Fifteen Candles (2 page)

“I'm bored out of my mind,” he whispered.

“I'm stunned,” Carmen said softly.

“I'm going with Gaz—‘bored,'” yawned Jamie.

“I am, even if I hate to admit it, kind of impressed,” Alicia said.

“Impressed?” Jamie said. “You're kidding, right? This is nothing more than the inner workings of a megalomaniac with a personality disorder.”

“But, the sets, the costumes, the choreography!” Alicia insisted.

“It's all the self-indulgences of a spoiled rich girl,” Jamie retorted. “I bet this little dance extravaganza costs more than my entire
quince
.”

Jamie's
quinceañera
had been a house party,
and
the best one Alicia had ever attended. Jamie's cousin, Caterina, who was a DJ at Bungalow 8 in New York, had flown in and rocked the house, spinning hip-hop and reggaeton all night long. Jamie had looked amazing in a sleeveless Japanese T-shirt that Carmen had covered with hot pink sequins. She wore a long, hot pink ball-gown skirt that she'd found at a vintage shop and a pair of one-of-a-kind Bathing Ape boots that one of her eBay clients in Japan had sent her. Jamie had danced an amazing merengue for the
vals
with her dad, and her mother, who was an incredible cook, had made all of the food.

It had been everything a
quince
never was—fierce, fabulous, and flawless. But because it hadn't been in a hotel ballroom or a club, Jamie was always defensive about it. She acted as if everyone were always saying what a great
quince
it was because they felt sorry for her—which nobody ever did, because, though Jamie wasn't rich, she was the definition of cool.

Alicia thought maybe Jamie was right; maybe another over-the-top
quince
was just a waste of cash. But she'd always felt there was something feminist and badass about
quinces
. Life as a Latina could often mean being treated like a girl—and not in a good way. If you had a brother, he got more of everything: more freedom, more attention, more cash. It was always: “A son! What a blessing!”; “Look at my son!”; “I'm going on a business trip, taking my son, showing him the ropes!”

But
quinceañeras
were strictly the
chicas'
terrain. If, every once in a while, a girl went
quince
-zilla and drove her friends and family crazy, then who could blame her? The
quince
was so much more than a party; it was a statement about the kind of girl you were and the kind of woman you hoped to become. You only got one shot, and
claro
, you wanted it to be perfect.

The lights had dimmed once again. Looking up at the stage, Alicia saw that Simone was now dressed in a floor-length baby blue evening gown. She was also sporting a blond wig.

“What—” Alicia began.

“The hell—” Jamie continued.

“Is she up to?” Carmen said, finishing the thought.

“My final number is a tribute to Princess Diana,” Simone said. “England's rose. The people's princess.”

“No, she didn't,” Jamie whispered.

Alicia whispered back, “Oh, yes, she did.”

“Does she know this is borderline offensive?” Carmen added.

Gaz laughed. “Do
you
know that Simone is the definition of ‘borderline'?”

When the songs—and performance—were
finally
over, there was an uncomfortable silence, followed by tepid and confused applause. Simone seemed oblivious. “Okay, enough of that,” she said. “Let's
salsa
!”

But Gaz was clapping wildly. Apparently he had had a change of heart. “I love it,” he said. “She's a total nut job. Now, this is what I call living
la vida loca
.”

Alicia lifted a glass of fruit punch and saluted her friends: “One crazy
quince
down, a kazillion more to go. Here's to summer!”

As she clinked her glass with the others', Alicia took in their smiling faces—Jamie's sideways diva smirk; Carmen's intense green eyes and wide grin; Gaz's
mwah
dom—and thought, I could not have picked a cooler bunch of friends if I had searched the whole entire world.

ALICIA HAD
been wanting a real summer job since junior high. Finally, after her freshman year, her father agreed that she was old enough to apply for internships. She'd applied at both City Hall and
Ocean Side
magazine. But she knew that she wanted to be at City Hall. She and her dad were tight, and secretly, she thought someday she'd like to run for office, too. Now that Sonia Sotomayor was a Supreme Court justice, Alicia thought the country might just be ready for a Latina president.

After some intense interviews—and a rather huffy rejection from
Ocean Side
(apparently they did not think a person with no journalistic experience was worth their time)—Alicia had landed the internship at City Hall. Even though she was supernervous at the additional work and a little bummed that her summer wasn't completely carefree, Alicia was excited.

Monday was the first day of her internship, and Alicia was dressed to impress. She'd put on a pale pink seersucker jacket, white pants, and her favorite beaded Alice + Olivia T-shirt. Her father had offered her a ride to the office, but Alicia wanted to make her own introductions, not just arrive as the daughter of the deputy mayor. So she'd taken the bus and arrived at 8:15 a.m., even though her letter said she wasn't due until nine.

The intern supervisor, Lori Evans, came in at 8:45, and Alicia jumped up to meet her, shaking her hand vigorously. Lori was a tall blond woman, dressed in a taupe linen suit that only served to highlight the fact that she was the palest human being in the Greater Miami area. She spoke in a flat South Florida drawl as she led Alicia back to her office, which Alicia was pretty sure had recently been a broom closet. Alicia had to wonder if it was the humble surroundings, or just her personality, that caused Lori to behave like the grinch that stole summer vacay.

“You know,” Lori said, as Alicia sat, slightly tremulous, across from her, “I'm too busy to hold your hand, so pay attention. Coffee machine is over there. Copy machine is in the back room. Don't steal supplies, because I'm watching you. Don't come in late, because I'm watching you.”

Alicia decided it wouldn't be wise to mention the time she'd gotten in. She'd dealt with this kind of attitude before. Sometimes, when people knew who her father was, they went out of their way to give her the rich-girl smack-down. She had learned to ignore it. Instead, she simply nodded and took careful notes on Lori's instructions.

“Don't try to kiss up by writing down every word I say,” Lori growled. Her fingers fiddled with a cigarette that she seemed to be longing to smoke.

Alicia tried to keep from collapsing like a soufflé at the thought of spending the summer under the thumb of an angry-at-the-world human ashtray. She put her pen down.

“The copy machine requires a personalized code,” Lori continued. “I track expenses, so don't think you can get away with making color copies of your favorite Jonas Brothers pictures.” Lori paused to type something into her computer. She looked up at Alicia. “Your code is A51221.”

Alicia nodded and tried to think of a system for remembering the code:
A
, her grade point average, if you didn't count physics; five, the number of inches tall her Mom's Fendi logo heels were; twelve, the number of Jesus's disciples; and twenty-one, the age she'd be when she graduated from college. Easy. Sort of.

“Aren't you going to write your code down?” Lori asked. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than to keep looking up a code you're going to need a hundred times a day?”

Alicia turned bright red. “But you said not to write everything down!”

Lori made a dismissive motion with her arm, as if Alicia were dumb as a board. “Go to your desk, Miss Cruz, and make yourself useful. Did I tell you where the coffee machine is?”

Alicia nodded. “Yes, but I don't drink coffee.”

“Not for you, for me,” said Lori. “I require a fresh cup of coffee with hazelnut creamer and four teaspoonsful of sugar every three hours. Don't make me ask twice—and don't leave the coffee to get cold if I'm out on a smoke break. Wait till I get back, got it?”

Alicia assured her that she had.

All that had been exactly seventy-six minutes ago, and apart from her father's calling to check on her (“Yes,
Papi
, I'm fine—just peachy. Lori? She's a hoot.”), Alicia had done absolutely nothing at her fancy internship but make regular updates to her Facebook page.

Alicia Cruz
Is excited to be starting an internship in the mayor's office of the best city in the world—Miami!

Alicia Cruz
Hopes that she gets to work on some fun projects.

Alicia Cruz
Doesn't drink coffee, but may need to start because the boredom is
deep
.

Alicia Cruz
Is wondering if anyone would notice if she slipped out for
un rato
to go to the beach.

“The answer is yes. They'd notice.”

Alicia jumped. She hadn't realized there was a girl standing behind her. She was petite, with straight brown hair. She was also curvy in all the right places—like Salma Hayek's mini-me. She was wearing a girlie pink blouse with ruffles and an orange bouclé skirt. It wasn't Alicia's style, but the girl was rocking it.

“You must be Alicia Cruz,” the girl said confidently.

“That's me,” Alicia said, reaching out to shake the outstretched hand.

“I'm Sarita Lopez. I just moved to town from Atlanta, and, since my school got out earlier than almost everyone's, I started working here, two weeks ago.”

Sarita took a seat at the next desk, and it was all Alicia could do not to jump for joy. Maybe there was hope for this internship after all.

“So, have you met Lori?” Sarita asked as she sorted through a huge stack of papers on her desk.

“Uh, yeah,” Alicia said. “I've also been sitting here, staring at my computer screen, for nearly two hours now. I say hello to people, but nobody stops to talk or to give me something to do.”

“Trust me, I know,” Sarita said. “I spent my entire first week getting Lori coffee and hanging out on Facebook. The thing is, everyone here is too busy to deal with the interns, even the intern supervisor. You've got to just go to a department and tell them you'll do anything: get them lunch, make copies, do research at the library.”

Alicia nodded. Sarita's advice made sense. “It would've been nice if my dad had given me a heads-up,” she said. But then it hit her: her father had no clue what life was like as a lowly intern. He was one of the busy people.

“Does your dad work here?” Sarita asked.

Alicia nodded. “Yeah, but he's in a different department.”

Of course, at that very moment, Lori walked by. “Her father is the deputy mayor,” she said. “So don't let her try to get you to do all of her work.”

It took every ounce of control for Alicia not to roll her eyes.

Lori walked away, and Alicia wondered if Sarita were now going to start giving her attitude. But Sarita just said, “Deputy mayor, nice.” Then, turning toward Lori's closed office door, she added, “Don't hate the player, hate the game, honey.”

Alicia grinned. Sarita was cool. “So, what are you working on?” she asked.

Sarita smiled and began stapling sheets of paper. “I talked my way into a hybrid-and-alternative-fuel project with the Miami Green department.”

Alicia was impressed. “That sounds pretty sweet,” she said.

“I'm a science geek, so it's perfect,” Sarita said, shrugging.

Alicia flipped through the departmental guide to the mayor's office. “I have no idea where to begin.”

Sarita took a break from her stapling. “Well, what do you like to do?”

Alicia took a big breath. That was a complicated question. She decided to go with the simplest answer. “I've been taking dance classes since I was a kid, and I love to choreograph things for the annual school talent show. And I
love
pop culture. I was going to do an internship at
Ocean Side
magazine, but this was an opportunity too good to pass up. Oh, that, and
Ocean Side
denied me. But I figure this internship will help balance out all my dancing when it comes time to apply to college. I'm hoping for Harvard.” Alicia smiled, suddenly sort of embarrassed. She'd just spilled—a lot. Luckily, Sarita seemed unfazed.

“Well, the Office of Film and Cultural Affairs is always looking for help,” Sarita pointed out.

Alicia shot out of her chair, her eyes shining. “Oh, my God, I'm so there. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Sarita said, returning to the stacks of files on her desk. “You know, for an environmental department, Miami Green still generates a heck of a lot of paperwork.”

An hour later, Alicia's desk was as crammed as Sarita's.

“What's all that?” Sarita asked.

“Film permits for people who want to film music videos in Miami.” Alicia smiled.

“Anyone I would've heard of?”

“Hmmm, yeah,” Alicia said. She began to rattle off a list of names: “Miley Cyrus, Lupe Fiasco, Franz Ferdinand, but even more, there are requests from groups I've never heard of, from all over the world—Japan, Brazil, Sweden, Jamaica, Bermuda.”