Cuba 15 (5 page)

7

I nearly fell asleep reading that night. The quince book must have been translated from the Spanglish; it was packed with information but pretty hard to follow. I read past the part I’d skimmed before.

After listing all the components of the traditional fifteenth-year celebration—the court, the formal wear, the dances—the book seemed to address me personally: “You may choses to embrace all of the elements of the
quinceañero,
or you may choses to flush traditions into the toilet and rewrite the ceremony for to fit your personality.”

It was good to see this in writing. And, it turned out, the church service
was
optional.

This lightened my load a whole lot. I practically skipped down to breakfast to find Mom alone at the kitchen table, in an orange terry cloth robe and running shoes, writing.

“G’morning,” I said, glancing at her work. Phew, no calendar today. I recognized the blue Snoopy notebook, open wide, with a floor plan on one page and her big loopy script covering the other. “Restaurant plans?”

Mom put down her Walgreens ballpoint pen. She never bought writing utensils but stocked up on freebies whenever she could get them. She looked at me, her wide face animated. “Violet, I think I’ve got it this time.” She paused for suspense. “The two cuisines that I really know from top to bottom: Cuban and Polish. A combination that’s never been tried before.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Picture it,” she said, framing the air with her hands. “The finest Polish and Cuban gourmet dishes in one restaurant. I call it: La Polka Grande!”

I smiled. Another of my mother’s million-dollar ideas. “Polish meets Cuban in America. Sounds good to me,” I said honestly. Mom’s a great cook. I especially like the non-American dishes she makes. “But will it fly?”

Mom knit her brow and nodded slowly. “That is always the question.”

It had been her dream since her waitressing days to open a restaurant, her own little neighborhood place that would serve great comfort food. She’d been saving her thrift-store earnings for years. Of course, the suburbs are teeming with ethnic places that serve soul food. But Mom was determined to find her niche. Someday.

I whipped up my own breakfast, a dish I like to call Cornflakes and Milk, and sat down at the table with her.

I love our kitchen. The built-in cabinets are made of real wood, with a pretty grain the color of maple syrup. Very breakfasty. Of course, nothing else matches them. The oval kitchen table has a fake-marble top and four fake-stone columns for legs. Five of the chairs are yellow vinyl (finds at the Rise & Walk), but the sixth is a black ladder-back wooden model that Mark and I dubbed the Death Throne. One of us is forced to use it whenever Abuela and Abuelo come to visit. Shiny red paper scattered with little gold fleurs-de-lis wraps the walls, and the floor is done up in indoor/outdoor carpet in a blue-green shade not found in nature.

Mom’s thrift-store discoveries hang everywhere. My favorites are the gold, plaster-of-paris, smiling and frowning Janus masks; a wrought-iron wall clock in the shape of a chicken that always says 5:30; a framed, signed portrait of Betty Crocker; and a goofy plaque with loud lettering that reads WORLD’S GREATEST KNITTER. No one can say Mom doesn’t have an eye for Americana. She collected it all to decorate her someday restaurant. Incredibly, this stuff is back in style now.

“Mom, can I talk to you about the party? We’re supposed to pick a theme.”

She closed her notebook. “The party is my top priority, sir!” she said, snapping off a salute and smiling.

I grinned back through my cornflakes. It was too bad I’d been so rough on my family the night before, but it’d had to be done.

I swallowed. “That book you gave me says you don’t have to follow traditions to the letter. You can go with whatever’s right for you. I heard the same thing from Abuela and Tía Luci. So we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.”

She listened.

“The book says there are places that will coordinate the whole party for you, all the stuff: banquet hall, catering, invitations, music—the works.”

She nodded. “Lupita did mention that. It sounds so impersonal, though.”

“But then there won’t be so many arguments. It’ll be a package deal.” I desperately wanted out of the decision-making game. I might have pulled off my coup the night before at the kitchen table, but I knew my powers would fade when it came down to the nitty-gritty. And I understood one thing: This
quinceañero
had to make me look good because, what with the pictures and all, people were going to remember it for a long time.

“We’ll check into it. Now, what about your theme?”

The Janus masks had inspired me. “How about ‘All the World’s a Stage’? Since I’m going to be in the spotlight.”

She considered. “I love it!” she said, smiling. “We can get a real spotlight.”

“And hundreds of little tiny white Christmas lights, hanging from the ceiling.”

“And one of those disco balls.”

“Easy, Mom. Elegant. Think elegant.” I’d have to watch like a hawk to keep her and the others in line. “We need a new notebook for the party plans,” I said. “And a better calendar. The book says you’ve got to keep it all in one place. ‘One places,’ it says.”

“Party Central.” Mom nodded. “I’ll look for something at the drugstore today.”

Mom drove Leda and me to school for our meeting on her way to the store. Janell came straight from ballet class. She met us, still in her layered dance clothes, in Room C206, home of the Tri-Dist speech team. The jaundiced walls of the oversized room whispered with anticipation. Older kids, juniors and seniors whom I didn’t know, leapt among the tiered desks, reciting lines and high-fiving their friends. I suddenly wanted to be one of them.

Leda, demure today in an Indian cotton shirt and jeans, rolled her eyes at me. “Puh-lease,” she said. “Is this Overacting 101?”

I pretended to swoon. “Intro to Melodrama.” But inside, I was salivating.

A sophomore named Gina, whom I knew from gym period, smiled my way and passed us some handouts headlined COMPETITION CHOICES. Janell, her sleek cap of dark brown hair pinned up in a facsimile of a bun, scanned the page and frowned. “This stuff all looks okay to me. Why do I have to be the one to do poetry?”

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls . . . ,” cracked Leda in a quavery voice.

“Hey, look, Janell.” I waved my copy of the handout at her. “It says
choices.
”

“Tell that to The Ax,” she said.

Leda patted her shoulder. “Maybe I can talk to him for you. Get you into . . . Extemporaneous Speaking. Or how about this one: Radio? Don’t worry. I’ve got some clout.”

Janell and I exchanged looks. Funny, she probably did have some clout. Leda always managed to slither her way behind the scenes.

Now Ms. Joyner stood on the practice stage down front. “People! People, let’s get started. I do have a life, let’s get on with the show.” Kids scrambled for seats. “I’m Tracy Joyner. And this is John Soloman,” she said, introducing a short, slightly pudgy teacher with a ruddy face, bowl hair-cut, and brown plastic-rimmed glasses that masked his eyes.

“Where’s The Ax?” I wondered aloud.

A tall, quiet-looking guy in a Michael Jordan T-shirt and shorts a couple of seats over caught my eye. Softly he said, “Mr. Axelrod—he never comes down for this kind of thing.”

I shrugged at him.

Then the house lights, the fluorescents in the ceiling fixtures that resembled giant ice cube trays, dimmed. A single spot came up on Ms. Joyner. Her pause filled the atmosphere, and she made eye contact with her audience. “Welcome, speechies,” she said powerfully. “You are all here because you have talent.”

Leda jabbed me in the ribs with an extra-bony elbow.

Ms. Joyner went on. “I am glad to see so many familiar faces. Most of you already know how speech competition works. For the rest of you, this will be an introduction to the different individual events. We’ll talk about selecting material and competing in tournaments at another time.” She hesitated and stared past us, out over our heads. “Rick? Do you have anything to add?”

That had to be The Ax. But if he wasn’t down here, where was he?

The puffy sound that comes from someone touching a live microphone punctuated the air. Overriding the static in an invisible sound system, a deep, none-too-jovial voice boomed: “Ladies and gentlemen, some statistics: We have among us five graduating seniors, four experienced juniors, and several promising new members. This is the year we take State! But—” He arrested a hurrah.

Everyone sat motionless on the edge of their seats. You could’ve heard a butterfly hiccup.

“Remember, we have only two rules on this team: Practice like crazy. And kick ass!”

The room erupted into well-enunciated cheers.

This,
I thought, was going to be interesting.

8

Rick Axelrod, department head by day, legendary speech coach by night (and weekends), likes to direct team meetings and practice sessions from the lighting booth, where junior techies learn to run lights and sound for theater productions. This gives The Ax absolute authority, or so Clarence Williams, the soft-spoken guy who’d answered me before, told me as Ms. Joyner tried to restore peace to the room by threatening us with a prop saber.

Clarence didn’t seem to mind Mr. Axelrod’s arrogance. “The truth is,” he said, sliding into the empty seat next to me, “The Ax is the greatest coach this district—and maybe the state—has ever known. You’ll see,” he added, caramel-colored eyes reflecting an inner grin. I studied him further. His buzz-cut hair was dusty brown, and black-rimmed glasses framed an angular face with a deep bronze cast.

I smiled back.

Ms. Joyner menaced us one last time with the rubber sword, and the house lights went out.

In the darkness, the disembodied voice of The Ax called over the mike: “Zeno Clark. Dramatic Interpretation. You’re on.”

The stage spot came up on a lone male, one Zeno Clark, presumably. His straight brown hair tapered to his shoulders, and his slim frame swam in loose jeans and an oversized T-shirt. He placed his hands behind his back in a practiced manner and hung his head.

Was this some kind of punishment? For him, or for us?

Slowly, he raised his head and met the audience with his eyes. Any awkwardness vanished. Zeno Clark, or whoever he was now, exuded what could only be described as a presence.

His gaze slid to a point somewhere above our heads and then he began, in character, “ ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.’ ” He cocked his head and shifted his focus to another point in space. A half octave lower, he said, “ ‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.’ ”

Zeno returned to the first voice. “ ‘In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments.’ ”

He paused.

“ ‘Only Gatsby was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby,’ ” he said with a sudden, visceral bitterness, “ ‘who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn.

“ ‘But there
was
something gorgeous about him,’ ” the character admitted. “ ‘His was an extraordinary gift for hope,’ ” and here Zeno’s voice quivered, “ ‘a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.

“ ‘No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end.’ ” Zeno flashed his eyes. “ ‘It is what
preyed
on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams . . .’ ” He slowly dropped his head to his chest for a moment, before falling out of character and regaining his own body posture.

“What preyed on Gatsby,” said Zeno more intimately, making eye contact with us again, “was the past. In this dramatic interpretation, narrator Nick Carraway observes one man’s futile attempt to recapture the glory of youth and love in
The Great Gatsby,
by F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

Zeno repeated the transformation and went on, in the voice of Nick Carraway, about his neighbor Jay Gatsby, a rich man obsessed with reclaiming his old love, Nick’s cousin Daisy. When a new character spoke, Zeno shifted his weight, changed his tone, and moved his gaze to a different spot in the darkened room.

I felt like a theatergoing Jonah swallowed by the whale—the story
engulfed
me.

Nick said, “ ‘Gatsby wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” I said to him, “I wouldn’t ask too much of her. You can’t repeat the past.” ’ ”

Gatsby answered, incredulous: “ ‘Can’t repeat the past? Of course you can!’ ”

For some reason, I found myself thinking of Abuela.

The whole audience knew it was never going to work. After Gatsby’s inevitable downfall, Nick found himself caught up in the same trap. “ ‘So we beat on,’ ” Nick said, arms outstretched, “ ‘boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’ ”

Zeno dropped his eyes and placed his hands behind his back, and the stage went black.

Two things were true when the house lights came back up to applause: I was thoroughly, with every cell of my body and every deep well of my soul, in love with Jay Gatsby, Zeno Clark, and the theater. Also, Clarence Williams was looking at me.

On my right, Leda and Janell were talking to someone else they knew, expressing the awesomeness of Zeno’s performance. I slid my eyes back at Clarence, who still looked at me with that knowing smile, waiting. “Well?” he demanded, as if he had coached Zeno himself.

“In-incredible,” I sputtered.

Clarence nodded smugly. “He took State last year in Dramatic Interp, only a junior. The Ax was his coach.”

I whistled in awe. This got Leda’s and Janell’s attention, and I introduced them to Clarence.

“You know an awful lot about the team,” I said to him. “Are you a senior?”

He smiled modestly and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Hardly. I’m a freshman. All my brothers were Extempers. I tagged along for years. I feel like I practically own the event.”

“Brothers, eh?” said Leda.

Janell looked impressed. “Extemporaneous Speaking— that’s the toughest, I heard. Don’t you just make speeches up on the spot, in front of the judges?”

“There’s more to it than that,” Clarence said. “We draw topics and then build an argument. You have to be up on history and current events. There’s lots of prep work.”

Again, Ms. Joyner touchéed us from the stage with her fake sword, cutting off the conversation. “We have ten more events to get through, gang. Don’t make me commit hara-kiri!” She gave us the old impaled-through-the-armpit gag and turned the stage over to the next speaker.

We made it through eleven performances, including one girl who read a radio newscast, complete with weather and advertisements, and one unlikely-looking pimply white guy who gave a burning rendition of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Then The Ax let us go.

“You’ve each been assigned a coach,” Mr. Axelrod’s amplified voice informed us. “Check the bulletin board on your way out.”

I’d been assigned the “humorous” coach, Mr. Soloman, with an appointment after school the following Wednesday. That was my piano lesson day. I caught up with Mr. Soloman on his way out and told him I’d have to switch times with somebody.

“Who’s on first?” he asked.

“What?”

“No, What’s on second, Who’s on first!” He winked. “Gotcha!” He shook my hand and said we’d get started on Tuesday, then. “What topic do you want to write about?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I Don’t Know’s on third,” he said, and winked again. “See you Tuesday.”