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Authors: Diana Rodriguez Wallach

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Chapter 24
W
hen I got home, I had the distinct urge to e-mail Alex. He had been popping into my head a lot lately, and the more things pushed forward with my party, the more I wished he could be there with me. So, after dinner when Lilly headed into her room to finish her math homework, I plopped in front of my laptop. As soon as I logged onto my e-mail, I saw two messages in my inbox. One from Vince and one from Bobby.
I opened Vince's first. (It had arrived two hours before my locker buddy's.)
Hey! I scored $20 today because one of the brothers didn't think I'd streak my English Comp class. It was freaking hysterical! I wore this crazy ninja mask, and bolted down the center aisle, my junk flappin in the breeze, until some dude blocked the exit. I had to turn around, go back out the front door, run naked through the arts quad, by a daycare center and into the woods. Thank God I still had my clothes in my backpack. It was classic! Everyone's talking about it! You gotta visit!
—Vince
I placed my hand on my forehead as I shook my head at the screen. At least he didn't send a picture.
I clicked open Bobby's e-mail.
Hi Mariana,
I wanted to thank you again for everything you did today. It was very cool of you to set up that meeting with Pruitt. I would have never done that on my own.
I hope things aren't too crazy with your birthday plans. I'm looking forward to your party. Now that you've met my family, I think it's only fair that I get to meet yours.
See you in school tomorrow.
—Bobby
P.S. I'm glad my locker ended up next to yours.
I read his message again. It was friendly, not flirtatious. He was simply thanking me for my help, which was an appropriate response. I was certain there were tons of etiquette books out there promoting this polite policy. He probably meant nothing more by it than what it said—a straightforward, uncomplicated thank you.
Only as I read it for the third time, I couldn't stop my leg from bouncing. And by the fourth read, I couldn't stop smiling. I decided not to share it with Madison or Emily. And part of me knew that if it were just a friendly message, I wouldn't need to be secretive. I decided not to focus on that part of my brain.
I clicked on the button to compose a new message. I didn't know whether to write to Vince, Bobby, or Alex. A blank message field popped up. I placed my cursor in the “To:” field and paused.
 
“Dear Alex ...”
Chapter 25
B
y Wednesday, my birthday was all anyone could talk about. My mother had turned into a complete party-planning nut. I had called Vince begging him to come home. (He couldn't; he had midterms. Apparently, he was actually going to classes.) He said he'd try to finagle himself into a false emergency by Friday afternoon if I really wanted to call things off this weekend. But I figured it was no use. Even if he did land in the hospital (no doubt because of an alcohol-related incident), my mother still probably wouldn't cancel the party. One of my parents would stay behind to ensure the event continued just to torture me. (Of course they'd think they were doing me a favor.)
At this point, I was certain that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I was turning sixteen. My birthday fell on a Saturday. It was supposed to be a monumental moment, something I'd remember forever. But all I wanted to do was bypass the weekend and go straight to Monday. The idea of spending an entire day as the center of attention, being perky and amusing for hordes of virtual strangers, having dozens of eyes watching my every move, made my palms sweat. I was grateful I had ballet. It gave me an excuse to avoid home—and my mother.
“All right ladies, let's begin,” Madame Colbert ordered, snapping me back to the present situation.
I was seated on the ballet studio floor beside Madison and Emily. We were in final auditions for parts in our upcoming performance of
Sleeping Beauty
. Everyone was gunning for the role of Princess Aurora, but personally I would have been happy just to be a fairy godmother. The idea of granting girls' wishes seemed very appealing at the moment.
Emily was at center stage. She was the last to perform—Madison and I had completed our auditions nearly a half hour ago. We each had to dance Princess Aurora's famous solo from Act I's birthday scene. Madame Colbert used that one choreographed sequence to determine all the parts in the ballet (except for the roles of Aurora's father and her prince in shining tights—we only had two guys in the class, so they always got the two male roles unquestioned).
The spotlights gathered on Emily as Tchaikovsky's classical score filled the background. Her body moved to the music with perfect timing. Her flexibility was stunning, her extension exquisite, her elevation amazing, but her emotional connection felt a little off. Her passion looked more like furor than the joy of a princess celebrating her sixteenth year. (Not that I had much room to talk. For some reason, I couldn't muster up enthusiasm for the role either.) When Emily finished, she sent a wake of sizzling energy through the room. Madison and I gave her a standing ovation.
Madame Colbert stood from her metal folding chair and glanced at her clipboard.
“Girls,” she said, flicking her eyes toward the twenty of us seated on the polished wood floor. “I just need a moment to confirm my decision. I'll be back with the assignments soon; please wait here.”
Our instructor left the room as Emily trudged over, panting. She slumped down beside us.
“Em, you were awesome,” I stated, as she stretched her back like an angry cat.
“Seriously, you nailed it,” Madison added.
“No way,” she said, slowly rolling up. “Mariana, you were the best audition all day.”
“Are you kidding? I'm no Princess Aurora. Trust me, I should be the last girl in the world cast to dance for joy at a sixteenth birthday party.”
My friends laughed.
“True, you might have a hard time selling the role,” Emily joked.
“I think I'd be more believable as the wicked fairy who ruins everything.”
“Hey, don't knock it. That's a good role,” Madison stated.
“I'm not,” I said. “I actually think I'd make one heck of an evil fairy.”
“Oh, please,” Emily whined.
“I'm serious. I wish I had someone to curse me so I could prick my finger and sleep through my party.”
“Oh, Mariana, you're so
dramatic,”
Madison mocked.
“You do not want to quote my father right now,” I said, with a raise of my eyebrow. “I think he's gonna flip when he realizes how much my mom spent on the caterer.”
“That bad?” Emily asked.
“Let's just say I never realized chicken and rice could cost so much. I won't even get into the price of the individual
dulce de leches.
”
“Hey, it's your sixteenth birthday!” Madison cheered. “You only get one. Live it up.”
“I wish I had your enthusiasm.”
Just then, Madame Colbert reopened the door to the studio. She gracefully floated into the center of the room, and we quickly sat up. I watched my fellow ballerinas in the mirrors. They fidgeted, fluttering their knees as they sat cross-legged or tightening their buns over and over. Everyone was wearing full stage makeup, bright red lips, and thickly-lined eyes, hoping to appear more convincing as Princess Aurora.
Sleeping Beauty
would be the biggest production our studio had ever undertaken. We would even be doing some of Marius Petipa's original choreography from the nineteenth century production. Madame Colbert had even rented out a local theater to showcase the ballet. It was to be her studio's shining moment.
When we joined with Madame Colbert more than ten years ago, we were three of only a dozen students. Now she had five instructors and an army of ballerinas. She even taught a ballet boot camp on the weekends for anyone interested in getting into shape with a ballerina's workout. My mom took the class once; it wasn't pretty. She jumped and stretched about two beats behind everyone else, never fully following instructions or understanding the difference between a flexed foot and a pointed one. I clearly did not inherit my talents from her. Afterward, I had to ask that she never take the class again for fear it would negatively impact my instructor's view of my abilities.
“All right girls, I have to say I'm very impressed with all of you.” Madame Colbert lowered her clipboard to her side. “You clearly took this audition very seriously, and I saw some real talent up there. You should all feel very proud.”
We collectively smiled and nodded our heads. I watched in the mirror as Emily chewed her thumbnail. I had never seen her so nervous. Usually she took these auditions in stride; we all did.
“Okay, clearly you've all heard that Gabriel will be our Prince Florimund and Drew will play Aurora's father, King Florestan.”
We all clapped obligatorily, even though the male dancers weren't even present. There was no reason for them to sit through the three-hour female audition rounds when their auditions took all of fifteen minutes. Madame Colbert had made her decision as soon as she selected the ballet.
“Now, for the female lead. This was a tough decision, but I wanted someone who could capture the grace of Aurora. It wasn't all about power or passion or even technique. It had a lot to do with body movement, how she flowed in between the steps, the beauty she expressed through the dance.”
Madison and I looked toward Emily and smiled. I reached over and squeezed her thigh as she wrung her hands together.
“Mariana Ruíz, congratulations!” Madame Colbert cheered, clapping with delight.
All eyes turned to me as the girls erupted in applause. I watched Emily's hands unclench. She slowly placed her palms on her thighs as her head slumped toward her chest. A fellow ballerina leaned over and hugged my shoulders from the side.
But I kept my eyes locked on Emily.
Finally, she took a deep breath and turned to me. “Congratulations,” she whispered with a fake grin.
I mouthed,
“I'm sorry,”
but she had already turned away.
“Emily Montgomery will be the evil fairy Carabosse,” Madame continued in an ominous tone. “The way your body exploded and contorted during auditions, I thought perfectly portrayed the fury in Carabosse's curse on Aurora's sixteenth birthday. Well done.”
Our instructor applauded and smiled at Emily, who was digging her nails into her legs so hard I thought she might draw blood. I rested my hand on her back, but she squirmed away, shaking me off.
Madame Colbert continued through the list of fairies and queens. Almost the entire production was cast in minutes.
Finally she noted, “And Madison Fox will be our Puss 'n Boots. Congratulations.”
Madison's face fell to the floor, her shoulders sinking.
“Puss 'n Boots!” she whined quietly.
“No, Mad, it's good. You have a solo at the end, during the wedding scene!” I stated in my perkiest voice, clapping for her like I really did believe it was a good role.
“But Puss 'n Boots! How do I tell people that?” she shook her head.
“It's better than the wicked witch,” Emily shot back, standing aggressively.
She marched over to her sport bag and shoved her feet into her sneakers.
“Come on, Em, you know Carabosse is a huge role. You're the first person on stage; you have a bunch of solos,” I said, my face locked in the same unnatural grin I had pasted on when the parts were first announced.
“I guess I'm just nobody's princess.”
“Em, don't be like that.”
“No, it's okay. It's your birthday, your role, your life. I'll just keep hanging on the sidelines. It's where I belong anyway. I mean, really, did I actually think something was going to work out for me? How stupid am I?”
“Em... .” I moaned, my eyes sad.
“No, don't worry. I'll go to your party. I'll have fun. I mean, everyone just loves Mariana!”
She grabbed her bag and stomped out of the studio door as my stomach recoiled from the verbal sucker punch. I had never seen her get so angry, and I couldn't believe it was over a ballet performance. She had never cared this much about dance before.
Chapter 26
B
y Saturday morning, it was party central. The caterers had already arrived and were drenched in sweat. I hadn't even gotten a shower, yet there were already hordes of strangers buzzing around my house, setting up the tent, the chairs, the buffets. The party didn't start for another nine hours.
I popped a bagel in the toaster and plopped down at the island with a glass of cranberry juice. I didn't care that I was still wearing my electric blue flannel pajamas with tiny flying pigs, nor that my matted hair was frizzed in hideous waves, nor that my fuzzy pink slippers had multiple rips in the soles from overuse. I was going to sit in my kitchen and eat breakfast like I did every Saturday morning.
“Excuse me, miss. We need some rags. Do you know where some extras are?” asked a twenty-something guy in a white oxford button-down and black pants.
“Aren't you with the caterer?” I asked, sipping my juice as I waited for my bagel.
“Yes.”
“Then shouldn't you bring your own rags?”
The guy's eyes squinted, then he groaned and spun in the opposite direction.
“Not my fault you came unprepared,” I noted under my breath.
“Mariana! You're not in the shower!” my mom hollered as she raced into the kitchen, fastening a dangling diamond hoop to her ear.
She was perfectly styled as if she had been up for hours. Her blond hair was swept up in a loose French twist, her emerald dress was freshly ironed, and her makeup added a beautiful radiance to her fair complexion. She looked like the star of the party.
“Mom, it's ten
A.M.
I have plenty of time.”
“But it's
your
party. It's gonna take a long time to get ready.”
“How long does it take to put on ChapStick?”
“Mariana, this is important. You're gonna get a little more done up than you do for gym class.”
“How do you know what I look like at gym class? I could be one of those skanky girls who wears poom-poom shorts and cherry lipstick to play kick ball.”
“Yeah, sure.” My mom shook her head.
I suddenly heard Tootsie barking from behind our basement door.
“Mom, did you lock our dog in the basement?”
“Of course. I can't have him running around with our guests.”
“He can't be in there all day! What if he has to pee?”
“The caterers are watching him,” she said as if it were obvious.
I doubted the renowned chefs expected dog-sitting to be a part of their high-class party duties. But for what she was paying them, I assumed they'd put up with just about anything (and I was certain she'd push those boundaries).
She looked out toward the tent in the yard. “Oh, no! They're putting the dance floor on the wrong side! Can't these people get anything right?”
She darted toward the sliding glass doors and charged into the yard. I could hear her yelling even after the doors slid shut behind her.
“Ah,
mija. Feliz Cumpleaños,
” my father said as he strolled into the kitchen.
“Hey, you remembered it's my birthday. I think Mom forgot. She's acting like this is some occasion to showcase her party planning skills.”
“Oh, cut her some slack. You know she loves this stuff.” My dad opened the refrigerator and pulled out the egg carton. “Eggs?” he asked, shaking one at me.
It reminded me of my Great Uncle Miguel and my first morning in Utuado. That breakfast with him, when everything was still so foreign and scary, was the one thing that reassured me I was going to be okay.
I smiled at my dad. “No, I'm fine.”
I grabbed my bagel from the toaster and dipped my knife into the cream cheese. I had barely gotten a layer slathered when Lilly stumbled into the kitchen.
“God, is it party day already?” she asked, wrinkles from her sheets still pressed into her face.
“Yup. Look familiar?” I asked as I bit into my breakfast.
Lilly shrugged.
“This is exactly how your house looked before your
Quinceañera
.”
“Except minus every luxurious detail.” Lilly grabbed a box of sugared cereal from the cabinet.
“Not true. Your party was amazing.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” She grabbed a bowl and the carton of milk and sat down beside me. “Mariana, you have a crystal chandelier in your tent.”
“So?”
“You're serving plantains on designer china.”
I blinked back.
“You have a twelve-piece band.”
“You had a band!”
“Not with three different lead singers!”
“Still, your party was very nice.”
“And your party will be off the hook.”
“I may need you to remind me of that, so I don't drown myself in my bath water.”
“Oh, stop being so
dramatic
!” she mocked.
We both looked toward my father. He glanced at us with a wrinkled brow, his eyes confused.
“What?” he asked, pumping his shoulders.
Lilly and I both laughed.
“Nothing,” I muttered. “You can go back to avoiding the
drama.”
“Thanks, I believe I will.”
Lilly and I finished our breakfast together. It was probably the last moment of peace I'd have for quite a while.
 
A few hours later, I sat at Madison's mercy. She had already completed a round of under-eye concealer to hide the dark circles I didn't know I had. Then, she moved on to foundation to cover facial imperfections that never bothered me before. Then, she added liquid bronzer to give my complexion a summer glow in October. And now, Madison was dusting my skin with powder to prevent any unwanted shine. (Apparently there was a distinct difference between a “glow” and a “shine”.)
“Who in their right mind wears this much makeup?” I asked when I glanced in my bathroom mirror. “I look like a drag queen.”
“You do not!” Madison quickly corrected.
“You can barely tell you're wearing anything,” Emily added. She was smiling as if her rant at ballet practice never took place. She seemed happy. I just hoped it was legitimate.
They had both arrived right after lunch. I had stepped out of the shower, and there they were seated in my room with their dresses hung in garment bags on the back of my closet door. They said they were my ‘extreme makeover squad.' I didn't realize I needed one.
“The goal here is for you to look like you, only better,” Madison explained, as she took out a giant palette of eye shadows.
“What's wrong with me actually looking like me?”
“Because you look like that every day. Today is special. It's your Sweet Sixteen.” Madison smoothed her long brush over a swatch of mocha powder.
“You need to stand out,” Emily said as she ironed my dress.
“You know I hate this, right? I think tinted ChapStick is too much.”
“Well, that's why
I'm
here.” Madison snatched another brush from her extensive collection and continued the endless procedure.
It took hours. And by the time the sun began to fade, I was sprayed, teased, colored, shaved, and scented. My hair had been straightened by Emily to create a gleam I didn't know my follicles were capable of, then Madison applied a fresh coat of clear polish to my fingers and toes, while Lilly walked on the pavement out front to break-in my new heels. Madison had indiscreetly excluded her from the pre-party preparations.
“Um, sorry, Lilly,” she had said. “But Mariana told me about your
Quinceañera.
I mean I'm sure it was fun and all, but I really don't think you're the best judge of ‘American taste.' ”
Before I could say a word, Lilly left the room to “break in my shoes” (and curse silently in Spanish). Despite her anger, she looked amazing. She was wearing a dress I had sported to my cousin's wedding last year, only her boobs actually filled the purple halter-top to a swelling perfection. It was like the dress finally got to be what it was always meant to be.
Emily was decked out in a red strapless number that made her legs look a mile long, and Madison's blond hair was swept up to showcase the jeweled turquoise straps on her otherwise nude cocktail dress.
I, however, hadn't yet been permitted to put on my party clothes. Apparently, there was a fifteen minute waiting period following my deodorant and body moisturizer application (to avoid transfer stains). Madison was clocking it.
“Okay, five more seconds and we're good,” Madison stated, staring at her watch.
I immediately lifted my freshly ironed dress, clutched a pair of underwear from my dresser, and headed into the bathroom to change.
“What are you doing?” Madison asked, glaring at me.
“You said it was time.”
“No, not that.”
“Please don't tell me I have to get dressed with my ‘team' present.” I gripped the door handle.
“No. What are you doing with that underwear?” she asked, horror spread across her face. “Do you see what she's holding?”
She looked at Emily.
“Is that a cotton thong? With a bow?” Emily asked, as if I were holding an automatic weapon.
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
They both shook their heads at me. Then Madison reached into her overnight suitcase and pulled out a shopping bag.
“I thought you might need these. I can't believe you don't have them already.”
She held up the largest pair of flesh-colored granny panties I'd ever seen. They looked like eighties bicycle shorts with a waistline that had to reach my boobs and an equally horrific three-inch crotch.
“Are you kidding?”
“Do you know nothing about panty lines?”
“Yes, I do. That's why I'm wearing a thong.”
“With a bow!” Madison shouted.
“It will protrude right through the fabric of the dress,” Emily explained.
“You need something to hold you in and keep your butt tight,” Madison added.
“Since when does my butt need extra tightening?”
“Trust me. These suckers work wonders.”
Madison handed me the hideous, parachute-sized panties, and I disappeared into the bathroom. More than five minutes of sucking and heaving later, I got the nylon torture traps up and slipped my black dress on top of them. I smoothed fabric over my stomach, which did look inhumanly flat, and turned toward the full-length mirror. It was the first time I caught a glimpse of myself with my full, quasi-professionally styled Sweet Sixteen look.
I smiled.

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