A Formal Affair (6 page)

How many of her older brother's comic books had she read over the years? Dozens, possibly hundreds. Really, having done all that reading, she should have seen the evil geniuses coming.

AT 5:10 THAT
evening, Carmen sprinted from school to the bus stop and then waited nearly an hour for the bus to South Beach. She felt like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland
. She was late, very late, for a very important date. Even though she was wearing heels, the minute the bus pulled up to her stop, she got out and sprinted toward Las Ramblas. She loved living in Miami, but without a ride from Gaz, her brother, her older siblings, or her parents—all the lucky people she knew who were old enough to drive
and
own a car—getting around town was sort of miserable. That was one thing she'd forgotten over the last year, while she was dating Domingo. He'd been a senior in high school (she was a sophomore), with a license and a set of wheels, a classic red and white Mini Cooper that he'd gotten for a steal because his brother-in-law ran a used-BMW dealership. She'd felt so cool in Domingo's car. Running down Ocean Drive now at the speed of light? Not so much.

Her mood didn't improve when she arrived at the restaurant. From the look of things and the icy stares the cousins were shooting at each other, it was clear that the Reinoso girls were still on the outs. Carolina sat next to Alicia and sulked. Patricia sat on the other side of Jamie, cross-armed and furious-looking. Who knew that party-planning could feel so much like combat duty, Carmen thought as she speed-walked over to the table. She slid into the booth next to Carolina. She knew that she shouldn't choose favorites, but she had to admit that bookish Carolina was more her kind of girl than Patricia, the popular jock.

“Sorry I'm late,” Carmen apologized. She glanced at Alicia and was relieved to see that her friend did not look stressed by her tardiness.

“Don't sweat it,” Alicia said. “The buses were terrible today.”

The girls shared a moment of commiseration about Miami's atrocious public transportation.

“
Quinceañeras
are hot,” Jamie said, “don't get me wrong. But I can't wait until sweet-sixteen time, when I can get a real driver's license.”

Carmen sighed. “I've been so busy that I haven't even gotten my learner's permit.”

“Which one of your parents is going to teach you how to drive?” Carolina asked, speaking up for the first time since they'd sat down.

“Well,” Carmen began—because the question really wasn't as easy as it would have appeared—“I have four parents. My dad is a
telenovela
producer who gets driven to and from the set half the time by some hapless production assistant. So he's out. The only reason he would teach me would be to turn me into his chauffeur. My stepmother, Natalia, is an actress and kind of a big star in Venezuela. She already thinks that my brother and sister and I are the hired help. She'd probably just teach us how to tip the valet at her favorite spas and salons. My stepfather, Christian, is British, and while he's lived in Miami for practically forever, I'm pretty sure that just the way you can see my Grandmother Ruben translating from Spanish to English when she talks, Christian is mentally switching the road back and forth while he drives.…”

“So that leaves your mom, right?” Alicia said. She turned to the cousins. “You guys know Carmen's mom?”

“Head of the math department, right?” Patricia replied, nodding. “I had her for integrated algebra, and I worked my butt off for a C-plus.”

Patricia was right. Carmen's mom could be a taskmaster—in the classroom and at home. Which was why Carmen was just a little nervous about having her help teach her to drive. When Carmen's older sister, Una, was learning how to drive, their mom actually made her take a tape measure and measure the distance from the car to the curb, the bumper to the fire hydrant, and one car to another when they were seated in traffic. Una and their mom barely spoke to each other for weeks after Una failed her driver's test the second time. Carmen took a deep breath. All this talking and thinking about the learning process made public transportation look pretty darned good.

With the small talk over, the girls moved on to the next order of business: the menu. They ordered half a dozen small plates of various items to share at the table: fried calamari, garbanzo beans with chorizo, sautéed clams, seafood paella, and Spanish potato-and-spinach tortillas.

While they all sat starving and somewhat distracted by the enticing smells coming from the kitchen, Alicia used the lull in activity as an opportunity to get to the real reason they were there: the
quinceañeras
.

Amigas Inc. had planned so many
quinceañeras
that they had more than enough expertise to walk the birthday girls through the experience. The most important decision, the one that would affect everything, from the
quince
dress to the food and decorations, was picking a theme. That was what needed to happen today. Alicia passed out the folders with theme topics that Jamie and Carmen had compiled with their own original Amigas Inc. logo on the cover.

“This is exciting,” Carolina said, flipping through the checklist and the photos of former clients enjoying their special day.

“It's pretty haute,” Patricia said. “Haute,” as in haute couture, was fashion-conscious South Beach slang for
hot
.

“So, let's talk about your theme,” Alicia said. “What do you have in mind?”

Carolina and Patricia said, simultaneously, “I want a princess theme.”

Carolina added, “After all, I'll be looking for places to wear my crown.”

And just like that, it was back to rough waters.

Patricia turned to Jamie. “Do you see what I mean?” she hissed. “Señorita Spoiled Rotten just assumes she's going to win.”

You could practically see the steam coming out of Carolina's ears. “No, what I assume is that if there's something I really want, you're going to want it, too.”

Carmen had had enough stress for one day. Trying to defuse the tension, she said, “Look,
chicas
, we don't really do princess-themed
quinces
. So there is no reason to fight over that idea anyway. Not if you are going to stick with us.”

Jamie passed around the platter of salsa
verde
and chips. “Yeah, we kind of have a no-princess rule. It's not creative enough.”

Carolina and Patricia exchanged glances, and for a moment they seemed to put their feuding aside. “But it's our
quince
, right?” Patricia said, tentatively.

“Isn't the customer always right?” Carolina added.

“
Absolutamente
,” Alicia agreed. “But if you really want something as basic as a princess theme, then you don't need the Amigas, you just need an hour-long pit stop at any ol' party shop.”

Carolina and Patricia thought for a moment, and then, with the quiet understanding that two girls who have been raised practically as sisters develop, they said in unison, “Nope, we give in.”

Patricia looked at her cousin tenderly, the earlier anger evaporating, and said, “We want it to be special.”

“We've been dreaming about this since we were little,” Carolina added. “We want it to be unique.”

“Okay, great, then that's settled. No princesses. How many guests are you planning on having?” Jamie asked Patricia.

“I don't know,” Patricia mused. “What's average? A hundred guests?”

Everyone said that they wanted a small
quince
, but truthfully, a
quince
was one of those rare occasions when economies of scale dictated that it made as much sense to have a ton of people as it did to have just a few. As it was, if you had the traditional court, it was seven girls, seven guys, and the honoree made the fifteenth person. Even if you just added those in the immediate family, then you were looking at another five people. That was twenty people right there. And that was before you'd even included your dear old
abuela
, or your cousins on both sides, or your dad's best friend from childhood, whom you called Tío because he was like the cool uncle you never had.

If you invited classmates, then social graces—and good manners—dictated that you invite the whole class. Whether it was everyone in your econ class or all the girls on your soccer team, that was another twenty kids, more if they brought dates. Which meant that at the end of the day, any girl whose family had made the financial commitment to a big blowout
quinceañera
was looking at inviting a staggering number of people. Patricia wasn't far off—a hundred guests was just about right…as a starting point!

But there was one difference in this case. Alicia pointed to Patricia and said, “A hundred guests for you.” Then she turned to Carolina and said, “Plus, a hundred guests for you. That's two hundred guests in total—minimum. Two hundred and twenty-five, if we leave ourselves some wiggle room for uninvited tagalongs and well-meaning party crashers.”

“There's bound to be some numbers-swelling in a party this size,” Jamie noted as she took a sip of her Arnold Palmer, a lemonade-and-iced-tea drink (named after the legendary golf player) to which she'd become addicted since dating Dash.

“Exactly. Which means we need a venue—a big one,” Alicia said, flipping through the photo file of event spaces she kept on her iPod.

“If we weren't holding the winter formal there, the New York Loft at The Setai would be perfect,” Carmen said.

Patricia looked interested. “I like the idea of a loft space. I want something a little dark, cutting-edge, cool.”

“I was thinking, if we aren't going with a princess theme, a beach
quince
might be nice,” Carolina said tentatively. “Outdoors. Something tropical and sweet. Tiki lights. Lots and lots of flowers.”

The easy feeling that had settled over the table went away again as Patricia scowled. “A beach
quince
?” she scoffed. “Picture me trying to walk across the sand in stiletto heels. No way.

“It's too bad winter formal isn't sooner,” she growled, ripping a paper napkin to shreds. “That way, the queen could decide what kind of
quince
she wanted to have.”

Carolina snorted. “If the queen gets to choose, then not only would we have a beach
quince
, but I'd advise you to get a waterproof dress, because me and my
damas
might have to make sure you go for a little swim. You do like exercise, right,
prima
?”

Patricia stood up, looking as if she were ready to exercise more than just her freedom of speech.

Jamie, who knew a thing or two about losing your cool at inopportune moments, put a reassuring hand on Patricia's shoulder. “Chill,
chica
,” Jamie said. “
No vale la pena.
It's not worth it.”

While the
primas hermanas
bickered, Carmen was quietly going through winter formal files on her iPad, on loan from the school's events office. Smiling, she looked up. “I've got it,” she said. “The solution to all of our problems.”

Patricia, still hot under the collar, asked, “Does it involve feeding all the snobs at the table to a Miami gator?”

Carolina's eyes narrowed. “You are so childish,” she hissed.

“Says the girl who threatened to dunk me at my own
quince
,” Patricia shot back.

“Order in the court, order in the court,” Carmen called out, using the unopened bottle of Pellegrino on the table as a gavel.

Carmen held up her iPad: “Exhibit A, the Biltmore, one of Coral Gables's oldest, most beautiful hotels.”

Alicia nodded. “I'd forgotten all about the Biltmore. We've always wanted to have a
quince
there.”

“Well, now's our chance. It's gorgeous,” Jamie said, approvingly. “What do you think, Patricia?”

“It's kind of like something out of
Twilight
,” she said, looking at the photos. “Like an old castle. I like it.”

Carolina was determined to disagree with her cousin. “It's not like
Twilight
at all. It's more like a royal fairy-tale setting.”

Carmen sighed. “Does that mean you like it?”

Carolina nodded. “It's the perfect setting to celebrate my victory as winter formal queen.”

Before Patricia could respond, Carmen jumped up and said, “Okay, now we need a theme, and I propose…Exhibit B.”

She held up the iPad again. “A masked ball, like the kind they have every year in Venice. The dress code is eighteenth-century formal: powdered wigs, corsets, hoop gowns, the works.”

There was silence.

“What do you think?” Carmen was a little nervous that the
primas
would be so intent on squabbling that their planning for the
quinceañera
would be totally sidetracked.

“I like it,” Patricia finally said. “The mask should cover up all of her ugly.”

Apparently, that was just too much for Carolina to handle. All the anger vanished, and she looked as if she had been slapped. Her eyes filled with tears.