Point Me to Tomorrow

by Veronica Chambers

  “‘Thoughtless,’” Jamie muttered. “As in, it is entirely heedless of them to make the practice tests so easy when the actual test is so, so hard.”

  Alicia couldn’t argue with that. “Agreed,” she said. “I completely agree.”

  Carmen looked mischievously at her friends. “I’m not trying to procrastinate. Honest. Well, not much. But I just had the best idea. I have literally, two seconds ago, come up with the best costume idea for Halloween.”

  During freshman year, the three friends had thrown around costume ideas for weeks until they finally decided to dress up as members of the Justice League. Carmen was Aquagirl. Jamie was the Green Lantern, and Alicia was Wonder Woman. At fourteen, they’d thought the entire concept was very clever. Then they’d arrived at the first house on their trick-or-treating route to find that there were three Green Lanterns and six Wonder Womans right ahead of them. But the worst was that nobody had ever heard of Aquagirl, so everyone thought Carmen was dressed up like the Little Mermaid, which infuriated her. Gaz, who was at the time just a friend and not yet Alicia’s boyfriend, had insisted that their costumes were “genius.” But that was Gaz, supportive all the way.

  Since that time, the girls had been too busy launching their business to think much about anything social, especially anything that required a costume.

  But as Carmen explained, “It’s our senior year, and, well, if I do say so myself, it’s the end of an era. I know we’re busy, but we’ve got to embrace every fun event that we can all do together.”

  Alicia closed her SAT book. So much for studying. Oh, well, she thought. And as Jamie had said, the practice tests were mad easy. She had gotten a 215 on the PSATs, placing her in the top 2 percent for the state of Florida. But she had felt the need to study, because it was the conscientious thing to do.

  “So, Carmen,” Alicia wondered aloud, “will you be making our costumes this year?”

  “But of course,” her friend replied.

  Carmen took out her sketchbook and began to draw her idea. Even before she could explain the otherworldly sketches of herself, Alicia, and Jamie, the image of all three of them as ghosts with tiaras had the amigas cracking up.

  “Twilight in the Garden of Good and Quince,” Alicia offered, giggling.

  Ms. Halisi did not move from her seat, but simply barked a stern “Ladies!”

  In deference to this, Carmen whispered, “Not quite Twilight. But I thought we could do a little holiday mash-up and steal a page from Charles Dickens. I’ll be the ghost of quinces past. Alicia, you’ll be the ghost of quinces present, and Jamie, you’re the ghost of quinces future.”

  Jamie smiled. “Does that mean I get to wear an astronaut costume?”

  “Absolutely,” Carmen beamed.

  “Woo-hoo!” Jamie cried, at which point Ms. Halisi took to her feet and came over to their table.

  “Given the amount of noise coming from this direction and the fact that your SAT prep book is closed, I am thinking that this would be a good time for you to exit the library,” Ms. Halisi declared.

  The girls gathered their belongings, a little embarrassed that they’d actually been booted from the premises.

  “Do you think we’ve been banned forever?” Alicia asked earnestly.

  “I seriously doubt ‘forever,’” Carmen assured her.

  “As we are graduating in May, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jamie laughed. “Lighten up, Lici!”

  The girls were still giggling when Mr. Stevens stopped them in the hall.

  “Ladies!” he called out as he approached them.

  “That’s our name; don’t wear it out,” Jamie whispered, which only made Carmen and Alicia laugh louder.

  “Alicia Cruz. Just the person I was looking for,” Mr. Stevens said. His hair flopped down, just a little too long, and his smile was toothpaste-commercial bright. The amigas exchanged glances. They didn’t actually need to say it. Mr. Stevens was a bit OTT—over the top—but still totally GGC—grown-up-guy cute.

  “There’s a matter I wanted to discuss with you,” Mr. Stevens explained. “Could you follow me back to my office?”

  Jamie smiled. “Don’t tell me! Harvard has already accepted our girl—no application necessary.”

  Mr. Stevens laughed. “Oh, but if only it were so. Unfortunately, everyone has to do an application for every school, even Ms. Cruz.”

  Alicia waved to her friends. “Hey, I’ll meet you guys at the quad in the morning. Last one in buys the lattes!”

  Sitting in Mr. Stevens’s office, Alicia felt a wave of apprehension. An exceptionally good student, she’d spent precious little time in the administrative offices. Although she knew she wasn’t in any kind of trouble, the fact that Mr. Stevens wanted to see her and had in fact been looking for her made her a little nervous.

  She sat up a little straighter as she spoke, channeling Alicia the self-assured quince planner. “Hey, Mr. Stevens, what’s up?” she asked, putting on the same mature air she tried to project to her clients’ parents.

  Mr. Stevens pointed to one of the many surfing posters on the wall. “Riding giants, that’s what’s up.”

  Alicia was fond of Mr. Stevens, but she had a tough time following everything he said. She had always thought she was familiar with all kinds of slang because she had grown up in multicultural Miami—a city that was known for being an international melting pot. But Mr. Stevens was a math genius/surfer dude, and she hadn’t been around his kind enough to catch all of his references.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  Mr. Stevens had on a bright Hawaiian-print golf shirt. Alicia thought he looked as if he’d just gotten off the plane in Maui and was waiting for a local beauty to wrap a lei around his neck. Even though his sense of fashion was corny, he was still definitely cute.

  “I know it’s short notice,” he said. “But I teach this Saturday morning surf class for small-business owners. The new session starts this weekend. It’s all about learning how to read the waves—in business and on the beach. It occurs to me that you might like to check it out. There might be some good contacts there for your business. You could learn a few management techniques that would help you with your quince planning….”

  Alicia was the last person who would have corrected anyone on his or her Spanish pronunciation. But when Mr. Stevens pronounced the word as “kwince,” she had to speak up.

  “Actually, Mr. S.,” she said, “the word quince is pronounced ‘keen-say.’”

  “Whoa. Good to know,” he replied, sincerely appreciative. “Thanks. See, you’ve already taken a page from my soon-to-be-written Surfboard to Boardroom business book.”

  “And what’s that?” Alicia asked.

  “Be protective of what you value,” he replied. “You value your Latina heritage. So you protect it. Just like I value the culture of surfing, so I do my best to protect it. So, will you come on Saturday? I’d love to teach you how to surf.”

  Alicia was a little apprehensive. Mr. Stevens was cool, but she always pictured surfing as something she’d pick up on some mellow spring-break trip, not during the busiest fall season of her entire life, and not with a group of small-business owners. It sounded as boring as the few chamber of commerce meetings she’d attended. “Um, can I bring two friends?” she asked. “I don’t run Amigas Inc. solo.”

  “Of course!” he replied. “Just make sure your friends are ready to get down, B to B.”

  Alicia was confused again. “Excuse me?”

  “Board to business,” Mr. Stevens cheerily explained. “The business of being literally and figuratively on board.”

  Alicia smiled and looked at her watch. She was due to meet Gaz at the mall during his break, in half an hour. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be late. But before she could remember the universal symbol for “hang loose, see you later,” Mr. Stevens gave her an out.

  He stood up and put his hand out for a high five. “Up top, Cruz,” he said.

  Alicia tried not to look relieved. Surfi
ng lessons in the middle of her megabusy senior year? She’d have to find a polite way to get out of them. She gave Mr. Stevens a high five and went off to meet her boyfriend.

  THE CRUZ FAMILY room was a big open space that consisted of a kitchen and a living-and-dining space. The room had floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and a glass door that led out to the pool. Alicia’s parents collected photographs by Latin American artists; the walls were covered with brightly colored depictions of men, women, and children from places ranging from Mexico City to Montevideo. The family’s schedule was increasingly hectic, but with Alicia’s older brother off at college, her mother insisted that they eat dinner together at least three days a week. This was one of those nights.

  Although Alicia complained about her mother’s summoning her home when she really wanted to grab a bite with Gaz or her friends, she loved the family dinners. And ever since Maribelle had started dating Hiro, a chef at Nobu Miami Beach, the family had been treated to an array of new and impressive Japanese meals. Tonight, the menu consisted of nabe udon, a big clay hot pot of noodles and seafood.

  Alicia’s parents often changed before dinner, but it had been a busy week. Her father had barely had time to loosen his tie before sitting down, and her mother had come dashing in from a meeting that had run late; she had quickly kicked off her pumps and made a giant bib out of a linen napkin, so as not to spill anything on her silk blouse.

  Alicia felt like the parent as she sat patiently at the table waiting for them. “Relax,” she said, using on them the word they had used on her for years. “The food’s not going to run off the table.” Her mother and father laughed.

  “Where have I heard that advice before?” Mrs. Cruz teased.

  As Alicia filled her bowl, she told her parents about her college adviser. “He’s like a surf dude in a suit who’s really good at math.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” her mother replied.

  Her father agreed. “Sounds like a well-balanced guy.”

  Alicia sighed. “Well, he wants me to come to a surf class he’s teaching on Saturday.”

  “Is it for C. G. High students?” her mother asked.

  “Nope, it’s for small-business owners,” Alicia explained. “It’s some ‘ride the wave, be on board,’ business/surfing thing he does. I really don’t want to go. I just haven’t figured out a way out of it.”

  “What a wonderful opportunity,” her mother said, in between bites of udon noodles.

  “And a real honor to be asked,” her father added.

  Alicia poured herself a glass of cold green tea. “I know, I know. But for some reason, I’m a little nervous,” she admitted. “Hopefully I can convince Carmen and Jamie to go with me.”

  Somehow, her mother had managed to make the big napkin tucked into her blouse look elegant—stylish, even. “You know it’s good to get out of your comfort zone sometimes,” she asserted. Then, segueing a little awkwardly to a more pressing matter, she added, “Speaking of which, how are those college applications going?”

  Alicia shrugged and tapped her chopsticks against her plate. “It’s all fine,” she mumbled.

  Her mother looked concerned. It wasn’t like Alicia to be so evasive. Even so, and despite their own high-achieving careers, Marisol and Enrique Cruz made every effort not to be pushy when it came to their kids. This was a delicate balance—nurturing success without demanding it.

  The awkward silence that filled the room was indicative of what everyone felt.

  Marisol broke the ice. “So, Lici, is the list of schools you’re applying to the same as it was last time we talked?” she asked her daughter gently.

  “Um, yeah,” Alicia muttered, helping herself to a couple of Maribelle’s homemade shrimp dumplings.

  Her parents exchanged glances. Mrs. Cruz had tried. Now it was Mr. Cruz’s turn.

  Enrique took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “We’re old and slightly senile,” he joked. This was, of course, patently untrue. He was not yet fifty. “Let’s go over the list together,” he suggested, “just for the benefit of the memory-challenged among us. It’s Brown, Columbia, Penn, Yale, and that dinky little school up in Cambridge….”

  In spite of herself, Alicia smiled at her dad’s corny sense of humor.

  “Harvard,” she said, finishing his sentence.

  “Oh, right, Harvard,” her father beamed. “Didn’t the rep invite you to coffee?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to call her,” Alicia replied nonchalantly. She’d kept Serena Shih’s business card on her dresser, and she looked at it every day. As soon as she figured out what to say besides I really, really want to go to Harvard, she planned to give her a ring.

  Sensing that Alicia was not enthused about the college conversation, her mother changed the topic. “So, how are things going with the mystery quince?”

  Alicia smiled. In spite of all the stress and pressure of senior year, the idea of planning a quince for Carmela Ortega was very exciting. “We haven’t heard from Julia Centavo in a while, which is good, because we’re hoping to hire some sophomores to help us out and to take over the day-to-day operations when we go away to college.”

  “Right,” her mother said. “I ran into Jamie’s mom, and she told me you were having a contest to find your successors, called Are You That Chica?”

  Her father reached for his briefcase and handed Alicia a section of the newspaper. “I saved this for you. Yesenia and Carmela Ortega are out of the country—on a diplomatic trip to South Korea.”

  Alicia’s eyes widened as she looked at the picture in the paper of Carmela Ortega and her mother wearing traditional Korean dresses. “How cool is this?” she asked her parents excitedly. “I cannot wait to meet them.”

  Her mother held one hand up, in a gesture of caution. “Don’t get your hopes up, Lici,” she warned. “You don’t know for sure that she’s your mystery client.”

  But Alicia wouldn’t be swayed. “She is. Deep down in my gut it feels right. After all, our birthdays are just one day apart. We share the same astrological sign, which means we’re both awesome. I already feel like I know her.”

  “So, have you decided on a theme yet?” her mother asked.

  “Not yet,” Alicia said. “But we’ve got a little time. Usually, when we have enough time to plan, the budget is small and we spend all our time wheeling and dealing. If the budget is big, the client always wants it all done yesterday, so we’re rushing around like madwomen. This quince is a happy medium—generous budget, reasonable timeline.”

  Alicia’s parents looked at each other and laughed.

  “What is it?” Alicia wanted to know.

  “It’s just that, four years ago, you had braces and your biggest ambition was to show off your dancing skills on a reality TV show,” her mother said teasingly.

  Alicia playfully lobbed a napkin at her mom and replied, “Oh, nice. Well, for your information, four years ago, I was thirteen, and I was, and still am, an excellent dancer! I could so be on TV.”

  Her father smiled and squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. He said, “What your mother is trying to say is that we are really proud of you. You’ve not only built a thriving business; you’ve helped us all see an old tradition with new eyes. That’s really special. That takes vision.”

  Alicia stood up and hugged each of her parents. She didn’t say anything, because it was one of those moments when she knew that they understood exactly how she felt. As the saying went, sin palabras. There were simply no words.

  THE FOLLOWING Saturday morning, Alicia stood on the beach, shivering in her wet suit. When Mr. Stevens had mentioned his surfing class, he hadn’t said anything about being encased in rubber and on the beach at six A.M. As she looked around at the group of men and women twice her age, she wondered how she’d let her girls off the hook so easily. Jamie was traveling to see Dash compete in a tournament in Orlando, and Carmen had flat-out not wanted to go.

  “I like surf-inspired fashion,” Carmen had said. “Like the
cool T’s and cute dresses designers like Cynthia Rowley have been doing. I like listening to surf-inspired ska, and I love old nineteen-fifties surfing movies. What I don’t like—and can’t see happening—is me, trying to stand on a board in freezing cold water while said board knocks me upside the head every time I fall off it.”

  Wow, Alicia remembered thinking. Way to sell it, Carmen. Now she wondered if her friend hadn’t been absolutamente y completamente right. It was chilly, it was still a little dark, and the ocean did not look either fun or inviting.

  Mr. Stevens, however, didn’t seem to mind the cold or the hour. “Good morning!” he bellowed as he jogged happily toward the sullen-looking group, some of whom were hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to stay warm. “Welcome to Surfing the New Economy! You are a very special group of people, and not just because you’re all dressed in these neoprene penguin suits! You are all business owners. Why don’t you each go ahead and introduce yourselves?”

  There were eight people in the group; Alicia was the youngest by far.

  A tall guy with red hair, who looked about her father’s age, stepped forward confidently and said, “Hi, I’m Dave, of Dave’s Honey Wagons. We rent trailers to celebrities who are shooting in Miami—movies, TV commercials, music videos—you name it.”

  Alicia was impressed and immediately began thinking about how she could incorporate trailers used by real movie stars into a quinceañera theme.

  Next, a woman with dark brown shoulder-length hair and deep dimples smiled at the group and said, “I’m, Maya, the owner of Buscar, a new age bookshop and café in West Park.” She clasped her hands together and did a little bow. “Namaste,” she told the group.

  The rest had equally interesting pursuits—from a cupcake shop to a pharmacy that had been the family business for over a hundred years.

  When it was Alicia’s turn, she found that she wasn’t as cold as she had been when she had first arrived. The sun was shining more brightly, and she no longer felt so shy.

  “Hola, everybody,” she said, waving at the small group. “I’m Alicia, and I’m the cofounder of Amigas Inc., a full-service quinceañera planning business.”