Point Me to Tomorrow Read online

  The date we have in mind is Saturday, December 15. It is necessary to maintain a mystery about this event, at my client’s request.

  If you are available to take on this assignment, then all details will be managed via e-mail by me, the client’s personal secretary.

  Cordialmente,

  Julia Centavo

  Jamie looked at the dozens of students making their way across the campus. “Clearly, this is a joke,” she remarked. “Someone is just having a laugh.”

  Alicia shook her head. “That was my first thought, too. Which is why I wrote back right away.”

  She read them her reply.

  Dear Miss Centavo,

  We appreciate your interest. But we are busy students and entrepreneurs. We simply don’t have the time to pursue a “mystery quince.”

  Sinceramente,

  Alicia Cruz

  “Okay, so the prank is dealt with. Conversation over, right?” said Carmen.

  Alicia shook her head, tapped her iPad, and pulled up another e-mail.

  Dear Ms. Cruz,

  Of course, your time is valuable. And as such, and in consideration of the logistical complications of keeping this client’s identity a secret, we’d like to offer you a two hundred dollar signing bonus, which we have taken the liberty of wiring to your account.

  Hasta pronto,

  Julia Centavo

  “This is starting to freak me out a little bit,” Carmen said. “Doesn’t it all seem a little Da Vinci Code to you?”

  “Forget about conspiracy fiction,” Jamie jumped in, cutting to the chase. “First, check our account to see if the money is there.”

  Alicia pulled up their bank’s home page and tapped in the user name and password. She took a deep breath, then turned the screen so her friends could see.

  “Two hundred dollars. Deposited at nine this morning,” Alicia noted.

  “Who’s the deposit from?” Carmen asked.

  Alicia pulled up the details of the deposit and read: “SAP LLC.”

  “What’s that?” Carmen wondered out loud.

  “Who cares?” Jamie said. “Their money is good, I’m in.”

  “I don’t know,” Carmen countered. “I like to know who I’m working for. It could be someone shady.”

  Alicia nodded. “I agree; let’s do some investigating. I’m going to try to find out who Julia Centavo is. Carmen, why don’t you look into this SAP LLC? Jamie, can you do some online research on all the celebrities who might be celebrating quinces in Miami over the next six to eight months?”

  “I’m on it, Lici,” Carmen said as she gathered her books.

  “Me, too,” Jamie added, “but right now I’ve got to get to world history.”

  Alicia looked at her watch, “I’ve got two minutes to get all the way over to the Hillman Arts Building. I’ve got to book.”

  “I’ve got sculpting in that building; I’ll walk with you,” Carmen offered.

  Alicia and Carmen gave Jamie a quick hug, then headed together toward their classes. As they parted ways at the studio, where Alicia was about to be late for her black-and-white photography class, Carmen smiled and said, “A mystery quince; fíjate. Never a dull moment, huh?”

  THAT NIGHT, the girls met at Señora Eng’s, a restaurant decorated in a kitschy blend of 1920s Shanghai and 1950s Havana styles. The popular South Beach hangout served the yummiest Cuban Chinese food in town and was always packed. The owner, Fiona Eng, had owned a small catering company before opening her hotter-than-hot dining spot. And the partners of Amigas Inc., with their dedicated noses for talent, had hired her to cater several quinces when she was first starting out. So, in spite of the fact that this was hardly the usual high school hang, there was always a table at Señora Eng’s for Alicia, Jamie, and Carmen.

  It was just six when the girls sat down at their favorite table in the corner, beneath a giant framed photograph of the silver-screen star Anna May Wong.

  One of the things the amigas loved about Señora Eng’s was the mix of Miami residents that the restaurant drew. Their waiter, Caleb, was no exception to Fiona’s rule of diversity. He was Iranian, with pale brown skin, jet black hair, and a pitch-perfect British accent. He smiled at the girls and said, “I won’t bother bringing you menus, since I know exactly what you want: two orders of Havana Dim Sum for the table and watermelon agua fresca all around. Am I correct?”

  Jamie smiled and said flirtatiously, “You are absolutely correct.”

  At that moment, Maxo and Gaz approached the table.

  “Is that how you three behave when we’re not around?” Gaz asked playfully.

  “Yeah,” Maxo added. “Flirting shamelessly with the waiters?”

  Gaz was Puerto Rican. Tall, with striking brown eyes and adorably, perpetually tousled hair, he looked like a male model. Maxo was Haitian American with a playful closemouthed smile and a mischievous air. He looked like a Caribbean version of the young Bill Gates.

  Alicia stood up and kissed Gaz on the lips; his kiss tasted sweet, like the Now and Later candies she knew he kept in the car. She always kidded him that one day he’d have no teeth because he ate so much sweet stuff. “This is a nice surprise,” she said when they pulled apart. She hadn’t expected to see him that night.

  Carmen hugged Maxo and whispered in his ear, “Stalking me, querido?”

  “We were just planning to get together to do some work on Gaz’s van when we realized we don’t have to get all sweaty, eat cold pizza, and watch SportsCenter. Hey, we have girlfriends.” Maxo grinned and slid into the booth next to Carmen.

  “And since you are such creatures of habit, we figured you’d be here,” Gaz added.

  “And if you weren’t here, we figured we’d drop your name, get a table, and have a delicious dinner. Win-win,” Maxo explained.

  Caleb soon returned with the food, and once Alicia had ordered a few more items, to feed the extra mouths at the table—Chinese-style fried chicken, white rice, and black beans—they got down to the business at hand.

  “I’m actually glad you guys are here. You can help us figure out this kind-of bizarre client we have.” Alicia filled them in on the e-mail and the two hundred dollars that had shown up in the Amigas Inc. account.

  “Let me e-mail this Julia Centavo and doubt her existence,” Maxo joked. “Maybe she’ll send me a bundle of money, too.”

  “I’m down with that,” Gaz joined in. Then more seriously, he asked, “What have you learned?”

  Carmen took a bite of chicharones and said, “Well, I spoke to my dad’s attorney. He deals with a lot of international companies. He said SAP LLC appears to be legit. It’s connected to a sporting goods manufacturer based in Mexico City.”

  Alicia nodded. “My mom looked into it, too. She said there’s no liens or actions filed against SAP in the state of Florida.”

  “So, the company is good?” Jamie asked.

  “As far as we can tell,” Alicia replied, a little nervously. “But I couldn’t find anything on a Julia Centavo connected to SAP LLC.”

  “Not a Facebook page or anything?” Jamie asked.

  “Nada,” Alicia sighed.

  Gaz laughed. “So what? She’s a secretary to some rich family. She’s probably really old.”

  Alicia wasn’t convinced. “Okay. But it bothers me to have all the quince details determined by the opinions of some anonymous and possibly out-of-touch old lady.”

  Carmen had been holding hands with Maxo under the table. As usual, she didn’t look worried. “But she’s just acting as the intermediary for Quince Girl X.”

  Alicia nodded.

  Gaz said, “The real question is: who is your mystery girl?”

  Jamie tossed her hair and pulled her iPad out of the bag. “I’m glad you asked, Gaz. I spent the whole afternoon doing research, and I’ve come up with some interesting possibilities. SAP is an accounting firm. Neither of the two principals of the corporation have daughters that are the right age, but their client list is huge. They handle fina
ncial matters for over two hundred and fifty corporations and high-wealth individuals. To protect their clients’ privacy, they don’t list their names on their Web site, so I’ve taken another tack. Take a look.”

  She held the iPad up and scrolled through a series of photos of Latina socialites. The last picture to appear on the slide show was of a beautiful girl with a heart-shaped face and long dark curly hair, walking the red carpet at a movie premiere.

  “Exhibit A: Nessa Nadal, daughter of star baseball player Manny Nadal.”

  “She’s not unattractive,” Gaz said.

  Alicia bopped him with her napkin. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She wasn’t exactly the jealous type, but it was senior year, and, like many girls whose boyfriends were about to head off to different colleges, she found herself hanging on a little tighter than usual.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Gaz replied. “I mean, if there was a picture of you in a hot dress with your makeup all done up, I’d react exactly the same.”

  Maxo interrupted him. “Let it go, man, let it go.”

  “A guy can’t even explain himself….” Gaz grumbled.

  Pointing to the picture, Alicia continued, “Let’s focus. Try to be helpful, guys.”

  “Okay,” Gaz said, “here’s a bit of trivia. Manny Nadal’s daughter is having her quince on Christmas Eve. I know, because the manager of the Gap where I work got invited to it, and that’s all he talks about. So she’s out.”

  “Good detective work,” Carmen noted.

  “Well done,” Alicia said, kissing her novio on the forehead.

  Jamie tapped the next image on the iPad. It was of a gorgeous model in a swimsuit on a beach.

  “Boys, any comments?”

  Gaz shook his head. “None. I’ve only got eyes for this girl.” He squeezed Alicia.

  Maxo winked at Carmen, who reached for his hand.

  “Exhibit B: Maritza Callas, the hot new Brazilian supermodel. She turns fifteen on December first, so the December fifteenth timing works.”

  “That girl is fourteen?” Carmen asked incredulously. “What the heck are they putting in the rice and beans down there?”

  Jamie shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Alicia shook her head, “I dunno. Models throw parties all the time. I don’t get the top secret espionage route for a model. They usually love to have their photos snapped by the paparazzi.”

  “I kinda agree,” Jamie said. “Let’s move on.”

  She brought up an image of a pretty blond woman and her look-alike teenage daughter.

  “My only other guess is this chica, Scarlett Rodriguez, daughter of the hot talk-show host Bianca Rodriguez, whose show Bye-Bye, Papi has some people calling her the new Oprah.”

  Carmen laughed. “No way. Bianca Rodriguez pries secrets out of people for a living. No way is that woman going on the hush-hush about her daughter’s quinceañera.”

  Everybody at the table laughed.

  “Maybe you guys are thinking in the wrong direction,” Maxo suggested. “You’re thinking about Hollywood celebrities, but what about other well-known people who keep secrets for a living?”

  The members of Amigas Inc. all exchanged looks.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Alicia asked her friends.

  “About a certain highly ranked politician who is originally from Miami?” Carmen played along.

  “Yesenia Ortega, the American ambassador to Mexico. I’m googling her daughter Carmela now….” Jamie held up the computer. “Carmela Ortega turns fifteen on…wait for it…December seventeenth.”

  “I believe we have a winner, ladies and gentlemen,” Carmen said, clapping.

  Alicia sat back in her chair, stunned. “Wow, I can’t believe it. We’ve been asked to throw a quince for one of the most high-profile Latinas in the country,” she whispered.

  “For the daughter of one of the most high-profile Latinas in the country, to be exact,” Jamie pointed out.

  “Same diff,” Alicia replied.

  Jamie nodded. “Absolutely same diff.” The magnitude of the situation hit Alicia, then Jamie, then Carmen like a wave.

  “Do you think there’ll be Secret Service men?” Carmen asked, her eyes wide.

  Maxo nodded. “If it’s Carmela Ortega, there’ll be Secret Service men and women. Let’s not be sexist.”

  “There’ll probably be royalty from other countries…princes and princesses,” Alicia said softly.

  “We’ve got to come up with a really good theme,” Carmen added.

  “One that represents America,” Jamie said emphatically.

  “No,” Alicia said. “One that perfectly represents this girl.”

  “Whom you’ve never met,” Gaz pointed out.

  “And won’t meet till the day of the event,” Maxo said. “Tall order.”

  “Yeah,” Gaz said, enfolding Alicia in a hug and kissing her gently on the cheek. “I’d wish you good luck, but honestly, Lici, you’re so talented, luck won’t have anything to do with it.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Alicia walked into the kitchen to find Maribelle, the cook, making a feast: chocolate-chip waffles, bacon, banana bread with pecan-and-brown-sugar glaze, fruit salad, and fresh papaya smoothies. Maribelle had been with the Cruz family since Alicia was a baby and was less an employee and more a bonus abuela.

  “Whoa, whoa, who’s coming to breakfast?” Alicia asked as she surveyed the counters and the ever so slightly frazzled Maribelle. It had been only three weeks since Alicia’s older brother, Alex, had gone off to college, but Maribelle, more than Alicia’s parents, even, seemed to be experiencing a bad case of empty-nest syndrome. She still set the table for four at dinnertime, still picked up a six-pack of coconut water every time she went grocery-shopping, even though the unopened cartons now crowded the second shelf of the pantry.

  Alicia walked over to Maribelle and gave her a hug. “Alex is at college. Who are you cooking for?”

  Maribelle wagged her finger and said, “I’m not senile yet! I know Alex is at college. I light a candle for him at church every week. But this breakfast is for you, niña. Isn’t today the big college-fair day?”

  Alicia gulped. In all the excitement over Carmela Ortega’s quinceañera, she’d completely forgotten that today was the day when college reps from around the country descended on C. G. High. The reps were there, allegedly, to distribute information and to give students a flesh-and-blood representation of their respective schools. But everybody knew that college day was the academic equivalent of a record company label coming to see your band—the reps were there scouting talent, and a good meeting could do more for your chances of getting into your dream school than even the most pristine application or gushing recommendation.

  Alicia looked down at her outfit. The black silk romper with cuffed shorts, the patterned tights and T-strap heels had been perfectly fine for a regular Tuesday. But this wasn’t a regular Tuesday. “I’d better change,” she mumbled.

  In the hallway, she bumped into her mother, who looked shocked to see her in glittery tights. “You’re not wearing those for college day, are you?”

  Alicia fought the temptation to roll her eyes. “Nope, Mom, I’m changing.”

  Her father was just coming out of the bathroom and caught a glimpse of her outfit. “Shorts, Lici?” he said.

  Alicia grimaced, “No, Papi, I’m changing.”

  Then, just in case any of her friends might have been as absentminded as she was, she sent a text to her whole crew: Heads up, people. College day. Dress to Impress.

  Right away, her phone started buzzing.

  Jamie wrote back: Thanks for looking out for us, Lici. Changing now.

  Carmen texted: I was asleep. Audrey Hepburn marathon on AMC last night. Gracias for the wake-up call.

  Maxo wrote: Breaking out my special occasion Converses.

  And Gaz sent a picture of himself wearing a tie and a note that said: GQ enough 4U?

  Alicia laughed and quickly changed into one of her mother
’s hand-me-downs, a respectable, but fun, cherry red wrap dress. She added a pair of black tights, a pair of black leather boots, and her lucky charm: a silver letter A on a chain, which her parents had gotten her for Christmas the year before.

  Returning to the kitchen, she helped herself to a chocolate-chip waffle, heaped a pile of strawberries on it, and covered the whole concoction with whipped cream. She was about to fold the waffle in half to eat as a sandwich at the bus stop when her mother said, “Whoa, chica, slow down. I’ll drive you to school. Sit down and eat like a sane person.”

  Relieved, Alicia took a seat at the dining table with her parents.

  “You look very nice, Lici,” her father commented, a twinkle in his eyes. He was the city’s deputy mayor; he’d left a thriving law practice for public service. Alicia knew that it was from her father that she had gotten her gift for gab and the desire to help people, or as Gaz jokingly called it, her buttinsky gene.

  Alicia’s mom was a judge, and she had the take-charge mentality that was needed in order to preside over the largest district court in Miami. Alicia wasn’t sure if she’d inherited her mother’s gift for organization or if it had just been drilled into her since the age of six, but having to buy her own school supplies and submit to weekly inspections of her pencil box, her backpack, and her lunch box, she, like her brother, Alex, had learned how to make lists and budgets, and to maintain their personal belongings with neatness and precision.

  It was certainly from her mother that Alicia had inherited her love of style. Every year, over the Christmas holiday, she and her mom picked a night to stay up late and watch their favorite movie, Celestial Clockwork. And in the scene where Ariel D. sings “La ropa, la ropa, la ropa” (clothes, clothes, clothes), they always got up to sing along. A few years back, Miami magazine had even named her mother on its list of best-dressed Floridians, praising her for wearing suits made by up-and-coming local South Beach designers.