“Mariana, I have no idea,” Vince grunted as he flipped through a newspaper.
“Wait, is that the shower running?” I asked, jerking my head toward my brother.
“Probably, it’s been running all morning. There’s gonna be a drought in Utuado tomorrow because of this stupid Quinceañera.”
“Vince, is Aunt Carmen in the shower?”
His head shot up. “No. She couldn’t be.”
“Everyone else has showered besides us. They’ve been up for hours. . . .”
“Oh, my God, the stove!” Vince yelled, jumping to his feet.
“That’s what I’m saying!”
“No, Mariana!”
“What? Don’t blame this on me!”
“No, turn around! The stove!”
I spun around to find soup frothing and boiling over the rim of the silver pot. It was flowing onto the stove, sizzling against the blue flames and splashing on the floor.
“What do we do?” I shouted.
“Turn it off!” Vince yelled.
“Which burner is it?”
A puddle of broth formed on the floor as more scalding liquid continued to erupt from the pot. Vince rushed over, a sneaker squeaking as it slid in the lake of yellow soup. I reached out to grab him, only the weight of his fall yanked me down with him. We both were stumbling to our feet, legs and arms flailing, soup dripping everywhere, when Aunt Carmen raced in.
“¡Ay Dios mio!” she screamed, her hands flicking toward her mouth. She zipped toward the food she’d been slaving away on for almost a week and swiftly spun all the burners off. She hoisted the cauldron of soup from the stove, and barked in Spanish at Vince and me. There were actual tears in her eyes.
I kept squealing, “Is it ruined? Is it ruined?”
But Aunt Carmen obviously didn’t understand and just kept shrieking back in Spanish. Finally, the sounds of English emerged from the hallway.
“No, it’s not ruined.”
I swiveled around to see Lilly, her auburn hair teased into an up-do that would have made Marge Simpson proud. It was frizzy and curly and so high and frozen I was certain there was a fresh hole in the ozone somewhere above Puerto Rico.
“The soup’ll be fine. But my hair might need to be amputated.”
After combing out the mess of crunchy knots, shampooing, rinsing and repeating several times, and thirty minutes of thorough blow-drying, Lilly’s hair finally resembled hair again.
“Wow, Mariana, I can’t thank you enough.” She sighed as I wrapped her hair around a thick round brush.
“No problem. I mean, I’m not a hairdresser or anything, but I do know how to blow dry.”
“Anything’s better than that formation my mother concocted. Why did I let her do that to me?”
“Because she’s your mother.”
Lilly’s mom pounded on the bathroom door again, jiggling the handle and shrieking so loud the whole town probably heard. She was wholeheartedly against our decision to re-style Lilly’s “formal do.”
“I swear I’m going to kill her. I really am. We’re both not going to get through this day alive.”
“Oh, it won’t be that bad. You’ll have fun,” I said as I pinned the sides of her hair in place.
“I’ll have fun at the reception, once I’m with my friends.”
“So, what are they like?”
“My friends? They’re cool. Most of them speak some English. And my escort goes to the American school with me. You’ll like him.”
“Your escort? You mean your boyfriend?”
“Oh God, no. We’re just friends. Alex and I have known each other forever.”
I had never had a male friend in my life. Well, not really. I couldn’t imagine talking to a guy like I do Madison and Emily.
“Speaking of friends, wasn’t that girl’s Sweet Sixteen last night?”
“Omigod! I’ve gotta check my e-mail!” I yelled, dropping the brush.
“Did you forget? Is that possible? You’ve been talking about it nonstop since you got here.”
“I don’t know. I guess I was just so mad about that radio show.”
“Well, go. Leave! I can take it from here. By the time you get back, I’ll be all sprayed and shiny.”
I handed Lilly the hair dryer and sped out of the bathroom.
Chapter 24
My e-mail account showed more than twenty new messages, all from Emily and Madison. Part of me didn’t even want to read them. I knew they’d just be some excited ramblings about how much they didn’t miss me.
I double clicked the top item; it was a photo attachment. When the image opened on my screen, my jaw fell faster than my mood. It was a photo of Orlando Bloom and Madison smiling together in the middle of a crowd of screaming classmates.
Orlando Bloom was actually at her Sweet Sixteen party.
I almost threw up in my mouth.
I clicked the next e-mail. It was a long message from Madison.
Spic! Oh, my God! You’re not going to believe what you missed! We had the greatest time of our lives. My party was sooooo awesome! Orlando Bloom showed up! He stayed for, like, twenty minutes and talked to me the entire time. He didn’t even look at another girl. He’s so hot! It was amazing!
And it totally made up for all the crap Gayle screwed up. Can you believe after promising me she’d have my Louis Vuitton cake, she got one without any of the LV logos!!! It was just covered with brown and gold checkers—like she totally knew that wasn’t the LV pattern I wanted. And then the salads had these huge walnuts in them—whatever, I hate nuts! My mom completely bitched her out. I mean, she was trying to ruin my party!
And you’re not going to believe this, but Julie Sutter wore a silver dress the same shade as mine!! I’m so pissed. Everyone knew I was wearing silver. Plus, I won’t even get into the tacky gifts people gave me (gift certificate to a bookstore and a donation to save the wildlife—hello?!). Thanks for sending that necklace, by the way. It’s sooo pretty.
Anyway, I gave Orlando my number last night and I’m hoping he’s going to call any minute. I would totally move to L.A. for him. I could be Mrs. Orlando Bloom!!
Love, your birthday Diva,
Madison
I closed my laptop without replying. I didn’t even read the other messages she’d sent. My mind was reeling, and I didn’t have time to deal with Madison’s dramas. Not today. I had another party to go to.
When I got back to the house it was brimming with relatives. Lilly’s court had arrived in tuxes and formal gowns covering every shade in the rainbow. Alonzo and José were tying each other’s Windsor knots and Lilly’s father was chugging a beer.
“¿Donde está Lilly?” I asked, peering around.
Alonzo pointed toward the bedroom and smiled. I bolted down the hall and halted in the doorway to her room.
Lilly was standing with her back to me gazing into a full-length mirror. Her red hair was flowing over her shoulders in elegant waves, perfectly complementing the lines of her gown. She looked radiant.
“Lilly, oh my God!” I gasped.
She spun around, tears in her eyes.
“You did this?” Lilly squeaked.
“No, no your mom did. It’s beautiful.You’re beautiful!”
“But my mom, she told me what you did. How you helped . . .”
“No, really. It was no big—”
“Seriously, I don’t know what to say. . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. I mean, what are distant cousins for?” I joked.
Lilly chuckled and wiped her eyes.
“You know, there’s a house full of people waiting for you,” I pointed out.
“Well, I’m ready,” she stated with confidence.
We walked out of the bedroom together.
Chapter 25
The church was mobbed. There was no air conditioner, naturally, and a few slowly rotating ceiling fans provided the only relief. My long navy-blue dress was already sticking to me, and the thong of one of my dressy flip-flops w
as digging into the webbing of my big toe. Vince tugged on the collar of his shirt, poking me with his elbow.
“Can you sit still?” I whispered.
“I would if it wasn’t two hundred degrees in here.”
“Well, get used to it because I’m guessing this ceremony isn’t going to be all that snappy.”
Just then, the organist began to play and everyone stood to face the church doors. The entire spectacle was so wedding-like, I half expected them to play “Here Comes the Bride,” or at the very least, Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major.
The doors swung open and in walked the processional of Lilly’s friends. One purple halter dress followed by a lime-green strapless gown followed by a canary-yellow v-neck so low I could almost see her belly button. Each girl held the arm of a guy in a tuxedo with sweat dripping down his brow. As the last couple sauntered in, the music began to slow. Organ chords buzzed in my ears, and my eyes locked with the final male escort. His brown eyes smiled as his dimples flexed. My breath froze in my lungs as I followed his strut down the aisle. When our eyes caught, he grinned. Before I could fully absorb the moment, the doors swung open one last time.
The organist blasted a fresh tune and Lilly strolled in on her father’s arm with a doll in a matching pink gown resting in her other arm. She’d told me earlier that it was supposed to symbolize the “last doll” she’d ever own, however, Lilly had stopped playing with dolls as soon as she was old enough to speak. It was just another tradition forced on her by her mother. So was the embroidered tiara that sat on her head. But none of this affected the glowing smile she wore as she passed her guests.
When she reached the altar, her godparents, whom I had yet to officially meet, took her doll and presented her with a bouquet of pink and white lilies, which while somewhat cheesy in the name-play, were also rather sweet.
As soon as the priest opened his mouth, so did my brother.
“How the heck are we supposed to know what’s going on? The whole thing’s in Spanish,” he whispered.
“It’s a Catholic service. We’ve been to plenty. How different could it be?”
“Well, I really don’t get the point of all this. Big deal. She’s fifteen. So that means she’s a woman now? ’Cause I’m pretty sure she was a woman when she sprouted those bombs.”
“Vince! She’s your cousin, don’t talk about her boobs!”
“Actually, have you noticed that every girl here has huge boobs?” he continued. “Her court looks like a Latina Victoria’s Secret runway.”
“You’re in a church,” I reminded him.
“So?”
“And you’re probably related to half the people whose cleavage you’re checking out.”
“Well, if that priest would stop rambling maybe I wouldn’t have to look at boobs to pass the time.”
“Shhh! I want to pay attention.”
I watched as Lilly kneeled on the white satin pillow I had selected, sans the frilly trim. It was embroidered by her mother with Lilly’s name, the date and the phrase, “Mis XV Años.” Her mother strolled to the altar to replace the white embroided tiara on her head with the faux crystal one we chose together. It was her crowning moment as a “princess before God,” which was amusing since Madison had worn one similar on her Sweet Sixteen just to be “princess of the world.” God had nothing to do with it.
The organist launched into another rousing performance as the crowd collectively stood. Everyone sang in unison.
“This is so lame,” Vince whispered. “No hablo Español.”
“Who cares? Like you sing in church back home when the songs are in English?”
“What? You don’t think I can sing? Because I can sing.”
Vince shot me a sly smile, then cleared his throat. He closed his eyes, clenched a fist to his chest and softly began crooning the words to Guns N’ Roses’“Sweet Child O’ Mine” to the tune of the Spanish hymn.
Every word to the metal ballad was sung in tune to the organist, and as much as I wanted to tell him to stop, I couldn’t help but laugh—even when the heads began to turn around us. The more inappropriate my laughter became, the harder it spewed out. It didn’t help that the chubby two-year-old next to us was shrieking in tune with my brother and that when the music finally ceased, the toddler kept right on squealing.
And squealing. Then he threw a program at us.
“Okay, so do that brat’s parents not see him?”Vince whispered. “Did they lose their sense of hearing when they procreated? Or do they just like being obnoxious?”
“You mean like you do?” I smirked.
“Hey, at least I was singing softly. He’s screaming like a lunatic.”
The baby wailed again.
“Shhh! They might hear you.”
The toddler grabbed the black suspenders hooked on his blue trousers and let out another wailing screech.
“You mean they might hear me over the sounds of their freakish child? Doubt it. Plus, no one here speaks English.”
“True.” I nodded, as the toddler howled again. I pressed my finger to my ear. “God, do you think it was your Axl Rose impersonation that set him off or is he just possessed? ’Cause I think the holy water’s gonna start bubbling any minute now.”
“Now you’re talking.” Vince laughed.
Just then, Lilly’s godparents approached the altar with a bible and a cross for the priest to bless. Her mom then presented Lilly’s new Quinceañera jewelry on a pillow for the priest to sanctify as well. As soon as Lilly saw the shiny white-gold locket her eyes welled. She flicked it open and inside was a picture of her and her parents. She hugged her mom and shifted her eyes to where I was sitting. Her teeth gleamed as she smiled at me and winked. She knew I had picked it out. It was the best gift I had ever given anyone, and it wasn’t even mine to give.
An hour later—after three readings, two more songs, and a communion line that could have stretched the circumference of the earth—the mass wrapped up. Lilly stood and took the arms of her parents, her dad on one side and her mom on the other. She recessed down the aisle, nodding at me as she passed. The toddler next to us acknowledged her with another high-pitched yell.
“For the love of God, someone get this little Satan out of the building,” Vince whispered.
“I know. I think my ears are starting to bleed.”
I stood up to exit the pew when a hand grabbed my arm. I swung around, startled, and looked straight into the eyes of the toddler’s mother.
“I hope we get to spend some more time together at the reception,” she quipped in perfect English before swooping her child up into her arms and leaving the church.
Chapter 26
The tent was hot. Scorching, one-hundred-degree, can’t-stop-the-sweat-from-rolling-down-my-face hot. About a half dozen tall metal fans were blowing at maximum speed, but the air was too humid to cool off. Every inch of the massive tent was filled with tan bodies glistening in perspiration.
A large brass band rocked on stage, blaring its beats under flashing, colorful lights. Couples filled the floor in front of them, their hair saturated and their hips swaying to the pounding rhythms. The whole place smelled like summer: sweat mixed with coconut mixed with perfume mixed with adrenaline. I seemed to be the only female who missed the memo about the proper way to deal with the heat. The other women wore sleeveless gowns that fell no longer than their knees, and each had her hair pulled elegantly off her sticky neck.
In comparison, I looked like I was about to run errands. I’d worn the dress a thousand times back home, to church and to dinners. But the sleeveless navy frock with a hemline that brushed my ankles looked like a parka in comparison to the other partygoers. I was the only woman not in high heels, and my auburn locks were falling limp around my face. I had added a hint of mascara and pink lip gloss before entering the reception, thinking it was an “evening look,” but clearly I was out of my league. I made the mistake of assuming the “bridesmaids,” or members of the court were the fashion victims in neon fabri
cs, only I was wrong. I wasn’t in Spring Mills anymore. Our urban fashion rules didn’t apply.
Dozens of tan, exotic teens and twentysomethings, presumably Lilly’s friends and relatives, crowded the tent’s bar. I grabbed Vince’s arm.
“Is it just me or do I look like a nun compared to the women here?”
“You didn’t notice that at the church?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“No! Did you?”
He shrugged.
“Eh, don’t feel bad. I’m the only guy here without a skintight shirt and revealing chest hair.”
We both laughed.
“Wanna get a drink?” he asked.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“So?”
He pulled me toward the bar and past a line of watchful teenagers.
“¡Ay, Americana!” yelled a guy in a hot-pink button-down and hip-hugging pants.
“¡Ay, guapa!” called another.
“¡Americana! ¡Que bonita!”
“Hey, we’re half Puerto Rican. How do all these people know we’re not from the island?” I whispered to Vince. Apparently, we had our nationality stapled to our chests.
My brother laughed in a way that made me think he wasn’t laughing with me. And if I’d felt like a plain Jane misfit a few moments ago, now I was a glowing green alien from the planet Neptune.
“Vince, I don’t think I belong here.”
“It’s your cousin’s party, of course you do.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I mean,” I responded, as I watched a guy look me up and down and swipe his hand through his greasy black hair. “I think these guys are looking at me like I’m a turkey dinner.”
“That’s because you’re a tourist. They assume you’re easy.”
“What?” I yelped, my eyes wide.
“Mariana, all tourists are easy. Everyone knows that. They’re on vacation looking for a fling, a great story to tell . . .”
“So is that why you hang out on South Street?”
“Well, it’s not for the cheesesteaks.” He chuckled.
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