sarita's friends were going to be sorely disappointed in a
quince
that had been put together with spit and Scotch tape in five weeks' time.

She took a deep breath. She wouldn't let that happen. “Your
quince
's going to be great,” she said, her voice full of determination. “And I'm going to help you.”

“Believe me,
chica
. I appreciate it,” Sarita said, jumping up. “But right now it's time for Lori's afternoon coffee, and trust me, we don't want the natives to get restless!”

LATER THAT
night, on Facebook, Alicia researched
quinceañera
planning online. She was shocked to see that the My
Quince
Sux group had 15,000 friends! It was full of girls whose
quinces
had caused them more drama than the antics of Britney, Paris, and the Gossip Girls combined. There were also ads for girls who were desperately seeking help in planning their Sweet Fifteen parties. It turned out that Sarita was far from being the only
quince
in distress. In the Miami group's page, Alicia found a
lot
of cries for help.

DESPERATELY SEEKING DJ AND DANCE CREW FOR SOUTH BEACH SWEET 15!


I love cumbria, hip-hop and reggaeton
pero
my
familia
doesn't have the Benjamins to get a big name group like the Barranquilla Boyz or Luis Boom. Newbie talent that can rock to a Latin beat would be fine with me. If you have any suggestions, please contact me
lo más pronto que posible! Gracias!


Hey, my
quince
is on November 10 and I have no clue how to do it. Can anyone recommend a step-by-step guide to hooking up a cool
quinceañera
? Please, I'm begging you! My mom has no idea either, 'cause she didn't do it for my sister and now I'm getting a double dose of her tacky ideas. What kind of other themes can I do besides the played out (and super childish) Cinderella? Sooooo boring and I hate pumpkins. Please help me ASAP.


Hey, I'm in trouble. My family thinks a Sweet 15 dress has gotta be pink! I HATE PINK except as a hair color. All the padrinos and padrinas are probably going to be dressed in pink too. The decorations, which my mama has already bought, are pink, and the cake she ordered is pink too. What do I do? Does anyone have any idea on how to save me from this cotton candy nightmare
quince
? THANK YOU IN ADVANCE!!!!


OK. Where to start? Here's my problem. I will be having my
quince años
in March. I already have chosen the color theme and dresses—ivory for the
damas
, with azure scarves hanging down the back, and for the
chambelanes
—ivory suits with azure hankies in the pocket and azure feathers in their fedora hats. Yes, people, the clothes at my
quince
will be banging! But aside from the outfits, I'm completely lost. My parents are divorced and I live with my mom. She's not Latin like my
papi
and until I brought it up, she'd never even heard of a
quinceañera
before (
fijase, chicas!
). Me and my
mamacita
need MAJOR help with EVERYTHING! (Except for the clothes, which, as I've mentioned, are bangin'!)


Alicia stayed up until two in the morning reading the message boards. By the time she went to sleep, she knew what she had to do. She was going to do
more
than just help Sarita pick a space for her
quince
. She and her girls, along with Gaz—and her brother Alex, if she could convince him—were going to take
quinceañeras
in Miami to a whole new level. She was going to start Amigas Incorporated, and it was going to be the hottest party-planning business in town.

The next morning, Alicia found Maribelle in the kitchen, making breakfast.

“
Buenos días
, Maribelle,” Alicia said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. The older woman was like a grandmother to her, especially since both of Alicia's
abuelas
had passed away before she was born.

Maribelle handed her a plate. “Banana pancakes, but I made yours special, with strawberries,” she said, in her warm, gently accented voice. “It's a beautiful day. You eat outside with your parents.”

“Gracias,”
Alicia said, taking the pancakes and OJ that Maribelle handed her.

“You're welcome,” Maribelle said.

“You're the best.” Alicia planted a
besito
on Maribelle's cheek.

Maribelle put one hand on her hip and gave Alicia a saucy look. “And you think I need you to tell me that?
Vaya
.”

Her parents were having breakfast by the pool. When she joined them, Enrique Cruz was reading the
Miami Herald
, and Alicia's mom, Marisol, was reading the
National Law
Journal
. They both put down their papers when they saw their daughter.

“So, ready for your second day at City Hall?” Enrique asked.

“I'm loving it,
Papi
,” Alicia said. “The Office of Film and Cultural Affairs said they have enough paperwork to keep me busy all summer long, and I really like the other high school intern. As a matter of fact, I'm helping her with a special project.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs. Cruz said, raising an eyebrow. “What's that?”

“I'm helping her plan her
quince
,” Alicia said, nabbing a piece of her mom's toast. “I'm thinking if it's a hit, then me and my friends could even make it a business—a
quinceañera
-planning business.”

Her parents exchanged glances. Alicia knew why. This wasn't the first business that she had started and, in short order, abandoned. In sixth grade, she had started a dog-walking service and worked her way up to walking five dogs every day, after school. Two weeks later, she'd quit, once it had become clear that the logistical nightmare of walking five dogs at once was nothing compared to the smell bomb of cleaning up five dogs' poop.

In eighth grade, Alicia and Carmen had started a babysitting business. But two weeks and twenty-four explosive diapers later, they'd come to the same conclusion—babysitting, like dog walking, involved a whole lot of poop for not a lot of cash.

Last summer they'd spent some time working on a vintage scarf business; they were going to sell the scarves, with Jamie's help, on eBay. But after a month of scouring all of Miami's best vintage shops and finding a really cool lamp for Alicia's room and a great dressmaker's dummy for Carmen's designs, they'd decided not to go into the vintage scarf business after all.

But all that was in the past. Alicia was convinced that the idea of a
quince
-planning business was, hands down, the best business plan that she had ever had.

Her mother smiled gently. “You know, you have a tendency to take on a lot, Lici,” she said. “This internship in the mayor's office will look
so
good on your college application. I would hate to see anything jeopardize it.”

“You know what
quinces
are like in Miami,” Alicia said. “If my business is so successful that I have to give up my internship to run it, then I've got to do what I've got to do.”

Alicia's mom rolled her eyes. It was just like Alicia to go from zero to sixty when dreaming up new ideas. “Oh, yes, because every Ivy League college in the country is going to turn down a mayoral intern in favor of a girl who runs a party-planning business. Those party-planners always make dean's list and are an asset to every intellectual community.”

Alicia couldn't believe what her mother was saying. She had
always
been an A student, except for math, and her mom knew just how hard Alicia had worked to eke out a B in honors calculus. But her mom was clearly in rare form today, and when Mrs. Cruz was like that, arguing with her was nothing more than a colossal waste of time. “You will give one hundred and ten percent to this internship and you will thank your lucky stars that your father was able to create such a wonderful opportunity for you at the eleventh hour,” Mrs. Cruz added. “Help your friend out if you must, but you will not waste your entire summer planning parties.”

“A
quinceañera
is more than a party,
Mami
,” Alicia said. “It's a sacred ritual. It's a way to connect to our community and our heritage.”

Her mom considered this, and when she spoke, her voice was slightly less severe. “It's a sacred ritual for
some
people,” she said matter-of-factly. “It's a way for
some
people to connect to their community and to their heritage.”

Alicia knew that her mother was referring to the class differences that were demonstrated with respect to
quinces
. Among her parents' friends, most of the girls—following their parents' desire to be more American—didn't have
quinceañeras
. They had Sweet Sixteen parties, or their parents offered them a trip—to Buenos Aires or Madrid or Punta Cana—for their fifteenth birthday instead.
Quinces
were most popular among Latinas who lived in Latino neighborhoods and retained closer ties to their
patria
than Alicia's parents did. When Alicia had turned fifteen, six months before, she had taken the trip her parents offered her and spent ten days in Barcelona, with a side trip to Bilbao.

“Just because your friends don't have
quinces
for their daughters doesn't mean it's not an important part of
nuestra
cultura
,” Alicia said.

Alicia's mom sighed loudly. “I think you are just trying to make me angry.”

“
Quinces
are important, Mom!” Alicia cried.

“Alicia, watch your tone,” her father said gently.

“No, they're impractical, and they're old-fashioned,” Alicia's mother retorted. “Why are these parents spending all of this money on a party, when they could be using that money for college tuition? You didn't even want a
quince
. Now you want to spend your summer planning other people's
quinceañeras
?
Es una locura!
”

“Marisol, this is not a decision you are making as a judge on a bench,” Mr. Cruz said. “I, for one, think it's great that Alicia is honoring her culture.”

“I would much prefer it if Alicia would honor her culture with something more substantive than big-budget parties that put working-class people more into debt.” And on that note, Marisol got up and walked into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Alicia looked at her father.

“Give her time,” Mr. Cruz said. “She'll come around.” He stood up, gave Alicia a squeeze on the shoulder, and followed his wife inside.

Sitting alone, Alicia wanted to cry. It was as though she and her mother were fighting about something much bigger than whether she was going to start a
quince
business. Her mother was wrong. She could do both jobs, and
both
were important.

That night, she didn't see her parents at dinner, as they had season tickets to the Miami Ballet. And the next morning, Alicia woke to find her father having breakfast alone.

“Good morning. Where's
Mami
?” she asked, kissing her father on the forehead. She loved his dark, curly hair with its silky threads of gray.

“She's already left for work,” her father said, putting down his newspaper.

“I get it. She's mad at me, so she went in early,” Alicia said, helping herself to the
fritura
that was on the table. Maribelle had outdone herself, and the Mexican ceramic serving plate was piled high with all of Alicia's favorite breakfast treats: empanadas,
carimonolas
,
croquetas
.

“Believe it or not, Alicia,” her father said in a teasing tone, “the world doesn't revolve around you. Your mother had a lot of paperwork to catch up on at her office.”

“Maybe so, but she's also furious at me,” Alicia said. “It's not my fault if she wants to be a
gringa
American and I want to form a business to help my Latina sisters.”

Enrique Cruz raised an eyebrow. “So that's what your business is about? Your Latina sisters?”

“Sorta,” Alicia mumbled, her mouth full of food.

“I see,” Enrique said.

“That's what
Mami
doesn't understand,” Alicia went on. “If she knew anything about
quinces
, she wouldn't stand in the way of my business.”

Alicia's father looked at his only daughter and wondered if she had any idea how much she and her mother were alike. Then he did what he did best: he played peacekeeper.

“Alicia, do you know that when your mother was your age, she wanted nothing more in the world than to have a
quinceañera
party?” Enrique asked.

“No,” Alicia said with a sigh. She knew that tone of voice. It meant her father was going to tell her one of those stories about their immigrant background that would make her feel totally bad for her mom—and guilty for behaving, ever so slightly, like a spoiled brat.

“Well, she did,” Enrique said. “You
do
know that your grandfather, Señor Toto, owned a shoe shop on Palmera Avenue?”

Alicia nodded. “The shoe repair shop.”

Enrique shook his head. “That's the thing. Your grandfather did much more than repair shoes. He made custom shoes for the Miami Opera, for the mayor, and he did a brisk business in
quinceañera
heels. You've been to enough
quinces
to know the significance of the shoes in the
quince
ceremony.”