Cuba 15 (20 page)

33

The seasons had finally changed. Tulips and buds on the trees erased all memories of windchill factors and icy snow. Some called it spring. But for me, it was quince season.

Janell, Leda, and I sprawled in our usual niches in Janell’s bedroom, reading. Pale spring sunshine bled through the sheers of the French doors, spotted by the shadows of jonquils dancing out in the wind. I’d just emerged unscathed from complete disaster in Caroline B. Cooney’s
Flash Fire
. Janell was reading Sara Ryan’s
Empress of the
World
, the novel I’d given her for her birthday the week before, and who knew what trip Leda was on. I sat quietly in the window seat, not wanting to break the silence.

“Oh, man, would you listen to this!” Leda nearly capsized the beanbag chair. “Women are
still
only earning seventy-two cents on the dollar, compared to men!”

Janell and I raised our eyebrows at each other. She’d done it again.

“What’s that?” I said to Leda.

“That’s up from fifty-nine cents in 1970, the first year anybody gave enough of a damn to check, according to
Ms.
magazine.” She looked back and forth between us. “It sucks being oppressed.”

“I know,” said Janell, shutting her book. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll write a whole speech on it for Oratory next year!” Leda was already polishing a Declamation routine, cut from Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of
Woman,
which she planned to perform at my
quince
. Turns out if it’s not assigned by a teacher, Leda doesn’t mind homework.

“Well, you’d better have your other diatribe ready by the weekend for dress rehearsal, girl,” I warned. Flora had agreed to let us use the dance studio space. “I’m as bad as The Ax when it comes to practicing. We’re not going home until it’s perfect.”

“It will be perfect,” said Janell.

We had revamped the program, turning “All the World’s a Stage” into a fitting spectacle. To break the ice, I would start off with my Loco Family routine. That first performance slot always did give me an edge. Leda had accepted the challenge of following my spectacular act with her women’s rights speech; then came my show tunes recital, and finally Janell would perform the dance/verse combination she’d put together.

Then the
quince
-babe would take center stage again. Dad and I could now dance a passable facsimile of a waltz, though at times we played the
timbales
with our knees. After the ceremonial dance, my
responsabilidades
would be over for the night and I could have some fun.

“I wish you would’ve let me invite Brian for my date,” said Leda, the only guy-crazy vegetarian feminist activist I knew.

“Brian, from the rally? I thought you said he was a jerk and you gave him a fake phone number. Anyway, we’re not doing dates,” I reminded her yet again.

“Get out. You invited Clarence.”

I
had
invited Clarence. “And his family,
idiota
. He’s not my date. I just want him to be there.”

“You want him to see you in that dress,” said Janell, getting up from the rug and pulling her own gown out of the closet. “Aren’t they fabulous?” She pressed the exotic sage-colored garment to her chest and pirouetted for us.

But Leda wasn’t through with me. “By the way, Paz, how are you planning to fill yours out on top?” This, from the individual in present company with the least volume of chest. “Do you want to wear my Halloween bra?”

“What Halloween bra?”

“The 36D I stuffed with Styrofoam chips. You know, the one I wore with my costume? I think it’s still under my bed.”

“No, thanks, Leed. You can wear it.”

She grimaced.

Janell smirked. “ ‘She’s a woman phenomenally . . .’ ”

I sighed modestly and lifted my eyes to the ceiling. “ ‘Phenomenal woman, that’s me.’ ”

“Aaugh!” groaned Janell.

Leda threw her magazine at me.

Later that night, I sat in my room, just sort of drinking it all in. It was really going to happen. The hall was waiting, the tuxes were ordered, the out-of-town guests had confirmed. Amazingly, Mom’s sister and parents would be flying in from Philly, and they had sent two large, silver-wrapped boxes for me. Abuela had shipped ahead the Miami furnishings that were too big to carry: an oversized guest book with a purple velvet cover and handmade-paper pages; several flat satin cushions in lilac meant for the gift display; and eighty-plus
capias,
party favors made of violet-hued ribbon, stamped with little, gold, smiling and frowning Janus masks. A gold inscription read, “
Todo
el
mundo, el teatro
—Violet Paz, 15 Years,” and the date.

Not so many months ago, I hadn’t even heard of any of this stuff. Now it gave me a thrill. But as the day approached, the old worries came scurrying in and out. I beat them back with a mental stick: I wouldn’t be wearing a disgusting pink dress, I’d be in gorgeous costume. My speech was honed to perfection, and I’d even practiced a few Oscar-style words in appreciation of my sponsors. Bonus-plus: my little brother, who seemed to have grown a foot this year and was looking more and more like Dad, would not embarrass me. I had seen to that.

“So,
hermanito
of mine . . .” I hooked an arm around Mark’s neck in the anonymity of the crowded airport as we waited for Abuela and Abuelo’s plane to land. Dad was spending part of his birthday driving around in circles outside, to avoid parking. “You realize my
quince
is coming up.”

Mark pulled a stupid face. “No! Re-e-eally?”

I kicked him and squeezed his neck harder. “As your older sister, I would like to request that you act on your best behavior.” I gave him a doe-eyed look and let go of him. “Please. This is really important to me.”

The light of Satan filled his eyes. “No problem-
o
,” he lied in Spanglish.

“And don’t wear your Cubs hat,” I said, noticing that he wasn’t wearing it now. The season had opened six weeks ago.

“No problem-
o
.”

“And don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?”

“Or,” I said with my own devilish grin, “I’ll tell Cathy Hennessy you like her.” Mark seemed to have lost his aversion to the female sex along with his baseball cap, and I had filed the information away for blackmail purposes.

“Okay,” he mumbled, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, suddenly fascinated by the guy in coveralls waving the plane in with those orange sticks.

“What’d you say, Mark?”

“Okay,”
he said through his teeth. “Your wish is my command.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say, little brother.”

Abuelo was sleeping in, and Dad left for work, leaving Mom, Abuela, Mark, and me at the breakfast table.

I passed Abuela the sugar for her
café
.

“
Gracias,
Violeta,” she said. If she was tired herself, you’d hardly know it. Eight-fifteen in the morning, and my grandmother looked fresh as a painted daisy in a crisp yellow cotton robe, creased in the sleeves. She had twisted her silver hair into an impeccable bun, trimming off any stray wisps. Since I’d seen her in September, she had discovered lip gloss, and today sported a shade and texture I’d call Cherry Tar Pit Slicker.

Mom finished her PowerBar and pushed away from the table. “I’ve got an accounting exam at nine o’clock.” She leaned over to kiss Mark and me. To Abuela, she said, “I’ll see you this afternoon.” And off she went.

“I’ve gotta get going too,” said Mark, gulping the rest of his milk. “Got someone to meet.” He jumped up.

Abuela raised a black-penciled eyebrow at me. Before Mark could dash, she said, “
Un
minuto,
mee-ster!”

“Huh?”

“Your dee-shes.” She nodded for him to clear them away. “You are old enough to know better.”

He did as she said, grabbed his books from the Death Throne, and bolted out the side door.

Way to go, Abuela! “I’m so glad you’re here,” I told her.

She smiled glossily. “Are you excited?”

“Um, yeah!” I answered, surprised it was so true. “It was really fun putting together the show. It’s going to be great. And the dress, and the tiara . . . thanks, Abuela. Thanks for getting me into this. If it weren’t for you, I would never have known about
quinces.
”

Her smile went awry. “Well, your father would not have been much help,
por supuesto
. I suppose that is my fault, a lee-tle bit.”

“I thought you told Dad it was
his
fault if he wasn’t paying attention while he was growing up.”

She sighed. “I say that. But is the
mujer
who makes the tradition, always. For the men,
no tenemos expectaciones
. For why do you think the
quinceañero
exists only for the girls?”

I didn’t know.

“Because is the woman who carries the tradition forward.”

She paused.

“The man, he has the
tradición
in his blood. But is the woman who put it there, who make sure—how you say?—
que se viva.
”

“That it lives on?”

“Sí. Pero, Alberto, he wanted to be different. The old ways were not for him.
Pues
. . .” She
tch
ed, her tongue sharp. “With your father, I could never say no, yes?”

We sat in silence a few moments.

“Anyway,” she said, brightening, “tell me, Violeta. What are you going to do with your new
libertades
?”

“What new
libertades
?”

“
Pues
, the ones that go along with your
responsabilidades,
silly. Life is not all work and no fun, yes?”

Yes. Whatever she meant, I had a feeling she was right.

“When will you make your first
viaje
? Maybe coming to see Abuelo and me?”

A dim hope winged its way skyward. “Well—I’d like to go on the junior trip to Mexico next year. With my Spanish class.”

Sticky lips framed a smile as bright as wildfire. “For the
clase de español
? This is wonderful!” Abuela had always wanted to be able to speak Spanish with me.

“Well, I won’t exactly learn the whole language in seven days,” I acknowledged. “Besides, I doubt if Dad will let me go.”

“
¿Qué es esto?
Alberto won’t let you go?” She muttered something else in Spanish too quickly and ferociously for me to interpret.

She patted my arm, looked me in the eye, and said, “
No
te preocupes
. Leave it to me.”

Later on, that night, a knock came at my door, and Dad stuck a brown polyester pants leg inside. “Violet?”

“Yeah, Dad.” I pushed back from my desk.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

My social studies book lay untouched in front of me. “I’m—not much. Just sitting here.”

“Sitting is good,” he said, standing there, his fuchsia polo shirt clashing brilliantly with the dull house-paint brown of his pants.

“So, what are you up to?” I prompted.

“Well, I’ve got some journal reading to catch up on, and Mark wants me to fix the chain on his bike. And I have some ironing to do,” he said, sitting down on my bed.