Fifteen Candles (4 page)

Of course Alicia knew. The ceremony of changing from flats into high heels signified a girl's walk into womanhood. But her grandfather making
quinceañera
heels? And shoes for the opera? Her father had to be making this up.

“If
Abuelo
Toto was such a hotshot shoemaker, then how come he wasn't rich? And how come
Mami
couldn't have a
quince
if she wanted one?” Alicia asked.

“
Niña
,” Enrique said, reaching out to squeeze his daughter's shoulder, “your grandfather was not Bill Gates. Making shoes is not like making computers. A custom-made shoe takes a very long time to create. The profit margin is very small. He did make a good living, but he poured it all into the education of his children. It takes a lot to send five kids to Catholic school and then to college, especially when your eldest daughter has got her heart set on a school like Harvard.”

Alicia put her hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “Okay, you win. I am officially a horrible, ungrateful American daughter and I will happily focus all my energy on my
unpaid
internship at City Hall. I mean, who wants to own her own business? Who wants to make money? Not me. That sounds awful. I will do my penance as a good Latina daughter.”

Her father feigned surprise; his mischievous smile reminded Alicia of Antonio Banderas in the old Zorro movies.

“Did I make you feel guilty?” he asked sweetly. “That wasn't my intention.”

He stood up from the breakfast table and picked up his paper and his book, a biography of Thomas Jefferson. Her father
loved
biographies.

“Don't give up on your idea yet, Lici,” he said. “In the art of negotiation, there are always three ways of looking at an argument: your way, my way, and the third way.”

“What does that even mean?” Alicia asked.

“The third way is the way of compromise,” her father said, as he headed toward the garage.

Alicia stifled a groan. She hated word games. But one thing was for sure—no matter what she'd just told her dad, she would find a way to make Amigas Inc. work…
and
get her parents' approval. It might just take some time.

But before she could prove herself right, she had to actually
start
the business. To make that happen, she needed her peeps.

THAT DAY
at work, Alicia called her friends and asked if they wanted to come over for lunch on Saturday. She quickly explained about Sarita, then said they'd talk more when they met. It was not a hard sell. All of them liked to hang out at Casa Cruz, and not just because Alicia had a pool and Jacuzzi. The Key West–style house on Espanola Drive was beautiful without being flashy, like the other opulent homes in the neighborhood. There were two coral stone fireplaces, so during hurricane season, when it rained every other day, Alicia and her friends hung out in front of them, playing board games and chilling out. There was an exercise room with a huge flat-screen TV, a treadmill, an elliptical machine, free weights, and a Wii Fit. There was, of course, the pool. But the real reason that Alicia's house was the number one hangout was Maribelle.

Maribelle always kept the fridge fully stocked, and she seemed to delight in feeding Alicia and her friends. Eating at Alicia's was like going to a restaurant. All you had to do was go into the kitchen, give Maribelle a hug, and tell her what you wanted. Pizza with barbecue chicken? Coming right up. Puerto Rican
pasteles
with pork, or pressed Cuban sandwiches with ham and cheese?
Claro que sí.
Vanilla ice cream with homemade dulce de leche?
No problema.

Even though she still felt guilty that her mom wasn't 100 percent behind it—she
had
said she could try if it didn't take away from the internship—Alicia couldn't wait to tell her friends about the Amigas plan. There were lots of
quince
services in Miami—caterers, photographers, dress shops, and party-planners—but Alicia felt as if their business would have an edge. The message boards on Facebook made one thing perfectly clear: most adults had no idea what girls really wanted. Alicia knew that she, Carmen, Jamie, and Gaz could do what old-school
quince
pros couldn't: something new, something fresh, and something fabulous.

By noon on Saturday, when Carmen, Jamie, and Gaz arrived, Alicia was bursting at the seams. They'd barely walked through the door and gathered in the Florida room, the bright indoor patio that overlooked the pool, when Alicia passed out the business plan she'd spent all week working on.

“So, I take it you've come up with an idea for where that girl Sarita can have her
quince
?” Jamie said. Alicia hadn't given them very many details.

“Even better,” Alicia said, handing out the packets she'd photocopied at the office, using the code that Lori had warned her not to use for personal jobs.

“Wow, you really put some time into this, Lici,” Carmen said, looking over the stapled packet.

“Well,” Alicia said, “I was online the other night until two o'clock in the morning. There are hundreds—scratch that—thousands of girls just like Sarita, who want to have a fabulous
quince
and don't know how to do it. They need help with everything from negotiating with hopeless moms and pushy
tias
to picking out their dress, their music, and their theme. We are going to help them.
We're
starting a
quince
business!”

Gaz smiled, causing Alicia's heart to thump. He looked as if the idea were something he actually could get into. “This could be a great chance for my band to pick up some more gigs.” He and his brothers had a Latin rock band called La Dulcinea, but it hadn't gone anywhere so far. It was more than a little tough to break into the Miami music scene, since the clubs were constantly booked with the biggest bands from Spain and Latin America.

“You have me down as the designer of all the
quince
dresses,” Carmen said, looking at her packet. “I can't believe I never thought of that before! Those dresses cost a fortune in the stores. Even if I offer a supersteep discounted rate, I could still rake in the bucks.”

“What about me?” Jamie asked. “Where do I fit in?” She was wearing a red, yellow, and green tie-dyed T-shirt, a long denim skirt, and a Rasta cap. Alicia couldn't help thinking that only Jamie could pull off an outfit like that. If Alicia had worn a skirt below her knees, she'd have looked like a crazy grandmother.

“Image consultant, what else?” Alicia replied. “You're in charge of everything from hair and makeup to invitations and thank-you notes.”

In addition to putting together the most stylish outfits, Jamie was a whiz with Photoshop. She made everything from cool birthday and Christmas cards to photo collages that she would then have printed on canvas.

“Your brother could do the sets or any decorations,” Gaz offered.

“
That
is a genius idea,” Alicia said. “I hadn't even thought of that. I mean, I thought we might need his help. Alex is taking a summer engineering course at the University of Miami, but that's only three days a week.”

They were all so excited about the idea that they didn't notice that Maribelle was standing at the doorway.

“Knock-knock,” she said. “Anybody hungry?”

“Oh, yeah!” Gaz called out. “What's for lunch?”

Maribelle put down a humongous tray. “Let's see, I've got ceviche,
tostones
, guacamole, tortilla chips, and I'll be right back with a pitcher of pomegranate punch.”

“You are like a goddess to me,” Alicia said, digging in.

“Me, too,” Jamie added, reaching for the ceviche.

“Me, three,” Carmen said, going for the guac.

Gaz stood up and walked over to Maribelle, who was so petite her head barely came up to his shoulders.

“
Eres un angel
, Maribelle,” Gaz said.
“Cásate conmigo y
vamos a mi isla y vivimos todos nuestros días en felicidad.”

“Stop showing off with the Spanish,” Alicia said. “I didn't get all of it, but I know that Maribelle does not want to marry you.”

Maribelle just giggled and hit Gaz on the shoulder.
“Eres
malo.”

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of contented chewing and plates being passed back and forth as everyone devoured the feast that Maribelle had prepared. Alicia broke the silence. “There is
one
little problem with my plan, guys.”

“What's that?” Carmen asked, her long legs stretched so far under the coffee table that her electric blue toenails could be seen sparkling all the way on the other side.

“My mom and dad are worrying that the
quince
-planning will interfere with my internship,” Alicia said. “They want me to focus on what will look good on my college applications.”

“Won't starting your own megasuccessful party-planning business look good on your college application?” Jamie asked.

“My point to them exactly,” Alicia said.

“So, talk some more,” Carmen said. “Your folks aren't unreasonable.”

“Wish I could stay and help with the 'rent situation, but I've got to head out,” Gaz said, suddenly standing up. “My shift at the Gap starts in an hour. But count me in.”

“And, as you know, he's our ride,” Jamie said, giving Alicia a hug. “But I'm in, too.”

“I love this idea,” Carmen said, trading high fives with Alicia. “I have to say one thing about you, Alicia Cruz, you know how to keep things interesting.”

Alicia shrugged. “No matter what happens with my parents and the business, we've got to help Sarita out. I told her we would. So, can everybody meet tomorrow at eleven a.m.?”

Everybody could, and Alicia walked them out to Gaz's car, which was a rusty Toyota Corolla.

“Yo, Gaz, you need some new wheels. This car is seriously clashing with my outfit,” Jamie said as she climbed into the front seat.

“Yeah, like you could wear those ridiculously high heels on the subway in New York,” Gaz said.

“Yeah, whatever. You've never even been to New York,” Jamie said.

Alicia and Carmen exchanged looks. Jamie and Gaz were always going at it. Maybe it was because they were so different: Jamie was this hard-core girl from the Bronx; Gaz was the sweet island boy from P.R. But looking at them, Alicia wondered whether their tension stemmed from something else entirely. Could it be that Jamie and Gaz were always fussing because, deep down inside, Jamie wasn't really the tough New Yorker she pretended to be, and Gaz's memories of Puerto Rico weren't as sweet as he claimed?

“Tell me about your village in Puerto Rico,” Jamie said, intent on having the last word. “Have they even paved the roads yet?”

Alicia could see that the jab had gotten to Gaz. “You better cool it, Jamie,” she said. “Unless you want to walk home.” Then, turning to Gaz, she said, “Don't pay her any attention. I like your ride.” Which was really code for “I like
you
,” but she and Gaz didn't roll like that. Not yet, anyway, she added to herself. So she waved to her friends and started walking across the circular driveway back toward the front door. She had planning to do and parents to convince. It looked as if the summer would be anything but relaxing.

Sunday morning, Alicia woke up to the sound of her parents leaving for church. She walked into the living room and opened the sliding doors. When her parents were home, the air-conditioning was always on full blast. But Alicia liked the fresh air—even on days like this one, when what little air was circulating was impossibly hot and sticky. She also didn't mind the bugs. Whenever her mother caught her like this, a thin film of sweat covering her face as she absentmindedly swatted away mosquitoes, she said that Alicia was “tropical, heart and soul.”

Alicia was wearing one of her mom's old Missoni dresses that she'd cut so that the wavy knit fabric hit just above her knees. She'd cinched it with a wide purple patent-leather belt that emphasized her tiny waist and showed off her hips. Kicking off her purple leather flip-flops, she sat down in her favorite chair with her ideas notebook. Even if it ended up that she couldn't start her
quince
business, she was still determined to hook Sarita up.

An hour later, Alicia looked at her watch, then at her still blank notebook. It was a good thing that Carmen, Gaz, and Jamie would be coming over. She needed help.

The first thing Gaz wanted to know when he arrived was “Where's my sweetheart Maribelle?”

Alicia laughed. “Down, boy. Today's her day off.”

“So, what are we going to have for lunch?” Gaz asked, looking nothing short of forsaken. “No offense, Lici, but half the reason I come to your house is because nobody cooks like Maribelle.”

“Yeah, I know we're here to talk business,” said Jamie. “But I am a creative person, and I need food to be inspired.”

“Me, too,” said Carmen. “And I don't do my best work over regular old takeout.”

Alicia walked over to the huge Sub-Zero fridge in the kitchen. “Y'all know you're spoiled, right?” she said.

“And?” Jamie said, spinning on a mahogany bar stool.

“
And
it's a good thing that Maribelle left us a crispy calamari salad with hearts of palm, banana, and chayote. Calamari's on the side, so that it stays crisp. And…”

She reached for the fridge, but Gaz beat her to it. “Maribelle's homemade sesame-orange dressing,” he said, letting out a sigh of happiness.

He dipped a finger into the bottle of salad dressing. “You guys think I'm kidding when I say that I want Maribelle to marry me, but I'm not,” he said. “This woman's food is out of this world. She and me could be the next Ashton and Demi.”

“She and I, you moron,” said Jamie.

“Don't hate, appreciate,” Gaz retorted.

“That doesn't even make sense,” said Jamie.

“Si tú no fueras una tonta, sería completamente claro,”
Gaz said.

“Oh, here we go with the Spanish,” said Jamie, as if Gaz had dealt a particularly low blow.

Of all three of the girls, Jamie spoke the smallest amount of Spanish: meaning, none. Her parents had been born in the Bronx and were of the generation that had never bothered to learn; the grandparents spoke the language, then the parents didn't, and then their kids—kids like Jamie, Carmen, Alicia—made varying attempts to learn.

Carmen took a seat at the dining room table and began looking over the sketches Alicia had finally made—minutes before her friends' arrival. They were seriously lacking.
“Chica,”
she said, “tell me you have a better plan for Sarita's
quince
than—are those alien?—
chambelanes
. Otherwise, this business won't even have a chance.”

Alicia grinned, handing Carmen a plate of calamari salad and sitting down next to her. “What? I was thinking outside the box. But you're right. It's a terrible idea.” She sighed. “I just wish my parents could be as supportive of my planning this
quince
as they are of anything college-related. To them, the thought of the business is horrible.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Gaz said. “Your parents are mad successful. They want you to be a big shot, too. If I had someone who could open doors for me at the record companies, I'd jump at the chance.”