Fifteen Candles Read online

  Copyright © 2010 Jane Startz Productions and Nuyorican Productions

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-4609-4

  Visit www.disneyhyperionbooks.com

  Por mi Flora

  —V.C.

  To my amazing family: Peter, Jesse, Kate, and Zoë

  —J.S.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgments

  A Chat with Jennifer Lopez

  Amigas: Lights, Camera, Quince!

  Chapter 1 Preview

  ALICIA CRUZ had the good fortune of being born into wealth, but not spoiled by it. She was pretty but real, which meant boys liked her and girls wanted to be her friend. She had caramelo skin, big brown eyes, and wavy brown hair. Most of all, she was kind and creative—which together made for a very winning combination.

  For as long as anybody could remember, whenever there was any kind of show involving dancing, Alicia was the force behind it. In second grade, Alicia recruited her friend Carmen to star in her rendition of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Carmen was a Glamazon: six feet tall by the ninth grade and racially ambiguous.

  Italians thought she was Italian. French people thought she was French. Japanese people thought she was part Japanese. Whenever Alicia and her crew hung out in South Beach, tourists would always stop Carmen and ask her directions in various languages. Carmen Ramirez-Ruben was mixed: her mother was Mexican American and her father was Jewish and Argentinean. But Carmen said that that was what made living in Miami so cool—almost everybody was from somewhere else. Although Carmen could totally have been a model, her passion was designing clothes.

  In the sixth grade, determined to be the next Gwen Stefani, Alicia introduced herself to the cute new boy, Gaz (short for Gaspar) Colón, and recruited him to join her short-lived ska band. Gaz was from Puerto Rico and had moved to Miami at the end of elementary school. He was the only one in their crew who was completely fluent in Spanish; everybody else spoke varying degrees of Spanglish. Gaz could not only roll his R’s like a pro, he had an amazing singing voice. His dad, who had died when Gaz was just a kid, had been a big-time singer in San Juan. Now his mother worked as a cleaning woman for a really rich Panamanian family in the Gables. Gaz always said he and Alicia were como hermanos. Which was why Alicia was trying very hard not to think about how good-looking Gaz had become since they had started high school: how weird would it be to be totally hot for your adoptive big brother?

  Alicia met Jamie Sosa in the eighth grade, when she started taking break-dancing classes and heard there was a new girl from the Bronx who bought and sold the coolest Japanese sneakers online. Jamie’s family was from the D.R., but until she moved to South Beach in the eighth grade, she had lived in New York.

  Jamie was the queen of hip-hop chic. She was beyond cool, she was cutting-edge. If Jamie got a haircut, the next thing you knew, it would be in People, rocked by all the hottest stars. If Jamie rocked wide-legged pin-striped pants, then three months later, there’d be a whole story on that exact pair of pants in InStyle magazine. Sometimes Alicia thought that Jamie had ESP—or that she was the style equivalent of James Bond: a secret-agent fashionista who spent her weekends jetting around to L.A., New York, and London, picking up on all of the latest trends.

  By ninth grade, they were a posse—Alicia, Jamie, Gaz, and Carmen. They weren’t the most popular kids at Coral Gables High—lemmings are lemmings, even in a place as fabulous as South Beach. At Alicia’s school, as at almost every other place in the Western world, the football players and the cheerleaders ruled. But Alicia and her friends were fairly confident that, of all the groups and social sectors that dominated the school—including the jocks and their babes, the socialist Che wannabes, and the Clockwork Cholas (the Latina Goths)—they had the most fun.

  Fun was, after all, in Alicia’s DNA. Every year, her parents held a Winter Wonderland party and covered their massive front lawn with fake snow. Over a hundred people showed up to make snowballs and snowmen and, of course, snow angels. Maribelle Puentes, the Cruzes’ cook and housekeeper, who had worked for the family since Alicia was a baby, passed out copitas of hot chocolate and made s’mores in the outdoor fireplace.

  In the summer, the Cruzes’ Memorial Day weekend pool party was the most coveted invitation in town. The party started promptly at six p.m. with a massive barbacoa and ended with a huge pancake breakfast in the pool house at six in the morning. Alicia’s mom was a judge, and her father was the deputy mayor. Everybody knew they had a strict no-alcohol rule at their parties, so all the parents at C. G. High were cool with their kids’ going to the Cruzes’ fiestas. All in all, life was pretty sweet for the four friends, and they didn’t have much to complain about—usually….

  Saturday night found Jamie, Carmen, Alicia, and Gaz at a very undesirable, very noisy, and very dimly lit table next to the kitchen all the way in back of the grand ballroom of the Coronado hotel in downtown South Beach. Alicia’s parents were seated near the front, at a table with a group of prominent padres, including the governor and his wife. A ballroom full of teenagers socializing while dressed in promworthy clothes with all of their parents, albeit at separate tables, could mean only one thing—quinceañera season had begun.

  In the rest of the U.S., socially ambitious high school students competed to outshine the antics seen on My Super Sweet 16. But in Miami, it was all about the super sweet 15s, or quinceañeras, as the parties were officially known. In a tradition that dated back to the eighteen hundreds, quinceañeras were a coming-of-age ritual, for girls only, that was celebrated throughout Latin American culture. When you turned fifteen, or quince años, you became a woman in the eyes of your family, your friends, and the community. In a city where the word Latino referred to the heritage of dozens of countries, skin tones, and beliefs, the quince parties were a unifying force. Many parents started saving for a quince as soon as a baby girl was born, and just as many spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on their daughter’s event. As big as a wedding, a quinceañera included all of your family, all of your parents’ friends, and a “court” of seven girls and seven boys called damas and chambelanes. There was a traditional father-daughter dance called the vals, a church ceremony, a speech, bands, DJs, and tons of food. My Big Fat Greek Wedding had nothing on these big phat quinces.

  Alicia and her amigas called it quince season, because even though girls had birthdays all year round, there were certain times of the year that were quince blackouts. No one wanted a quince that would have to compete with the festivities of Thanksgiving or Christmas. Spring was also not the best time for a quince—too many prom and graduation parties to steal your shine. The best time for a quince was right at the beginning of the summer, before people went away to camp or traveled with their family, and the second best time was in the fall, when school started back up again. At least, that’s the way it was in Miami.

  It was June now, and Simone Baldonado, whose family was loaded, had invited Alicia, her friends, and half of Miami–Da
de County to the first big quinceañera of the summer. Alicia sighed. She knew that by the time January rolled around, she would have been to twenty parties, easy.

  One of the unspoken rules of the quince was that no one ever brought dates—too much scrutiny from the ’rents and all their friends. The best strategy, one that Alicia and her friends had been employing for the last two years, since the girls they had grown up with started turning fifteen, was to:

  1. dress cute, because being tagged, then trying to untag yourself and being tagged again on Facebook was part of the battle royal of quinces, and

  2. roll as a crew, dance with whomever you wanted when you got there, but show up together. And leave together. No quince partygoer gets left behind.

  Employing said strategy, Jamie was, at that moment, dancing to a Daddy Yankee song with Gabriel, who was—they had all agreed earlier in the ladies’ room—M-W-A-H (Man, What a Hottie), with extra sauce on the W-A-H. Carmen, the aspiring fashion designer, was camped out next to the dance floor, doing sketches of the best dresses at the party, which left Gaz and Alicia alone at their table. Alicia couldn’t help it—she flushed—something she had been doing, despite her best intentions, a lot around Gaz lately.

  But how could she not? Gaz looked superhandsome in his quince uniform: a cream-colored shirt with a charcoal gray pin-striped vest and matching pants. It was a uniform because, unless a guy was a chambelane, he really needed only one quince outfit a year. Girls, on the other hand, needed a whole wardrobe of party dresses. Or at least three. Alicia was wearing a turquoise blue one-shoulder Alice + Olivia dress. Sitting next to Gaz at a candlelit table covered in rose petals, Alicia could almost pretend that the other people at the party didn’t exist. Even though she wouldn’t admit it to the others, she had it bad for Gaz. But he was her friend. It had to stay that way—right?

  “I like it back here,” Gaz said, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s like being in the back of the school bus.”

  “I guess,” Alicia said, nodding. “But this is only the first quince of the season, and I’m already tired of it all.”

  “It’s not so bad. Quinces are a good excuse to dress up, go out somewhere fancy, eat for free.” Gaz’s hand hovered just above hers.

  Alicia thought about being brazen and just grabbing his hand and holding it. She had an intense urge to touch him. Where had it come from? And why now, when she’d known him all these years? Her emotions were driving her crazy! She shook her head, and then, instead of taking hold of his hand, she hit him with a platonic fist bump instead. She was such a chicken!

  “What was that?” Gaz asked, his voice playful.

  Alicia’s cheeks grew red. Was he flirting with her? “I don’t know,” she said. “What do you think it was?”

  “What’s up, guys?” Jamie asked, as she plopped down at the table.

  “Not much,” Alicia said, trying not to groan. Talk about bad timing!

  At that moment, the lights dimmed, and Carmen slid back into her seat.

  “Okay, amigas,” Carmen whispered. “The madness is starting.”

  On cue, Simone Baldonado walked onto the stage in a red dress with a gigantic train that looked as if it had been made from drapes from an old plantation, like that of Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara in Gone with the Wind. It was only six p.m., but she was already on her third costume change of the day, having worn a scandalously short, sheer white minidress for the church ceremony and a black-and-white Marchesa gown to greet the guests as they arrived. Now she was wearing this red number.

  Alicia had to admit that no matter what she wore, Simone always looked great. But as Gaz was fond of saying, “Pretty can’t cover up crazy.”

  Simone walked up to the microphone and greeted the packed room. Simone’s mom had told Alicia’s mom that the grand ballroom seated a thousand, and every seat was taken—or so it seemed. “Good evening,” Simone said. “As many of you know, my dream is to be an actress. So, for your viewing pleasure, my damas, my chambelanes, and moi will not be performing any of the traditional quince dances. Instead we, I, will be performing a little piece I created called ‘The Great Princesses of History.’ Maestro—”

  Simone signaled to the full orchestra, and they began playing a boisterous overture. She ran offstage, reappearing five minutes later in full Egyptian dress and some hastily applied kohl eyeliner.

  “I am Cleopatra,” she whispered into the microphone, before launching into a frenetic dance to the tune of “Walk Like an Egyptian.”

  When it was over, she ran offstage, changed, and came back out in a hoop-skirted ball gown and a white wig.

  Approaching the microphone again, she said, “I am Marie Antoinette,” then danced a positively mesmerizing number to Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy.”

  Once more she went offstage, then returned, this time in a futuristic white tunic and two doughnut buns on either side of her head; she declared, “I am Princess Leia.” She solo-danced in this outfit to Styx (“Mr. Roboto”), ending the dance by saying, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

  Just when Alicia thought the performance couldn’t go on any longer, a whole new part began. There were odes to the real Russian princess Anastasia and to Disney’s Jasmine, and a very odd tribute to Prince’s Princesses, in which Simone danced to a medley of “U Got the Look,” “Diamonds and Pearls,” and “Purple Rain.”

  Alicia and her friends, as well as most of the guests, were so shocked that they did not say anything for a very long time. But half an hour into Simone’s show, Gaz broke the silence at their table.

  “I’m bored out of my mind,” he whispered.

  “I’m stunned,” Carmen said softly.

  “I’m going with Gaz—‘bored,’” yawned Jamie.

  “I am, even if I hate to admit it, kind of impressed,” Alicia said.

  “Impressed?” Jamie said. “You’re kidding, right? This is nothing more than the inner workings of a megalomaniac with a personality disorder.”

  “But, the sets, the costumes, the choreography!” Alicia insisted.

  “It’s all the self-indulgences of a spoiled rich girl,” Jamie retorted. “I bet this little dance extravaganza costs more than my entire quince.”

  Jamie’s quinceañera had been a house party, and the best one Alicia had ever attended. Jamie’s cousin, Caterina, who was a DJ at Bungalow 8 in New York, had flown in and rocked the house, spinning hip-hop and reggaeton all night long. Jamie had looked amazing in a sleeveless Japanese T-shirt that Carmen had covered with hot pink sequins. She wore a long, hot pink ball-gown skirt that she’d found at a vintage shop and a pair of one-of-a-kind Bathing Ape boots that one of her eBay clients in Japan had sent her. Jamie had danced an amazing merengue for the vals with her dad, and her mother, who was an incredible cook, had made all of the food.

  It had been everything a quince never was—fierce, fabulous, and flawless. But because it hadn’t been in a hotel ballroom or a club, Jamie was always defensive about it. She acted as if everyone were always saying what a great quince it was because they felt sorry for her—which nobody ever did, because, though Jamie wasn’t rich, she was the definition of cool.

  Alicia thought maybe Jamie was right; maybe another over-the-top quince was just a waste of cash. But she’d always felt there was something feminist and badass about quinces. Life as a Latina could often mean being treated like a girl—and not in a good way. If you had a brother, he got more of everything: more freedom, more attention, more cash. It was always: “A son! What a blessing!”; “Look at my son!”; “I’m going on a business trip, taking my son, showing him the ropes!”

  But quinceañeras were strictly the chicas’ terrain. If, every once in a while, a girl went quince-zilla and drove her friends and family crazy, then who could blame her? The quince was so much more than a party; it was a statement about the kind of girl you were and the kind of woman you hoped to become. You only got one shot, and claro, you wanted it to be perfect.

  The lights had d
immed once again. Looking up at the stage, Alicia saw that Simone was now dressed in a floor-length baby blue evening gown. She was also sporting a blond wig.

  “What—” Alicia began.

  “The hell—” Jamie continued.

  “Is she up to?” Carmen said, finishing the thought.

  “My final number is a tribute to Princess Diana,” Simone said. “England’s rose. The people’s princess.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Jamie whispered.

  Alicia whispered back, “Oh, yes, she did.”

  “Does she know this is borderline offensive?” Carmen added.

  Gaz laughed. “Do you know that Simone is the definition of ‘borderline’?”

  When the songs—and performance—were finally over, there was an uncomfortable silence, followed by tepid and confused applause. Simone seemed oblivious. “Okay, enough of that,” she said. “Let’s salsa!”

  But Gaz was clapping wildly. Apparently he had had a change of heart. “I love it,” he said. “She’s a total nut job. Now, this is what I call living la vida loca.”

  Alicia lifted a glass of fruit punch and saluted her friends: “One crazy quince down, a kazillion more to go. Here’s to summer!”

  As she clinked her glass with the others’, Alicia took in their smiling faces—Jamie’s sideways diva smirk; Carmen’s intense green eyes and wide grin; Gaz’s mwahdom—and thought, I could not have picked a cooler bunch of friends if I had searched the whole entire world.

  ALICIA HAD been wanting a real summer job since junior high. Finally, after her freshman year, her father agreed that she was old enough to apply for internships. She’d applied at both City Hall and Ocean Side magazine. But she knew that she wanted to be at City Hall. She and her dad were tight, and secretly, she thought someday she’d like to run for office, too. Now that Sonia Sotomayor was a Supreme Court justice, Alicia thought the country might just be ready for a Latina president.

  After some intense interviews—and a rather huffy rejection from Ocean Side (apparently they did not think a person with no journalistic experience was worth their time)—Alicia had landed the internship at City Hall. Even though she was supernervous at the additional work and a little bummed that her summer wasn’t completely carefree, Alicia was excited.