“Look at your shirt,” I tell him. “You got glue all over it.”
“Do I?” He looks down at the glue stain.
“You’re so
messy
,” Ms. Cantu teases.
My dad laughs at himself. “I’m like a little kid.”
Then they both giggle. Everything is suddenly cute.
“You
are
a little kid,” I yell. “What kind of adult would let his daughter walk home in the dark when all these kidnappers are about?
Don’t you ever watch the news?”
Maybe I’m overreacting, but I can’t help it. First, I’m losing Vanessa to Carlos. Now I feel as if I’m losing Dad to Ms. Cantu.
So I stomp out. I sit on the hood of the car like I did after the volleyball slap. I know my dad will follow. I know he’ll
admit his mistake and apologize. And I know that I’ll hold my grudge with a grip worthy of a pit bull.
La mejor palabra es la que no se dice –
The best word is the one that is not spoken
T
he next day, my dad insists I help with the wedding that Ms. Cantu’s been hired to decorate. I don’t want to go. This is the
night I should be at the
quinceañera
with Luís. Working for Ms. Cantu is Vanessa’s job, but she’s been with her dad all weekend. Now I’m stuck with her chores.
The wedding reception is at Moravian Hall, a place that smells like cigarettes and beer. It’s got a low ceiling with a disco
ball. A disc jockey sets up speakers on a stage that’s only one foot high. Ladies in hairnets walk in with pots of
menudo
, a Tex-Mex soup made from the stomach lining of a cow. When I see the single girl on top of the cake, I realize that these
people are too poor or too cheap to pay a little extra for a topper that includes the groom.
My dad brings in the boxes, then starts filling little bowls with peanuts and mints. Meanwhile, I dress the tables with linen,
then put a candle on a mirrored circle for the centerpiece. The cake and gift tables are special, so they get ruffled skirts
too. Ms. Cantu shows me how to attach them with pins, each about an inch long and topped by pearl drops. While I dress the
tables, she dusts the flower arrangements.
“I’m going to help your dad now,” Ms. Cantu says. She tucks her crutches under her arms, hops in a clumsy way, and accidentally
drops the pins.
“Ay, Lina,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I’ve made a mess.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “You go ahead. I’ll pick them up.”
I get on my hands and knees. What a hassle. The pins are all over the floor. I need to crawl halfway under the tablecloth
to get them. I know my butt’s in the air, but I don’t worry about it… that is… until… I hear a familiar voice.
“Lina?”
As soon as I hear my name, I scramble under the table to hide, but I’m not fast enough. A hand lifts up the table skirt, and
there he is—Luís! I’m wearing tattered jeans, a sweatshirt with bleach spots, tennis shoes with red dust from the track, and
socks from my sock heaven drawer, which means they’re faded and holey and stretched out. I know it’s not the nicest outfit,
but I didn’t want to get my good clothes dirty. How embarrassing to be caught in this ugly outfit and crawling around like
a baby.
He laughs. “What are you d-doing here?”
“Helping Vanessa’s mom with the decorations. What are
you
doing here?”
“My cousin,” he says.
Now the cake makes sense. This isn’t a wedding but a
quinceañera.
Leave it to my dad to get the details wrong.
Luís holds out his hand and helps me up. My hair’s a mess and my elbows and knees are full of dirt from the floor. Meanwhile,
Luís is in a tuxedo again.
“D-do you think you can stay?” he asks.
“Looking like this?”
He nods.
“But it’s embarrassing. Everyone’s going to make fun of me.”
“So? At least you’ll b-be comfortable.”
He’s got a point. I don’t have to look like Cinderella to go to the ball.
“I’ll ask your dad myself,” he says.
“But I’m being grounded,” I try to explain as Luís marches toward my father.
I stay back, too nervous to hear their conversation. They talk on and on. I had no idea they had so much in common. Finally,
my dad waves me over while Luís grabs his parents and his
abuela.
“Isn’t puppy love sweet?” they say, smiling at us and making me feel like a cute monkey at the zoo.
Maybe my dad’s feeling guilty about forgetting me last night, or maybe he’s getting over my bad English grade, or maybe he
doesn’t want to be a bad sport—whatever the reason, he decides to let me stay. He and Ms. Cantu are going to grab dinner (hopefully
at Dairy Queen this time) and return in a few hours to pick up the decorations… and, of course, me.
Soon the dance hall is full of people. Lots of classmates from Baker are here, including Jason, who’s escorting one of the
damas
, the fourteen girls that act like bridesmaids and are supposed to represent each year of the birthday girl’s life.
I sit at the table with Luís’s family while we eat dinner. I can’t think of anything to say, and my chewing seems extra loud,
as if someone put a tiny microphone in my cheek. How can I
not
feel self-conscious when Luís’s family keeps smiling at me—the kind of smiles that make me wonder if my zipper’s undone or
if I’ve got food stuck on my teeth? At first I was excited about staying at the dance, but now, I’m nervous. I’d do anything
for the silence to end, but when it
does
end, I find myself wishing life had a slow-motion button because Luís’s family talks fast.
“Do you like school?” they ask.
“Are you planning a
quinceañera,
too?”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Are you excited about the holidays? We always go to Mexico. What does your family do?”
“Do you make tamales for Christmas?”
“Yeah, have you learned how to cook? You know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“¡Ya!”
Luís says, laughing. “This is supposed to be a d-date, not a job interview.”
“Oooh, a date,” his parents tease.
“Well,
m’ijo,
go ahead and enjoy your ‘date,’” his mother says. “Just pretend like we’re not here.” She winks at her husband, and he winks
back.
Thank goodness the lights dim. The DJ plays some
conjuntos,
and Luís’s parents leave the table to dance. It’s not as awkward sitting around with his
abuela.
She looks straight at me with warm, honest eyes that make me feel as if she’s my
abuela,
too.
“You must be a very smart girl,” she says, “to see how special
m’ijo
is.” She pinches Luís’s cheek, and he takes her hand to kiss it.
“Now you two go and dance,” she says.
“I can’t,” Luís says.
“Neither can I,” I add.
“You young people! You’re not allowed to say ‘can’t’ till you need a walker like me.” She shoos us away, so we head to a corner
of the floor to study the dancers.
“How are you going to dance for the presentation?” I ask.
Luís shrugs. He seems a little worried about it.
When the song ends, his parents spot us.
“Come on,” they say. “You can’t stand here all night.”
“But… ,” Luís tries.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Mendoza says as if Luís has spoken a whole sentence. “We’re going to teach you how to dance.”
They take us to an empty part of the floor.
“Put this hand here and this hand here,” they say, arranging our arms as if we were puppets. “Now listen to the beat.”
We listen to a country-and-western song.
“Is it a slow-slow-quick-quick or an even one-two-three?” they ask.
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I listen, and sure enough, I hear it.
“It’s a slow-slow-quick-quick,” I say.
“That’s right. Now look. This is how you do the Texas two-step.”
They demonstrate while Luís and I follow. It doesn’t take me long to realize that we’re making
T
s with our steps. Of course, Luís’s parents are much more graceful. Somehow their
T
s are round and sweeping, while mine and Luís’s are stiff and square. But I’m having fun.
After the song ends, the DJ puts on some Spanish music.
“This is a
cumbia,
” Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza say. They tell Luís and me to stand side by side. Then they talk us through the steps. “Right step
long,” they say. “Left step short. Then left step long, right step short.”
We try it. It’s a little like skipping.
“Move your hips. Be movie stars,” his mom says.
We try, but it’s hard moving the hips and stepping forward at the same time.
“Get fancy,” his parents urge while his dad spins his mom.
We try the spin too, but I’m so tall I practically kneel to get beneath Luís’s arm.
After the macarena, the bunny hop, and a few more songs, the lights turn on.
“Okay,” the DJ says, “we need all the
damas
and escorts to line up because it’s time for the presentation.” He does a drumroll and ends with the clang of cymbals.
Everyone lines up—the parents, godparents, grandparents, important neighbors, and finally the
damas
and escorts. The DJ plays a jazzy saxophone piece called “Europa,” and when he calls their names, the couples walk under
the heart-shaped
arco
and down the center of the dance floor. When they get to the end of the floor, everyone claps and cheers, then the couples
separate and line up to watch the next couple.
When Luís shows up beneath the
arco,
I have to laugh because he’s with a girl who looks like she’s still in elementary school. Most of the couples are oddly matched.
They look clumsy and nervous—except for Jason and his date. I hate to admit it, but Jason’s popular for a reason. He’s everyone’s
idea of cute—everyone else’s, that is. My idea of cute is dark skin, curly hair, and glasses like Luís’s. The next time I
wish on a star, I’m wishing that Jason gets zits or nose hairs.
By the time the last couple appears, all the boys are lined up on one side of the floor and the girls on the other.
I’ve never asked for a
quinceañera
because I could never act as girly as Luís’s cousin. She’s got a fairy tale dress with ruffles, lace, sequins, petticoats,
and a crown. She makes the queen of England look like a peasant.
“And now presenting,” the DJ says with another drumroll, “the beautiful, the elegant, Miss Oralia Cruz!”
We give her a standing ovation. When Miss Oralia Cruz gets to the center of the floor, she and her partner dance. They have
the floor to themselves for a while. Everyone sighs about how beautiful she is. Then, one by one, the couples along the sides
dance too.
That’s it. That’s the presentation. The lights go off again, and the DJ puts on some disco music. We all go to the floor and
jump around like barefoot kids on hot cement.
Now I know the meaning of “time flies when you’re having fun.” Before I know it, the DJ announces the last song.
“It was nice meeting you,” Mrs. Mendoza says, giving me a hug. Then she tells Luís, “We’re going to walk your grandma to the
car. We’ll wait for you outside.”
She helps
Abuela
from the table, takes the old lady’s elbow, and when they’re almost out of sight, Luís grabs my hand and leads me to the
dance floor. I don’t know if the song’s a one-two-three or a slow-slow-quick-quick. It doesn’t matter. We just hold each other
and sway. I rest my cheek on his shoulder. I don’t care if I have to stoop. I’m too lost in the moment—until someone bumps
into us.
All of the sudden, we’re dancing on eggshells because it’s Jason. He didn’t bother us the whole night. Why now?
“Hey, Luís,” Jason says, “where’s your ladder?”
“My ladder?”
“Yeah, the one you climb to kiss your girlfriend.” He and his girlfriend laugh.
“S-s-
ssss,
” Luís tries.
“So how long did it take to think up that brilliant insult?” I tell Jason.
But he ignores me. “So what’s it like dating a girl who acts like a cage fighter?”
“I-it’s…”
I say, “More interesting than dating a guy who wears his brains in his underwear like you, Jason.”
“Do you fight
all
your boyfriend’s battles?” he says. Then, turning to Luís, he adds, “Is she your girlfriend or bodyguard?”
Suddenly I remember the conversation I had with Luís a few weeks ago. Once again, I didn’t let him speak, and now our Texas
two-step has turned into a giant Texas misstep.
“I, I guess she wants to be my b-b-bodyguard.”
The song ends, and the lights turn on.
“Guess the p-p-party’s over,” Luís says, turning to walk away.
“Just a sec,” I try.
“Forget it, Lina. Really. It’s okay.”
When he walks off, I’m too ashamed to follow. I can feel his anger even though he’s tried to cover it up.
“Hey, Lina,” Jason says. “A guy and a girl go to a dance. The girl messes up. The guy runs out the door at the rate of five
yards a second. How long does it take for him to ditch his date?”
I can’t say anything. My voice went out the door with Luís. All I can do is run to the restroom to hide.
I stay there till the noise stops. When I come out, the DJ’s packing his equipment, the janitor is sweeping the floor, and
my dad and Ms. Cantu are undressing the tables.
“There you are,” they say.
I give them a weak smile.
“You okay?” my dad asks.
“Yes.”
“Because it looks like you’ve been crying.”
“I wasn’t crying, Dad. All that cigarette smoke. It irritates my eyes.”
“Okay,” he says, though I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
We load the truck, and I sit in the back, wanting to disappear.
When we get to Ms. Cantu’s, my dad and I carry the
arco
to her garage.
“I can take the rest of the boxes,” I say.
“All by yourself?” my dad asks.
I nod. I really want to be alone, and unloading the boxes will help me feel better.