Lights, Camera, Quince! Page 3

  She blushed. “Nope, just two virgin mojitos, please.”

  At that moment, Gaz appeared; he slid into the table across from the girls and said, “And one real mojito.”

  The waiter, whose name tag read domingo, looked at Gaz suspiciously. “Hey, man, do you have ID?”

  Gaz looked embarrassed. “Um, I forgot it at home.”

  “Well, I’m seventeen, and I’m pretty sure that you’re not older than me,” Domingo said. “So that’ll be three virgin mojitos. Besides, we don’t serve alcohol at lunchtime.”

  With that, he walked away.

  Alicia gave Gaz a mock stern look. “What’s up with that? Did you really just try to order alcohol?”

  Gaz shrugged. “I dunno. You were flirting with him. I just wanted to seem older.”

  Alicia smiled, balled up a napkin, and threw it at Gaz’s forehead. “I was not flirting with him. Carmen was. The only person I have a flirtationship with is you.”

  “Good,” Gaz said, reaching for her hand.

  “Just a reminder,” Carmen pointed out. “Flirtationship—not a real word, not a real thing.”

  Alicia smiled. “It’s real to us.”

  “I love you, chica, but I’ve also known you for a long time. I remember when Santa Claus and the tooth fairy were real to you, too,” Carmen teased.

  A short while later, Domingo returned with their food, and reluctantly, Alicia and Gaz stopped holding hands and began to eat.

  Jamie finally arrived and slid into the booth next to Gaz. “Wassup, chicas?”

  “Chicos,” Gaz practically growled. “In Spanish, when you’re referring to both men and women, you say chicos.”

  Jamie shrugged. “You know my Spanish isn’t that good. But whatever; so not the point. Much bigger issues at hand.” She took a flyer out of her messenger bag. “Check this out. We’ve got some competition. Simone Baldonado started a Sweet Sixteen–planning business.”

  All three of them groaned.

  Simone Baldonado was the richest girl at school and, as far as the friends were concerned, the most obnoxious. Her quinceañera, with its Princesses Through the Ages theme, had been the perfect encapsulation of Simone—OTT, or “over the top.” It wasn’t a surprise she was a bit of a brat. Her parents owned the Coronado hotel, the South Beach hot spot for the rich, famous, and fabulous. They lived in a massive penthouse suite on the top floor and had amazing views.

  Alicia could hardly believe that once upon a time, for about eight months in the second grade, she and Simone had been friends. More than that, they had been mejores amigas, the best of friends. Alicia tried not to think about it too much. Who could explain the choices a person made when she was seven years old? She didn’t even remember entirely when Simone had started hating her guts. But she did remember that, ever since that mysterious moment, Simone had always had something catty to say and was always, always, trying to mess with Alicia—and now Amigas Incorporated.

  Alicia looked down at Simone’s flyer and shrugged. “A, this picture of Simone makes her look demented. B, who cares about Sweet Sixteens? We do quinceañeras.”

  Jamie pointed to the line underneath the main one. The one that read, We do quinces, too.

  As if she’d been waiting and watching for them to find her flyer, Simone suddenly appeared in the restaurant. She walked over to their table, trailed by her best friend, Ellen Thomas.

  “What are you doing here?” Alicia asked.

  “Having lunch; it’s a free country, you know,” Ellen replied, speaking for Simone.

  Wherever Simone was, Ellen usually wasn’t far behind. The two girls were like Frick and Frack. Alicia wasn’t surprised to see that today the two girls were wearing matching pink plaid Burberry polos with pink shorts and pale pink Tretorn sneakers.

  “Congratulations, Ellen,” Alicia said, sweetly.

  “For what?” Ellen asked, looking ever so pleased with herself.

  “You win first prize for not having a single original thought of your own,” Alicia answered.

  “Sticks and stones,” Simone purred sarcastically. “I see you’ve gotten wind of our incredibly viral marketing campaign.”

  Gaz held up the piece of paper. “You mean the flyer? I thought viral meant ‘online.’”

  “Viral, grassroots, whatever,” Simone scoffed. “I’ve already gotten twelve calls, and these just went up yesterday afternoon.”

  The four friends tried not to gulp obviously. Twelve calls in one day? They’d been in business for months and were happy if they got twelve calls a week.

  “It’s because your mom is offering a thirty percent discount on dresses from her boutique,” Alicia said, pointing to one of the bullet points on the flyer. “Nobody else can compete with that.”

  “So what? It’s a business. A discount is a marketing tool used by businesses. Not amateurs like you guys,” Simone said. “My family has owned the top hotel in South Beach for three generations. My mother’s boutique is the number-one seller of party dresses. I am way more entitled to plan quinceañeras than you are.”

  “Except for the fact that you didn’t have the idea, you thief,” Alicia fumed. “You stole it from us.”

  “Don’t hate the player, hate the game, chicas!” Simone flashed a huge grin, then turned on her heel, giving the group a little wave. She had accomplished what she had come to do.

  Gaz groaned and called out, “Chico. As in, masculine. As in, sitting right here.”

  But Simone and Ellen were being seated at a table on the patio and didn’t even pretend to hear.

  Jamie patted his shoulder. “Poor baby. Don’t worry, we all know you’re a guy. . . .”

  “That’s why we keep you around,” Alicia said, winking at Gaz from across the table. “To carry all the heavy stuff.”

  She turned her attention back to Simone’s flyer. Even if she couldn’t admit it aloud, the flyer was irksome to her. “This is not a problem,” she said confidently. “Miami is the quince capital of America. There’s plenty of work to go around. No way is Simone going to steal our shine. Let’s get back to planning Carmen’s party. That’s what matters.”

  “Agreed,” Gaz said. Then he added, “So how do we do a cool Jewish Latina quince?”

  “Well, your abuela is bummed that you didn’t have a bat mitzvah, right?” Jamie asked Carmen as she picked at the scraps of fried plantains remaining on the serving plate.

  “Right,” Carmen said, nodding.

  “So, maybe we make it a mash-up, a quince-mitzvah!”

  Carmen guffawed, and the mojito she was drinking nearly came out of her nose.

  “You are one classy lady,” Alicia said, grinning.

  At that moment, Domingo came by with another tray of mojitos. “I thought it looked like you all might want some refills,” he said, putting down four ice-cold glasses garnished with fresh mint.

  “We might want refills. Yes,” said Jamie, saucily. “But do we want to pay for refills? No.”

  “Then they are on me,” he said, turning to Carmen and winking.

  Once Domingo was out of earshot, Alicia bumped shoulders with Carmen. “He totally likes you,” she said.

  “Totes,” Jamie agreed.

  “You think?” Carmen said. “Is he too old for me?”

  “Who cares?” Jamie retorted. “He would be the hottest chambelán this town has ever seen.”

  Gaz groaned. “Tell me why I’m not chilling with my guy friends right now.”

  “Because you don’t have any,” Alicia replied, playfully.

  “Come on, what about Hector?” Gaz said. Hector was a DJ that Carmen had gone out with once. “He’s my boy. It’s just that he’s spinning at some car show today.”

  The restaurant had been packed when they arrived, but now all of their food was gone. As were most of the people. Dropping the topic of Gaz’s friends—or lack thereof—Carmen tapped her watch. “My mom is coming to pick me up in twenty minutes. Ideas, people. I need ideas.”

  “So, quince-mitz
vah is not going to work?” Jamie asked earnestly.

  Carmen shook her head. “I don’t think so, niña.”

  “A mash-up is a good idea,” Gaz said, “but maybe not so literal.”

  “How about ‘Fifteen Is the New Thirteen’?” Jamie said. “We could do a whole Jewish Wizard of Oz: you’re Dorothy, and you’ve got to find your way back to Israel.”

  “No!” Carmen said, bursting into laughter. “Please, please stop. Besides I don’t think anyone in my family has even been to Israel.”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we could get everyone to wear those cool red string Kabbalah bracelets, like Madonna.”

  Carmen laughed even harder. “I don’t think Abuela Ruben even knows who Madonna is, and if she does, I’m sure that she doesn’t think she’s a nice Jewish girl.”

  “Let’s go back to the bat mitzvah idea,” Jamie suggested. “I know it’s a rite of passage like the quinceañera is, except many Jewish girls have theirs starting at twelve and Latin girls have theirs at fifteen.”

  “You should’ve split the difference and had yours at fourteen, Lati-jew-na style,” Gaz said.

  Carmen and Alicia laughed.

  “Lati-jew-na—is that even a word?” Jamie asked.

  “It is now,” Gaz said proudly.

  “Sorry, chico. No, it isn’t,” Carmen said.

  “What does the word bat mitzvah actually mean?” Jamie asked, pressing on. She took out her sketch pad and a black Sharpie and drew the word in cool graffiti script. She held up the pad. “How dope would that look on a pair of high-top Converse sneakers?”

  Everyone nodded. Pretty dope, they seemed to agree.

  “Bat mitzvah means Daughter of the Commandments,” Carmen explained.

  Alicia bounced up and down in her seat. “That’s it! The theme is Daughter of the Commandments.”

  “Catchy,” Jamie said, sarcastically.

  “Sounds like a super good time,” Gaz added.

  “Well, the first commandment is, Thou shalt not interrupt,” Alicia said. “We get a guy to dress like Moses—maybe even Carmen’s dad. You know he’s a clown. And instead of breaking the tablets, he breaks a giant matzo piñata.”

  Carmen, Jamie, and Gaz were silent.

  “Genius, huh?” Alicia asked.

  Her friends exchanged looks.

  “You ragged on me for quince-mitzvah,” Jamie finally said, incredulous.

  “You made fun of Lati-jew-na,” Gaz added, solemnly, shaking his head.

  At last, Carmen patted her best friend on the shoulder. “You’re done, kid; that idea really, really sucked.” Then, looking at her watch again, she added, “Okay, meeting over. On account of the fact that the pressure is getting to Lici, and she’s losing her mind. And my mom is coming. Let’s reconvene—when we aren’t so fried.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Carmen went to visit her father, Javier Ruben, on the set of his latest project. He produced telenovelas, which were Spanish soap operas. Except, instead of going on and on for years like the soap operas in the U.S., telenovelas were usually on five days a week, but for only six months.

  Javier Ruben was quite a successful producer, although he was constantly complaining that television audiences in Argentina, where his series aired, were nowhere near as loyal as the viewers in Mexico and Colombia.

  “If I were colombiano,” he was always saying, “I’d be a rich man. I’d have a condo in Buenos Aires and a house on Fishers Island, next to Oprah.”

  As it was, he did quite well. His condo on Biscayne Bay had panoramic views of the city. But that was just how Javier Ruben was, ambitious—and just a little bit competitive. The phrase grass is always greener applied to him—110 percent.

  Carmen’s Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate the torrent of Spanish her father was barking into his cell phone when she arrived at his office on the set, but she understood enough to get that he wasn’t exactly happy with the distribution deal for his latest project. He held up one finger, indicating that she should wait, then pointed at the phone and made a gesture implying that the person on the other end of the line was nuts.

  When he hung up a few minutes later, he sprang out of his director’s chair and kissed Carmen on both cheeks.

  It was from her father that Carmen had inherited her height. But she wasn’t as tall as he was; she still had to look up to see into his eyes. He was basketball-player tall. And basketball-player handsome.

  Today, he was dressed in a perfectly pressed white linen shirt, khakis, and a pair of Gucci loafers. There was no mistaking him for one of the associate producers or camera technicians running around the set. He looked too professional.

  “This is only day three of shooting, so things are a little bananas,” her dad explained, hooking his arm around Carmen’s. “Let’s walk. My office is too stuffy.”

  The crew had set up in the lobby of one of Miami’s old art deco hotels, and there were at least a hundred people dashing back and forth between the corner of the room where the actors were rehearsing their lines under the hot lights, and the other parts of the ballroom where stations had been set up for catering, hair and makeup, and wardrobe.

  “So, what’s this one called?” Carmen asked. She loved the energy of film and television production. She’d been visiting sets since she was a little girl, but nevertheless her eyes widened as she took in the flawless makeup of one of the actresses, the flirtatious smile of the man running through his lines with an associate producer, and all the other people, behind the scenes, who made it happen.

  “Dolores La Doble,” Javier said.

  “And what’s it about?” Carmen asked.

  “What are they ever about? El drama que es la vida, the drama that is life.” Javier gestured to the handsome actor in the makeup chair. “He’s a soccer referee living a humdrum life in the suburbs outside of Buenos Aires. Then he inherits a fortune from the wealthy tía he never knew he had. He meets Dolores, a beautiful woman who turns out to be a gold digger, or so his duplicitous brother would have him believe. So he throws Dolores out on her ear, but can’t stop thinking about her. He goes on a hiking trip in the mountains and in a simple village meets a girl who reminds him so much of Dolores. What’s the connection between the two women? Are they merely doppelgängers, two people who look remarkably alike but aren’t related? Or are more sinister forces at work? Tune in next week and every week for the next six months, to find out.”

  Carmen rubbed her hands together. “I like it. It’s juicy.”

  “Juicy is my business,” her father said.

  Carmen did not need to ask who was playing the role of Dolores, because for the past five years, almost all of her father’s telenovelas had starred his wife, Natalia. Blond, blue-eyed, and unapologetically glamorous, Natalia had never pretended to be interested in being a stepmother to Carmen and her siblings. She treated them like honored family friends, which wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded or as bad as some other stepparents sounded.

  As if on cue, Natalia entered the ballroom, dressed in a long red designer gown with ruby nails and lips to match. Her entourage followed close behind.

  “Hola, chica,” she said, greeting Carmen with a kiss on each cheek. “Qué hay?”

  “Not much,” Carmen said. “This new show sounds great.”

  “It’s most fabulous; I’m playing two roles—a blond and a brunette,” Natalia said. Her accent was slight and sexy. “Speaking of which, I have to go now for fittings for my country character. Ciao-ciao.”

  She kissed Javier on the cheek and then strode away, followed by a small phalanx of assistants, costumers, makeup artists, agents, and script supervisors. Carmen could smell her Carolina Herrera perfume for several minutes after she left.

  Her sister Una was always complaining about Natalia, but Carmen had no problem with her “step-mom.” Before Natalia, Javier had dated a string of MAWs—model/actress/whatevers. Most of them had been just a few years older than Una and Carmen; none of them had had any real talent or pote
ntial for success. Carmen had just begun to worry that her dad was turning into that guy when he met Natalia. She was a former pop star turned actress and was at least born in the same decade as Javier. Moreover, she seemed to make him very happy. To Carmen, that counted for a lot.

  If only she could figure out a way to make Abuela Ruben happy. . . .

  “Can we talk somewhere, Dad?” Carmen asked. “This actually isn’t a social call.”

  “Of course,” Javier said. “Let’s walk out to the pool. We can talk there.”

  Carmen followed her father out to one of the three pools at the hotel. He motioned for a waiter as they sat down, and a young man with dark hair showed up seconds later.

  “I’d love a large Pellegrino,” Javier said.

  “Two glasses,” Carmen added.

  “And lemon,” they both said, in unison.

  “So, what’s going on, muñeca brava?” Javier asked.

  “Well, you know my quinceañera is coming up,” Carmen said.

  Javier nodded. “Of course. I want to chip in. I’ll send your mother a check.”

  Carmen shook her head. She loved her father, but every once in a while, she thought, it would have been great if the man who managed a crew of over a hundred people and could name every item on his multimillion dollar film budget could think of something besides a check to try to make her happy.

  “Quince, huh?” Javier went on, unaware of her musings. “That’s a big one. Do you want a car?”

  Carmen raised her eyebrow. “Can you afford three cars? Because you know Tino and Una would each want one, too. Plus, I’m only turning fifteen—not sixteen.”

  Javier sighed. “Well, when you put it that way, maybe that’s not such a great idea.”

  “Dad,” Carmen said, “this isn’t about a gift. I need your advice.”

  The waiter returned with their bottled water. Carmen poured herself a glass and took a sip.

  “I didn’t have a bat mitzvah, and Abuela Ruben has been mad at me for two years,” she said in a rush.

  “Two years? That’s nothing,” Javier said. “Do you know how long she held a grudge against me?”

  “Dad, not about you,” Carmen reminded him.