CHAPTER ONE
If the devil’s in the details, then el diablo loved to cha-cha on Spanish accent marks. A dash over the a in tonight’s side dish, for example, and party guests would get a baked dad—instead of a baked potato—to accompany their filet mignon.
I checked the menu card one more time.
All clear. A quick scan down the rest of tonight’s other courses—thankfully none of those spellings needed acute accents, dieresis … or the dreaded tilde.
Nothing spelled disaster more than a missing squiggly mustache mark over the n in años.
Having watched Po’s birthday banner drop, only for it to wish my sister happy fifteen buttholes instead of happy fifteen years, I spoke from experience.
I lowered the perfectly spelled menu onto the middle of the gold-rimmed plate with shaky fingers. Flashbacks of that night knocked against my chest. But the memories of the months leading up to it walloped hardest. Threatening to bust my heart open like a piñata.
I shook my head and pulled my planner from my bag. Thumbed through the pages filled with student body association calendar events until I hit the Angie Montes Bday Party Final Checklist tab.
Going down the rest of the list, I surveyed the ballroom. Head table set to perfection? Check. White roses and pink hydrangeas brimming from the center of the other tables? Check.
As our school’s event-planning chair, I’d gone down similar lists countless times. Every checkmark of the pencil usually steadied my pulse. No such luck tonight.
Probably because this wasn’t a Matteo Beach High winter formal, prom, or fundraiser but my first solo(ish) attempt at party planning. As if starting a side hustle wasn’t stressful enough, of course the first party out the gates had to be a quince.
Sure, this fiesta celebrated a rite of passage for the birthday girl. But it could be one for me, too.
Because if tonight went off without a hitch, I could keep checking off boxes for both my short- and long-term goals this summer, starting with Angie recommending my services to our classmates and ending with the party-planning experience I needed to apply to Mandy Whitmore and Associates’ fairy godmother internship.
I shut the planner and hugged it close, whispering Mandy’s mission statement: “With the wave of a magic stylus—plus a few hands-on tricks of the trade—my team of fairy godmother’s apprentices and I will make your event storybook stunning.”
Closing my eyes, I recited the last sentence: “Happily ever afters are our business.”
Like a spell working its magic, pieces of my HEA painted themselves behind my eyelids.
A calendar stuffed with tons of picture-perfect parties. Acceptance into a great college with a stellar hospitality management major and PR minor. Preferably one with a kick-ass volleyball team, so Po could also go there.
Before I slotted in my wishes for Dad, Juno’s voice shattered my Torres-family vision board.
“We’re good to go, Cas!”
I glanced across the gilded room to Juno, my AP chemistry lab partner moonlighting as the DJ. I flicked the gold-ringed eraser end of my pencil at them.
And just like that, the first step to my family’s HEA had liftoff.
Now the rest of the party needed to unfold perfectly for it to keep soaring.
I tucked the pencil behind my ear. Pressed the side of the ancient walkie-talkie, relics from Po’s and my Pokémon-catching days. Even with the bumblebee-yellow plastic, it looked super professional—so long as I kept the side with the Pikachu speakers down. “It’s almost time to open the floodgates, Callie. Are the assets in position?”
A burst of crackles, then a drumroll emitted from the speaker. Probably her tapping her nails against the walkie-talkie. At student body association meetings, she always thrummed them against her binder before delivering bad news. “Sorry, Cas, Tweedledee and Tweedledum have gone AWOL. Again.”
Every chance they got, Ishaan and Sarah sneaked off for an impromptu make-out session. I should’ve forced them to share their location when I had the chance.
“I’ll track them down,” I grumbled. “What about Angie? Is she finally ready?”
“Um. About that.”
My knuckles clenched the planner’s edges. “What now?”
“She’s locked herself in the bridal suite and won’t let me in.”
Ugh. “Fine. I’ll handle it.” I always did. “I’m going to open the doors. Can you come back here and let me know if anything else happens?”
“Roger.”
“Over and out.” I gave Juno the signal. A second later, an instrumental version of “My Heart Will Go On” filled the ballroom. I opened the set of double doors, smiling at the flurry of guests blurring past.
Stepping into the hotel’s lobby, I broke into a sprint. No signs of the two quince court members gone missing. No skinny-dipping in the pool out back either. Right when my fingers curled around Pikachu’s tail—er, the talk button—ready to order Callie to come help with the manhunt, there, through the hotel’s tall arches that led to its beautiful Spanish courtyard, they stood.
Their necks defied geometric principles. Even the AP ones I’d learned last year. Blame it on the chismosa part of me—definitely not on the never-been-kissed part—I stepped closer for a better look. With all that teeth gnashing, how were their Invisalign staying in place?
As over-the-top as this PDA was, though, I couldn’t deny this spot did scream “perfect background for making out.” Burgundy roses rustled in the warm breeze. An eager moon shone silver from a darkening sky, bathing these lovebirds in extra-shimmery light.
They weren’t even the couple of the night. And although I’d witnessed more of these stolen moments than I could count (both in person and in the rom-coms Mom used to watch to perfect her English), a bunch of butterflies fluttered through me. I threw back my shoulders, flinging off the romantic in me, and stepped into the courtyard. “Hey, you two!”
The couple broke apart. Moonbeams caught on Sarah’s plastic aligners. The moonlight didn’t similarly bounce off Ishaan’s. Not with all of Sarah’s lipstick smudged over them. “We were just—” they mumbled at the same time.
I put up a hand. “Ishaan, fix your tie and wipe your Invisalign. And Sarah—” I reached under my blazer into my utility bag, pulled out my hand, and flung a tube of lipstick that every dama in the court was wearing tonight. “Catch.”
Captain of the softball team, she caught MAC’s Ballet Slipper in a manicured hand like a pro. “Now, hurry,” I said. “The procession starts in ten.”
One problem down, one more to go. My body vibrated with purpose. With a plan. There was nothing I loved more than a plan.
I sprinted forward, scrunching smoothing serum on the split ends of some fellow classmates, pointing tipsy tíos the right way. I narrowly avoided crashing into Angie’s abuelita.
“Sorry, Señora Montes!”
“¡Wachale, niña!” She squinted at me before gesturing to the floor—no, her gold-spiked kitten heels. Way more dangerous than embroidered-cloth and rubber-soled chanclas worn by less bougie grandmothers. By the look on her face, she’d have zero qualms about using them on my behind if I didn’t watch where I was going.
“Why hasn’t my granddaughter come down yet?” Okay, she’d also use the sandals on me if Angie missed the grand entrance. “Do you even know where she is?”
“Of course I do.” Only because Callie told me a second ago. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.” My loud gulp made her eyebrows draw tighter. “Please make your way to the ballroom and enjoy the hors d’oeuvres. Angie will be down any second.” I broke into a run before she could say anything else.
Too bad I couldn’t outpace Angie’s cousin Fernando. “Cas! Wait!”
But if time waited for no one, neither would I. No matter how cute Fer was, or how many times he’d asked me to be his date for a cousin’s wedding, you know what they say.
Always a planner, never a plus-one.
Not to mention I’d never been a date since, well, ever.
I ran through one of the hotel’s kitchens, losing him in a maze of chefs, hissing grills, and boiling pots. By the time I reached the bridal suite, my thighs burned. I leaned against the door and tried to turn the knob.
It refused to budge. I knocked. No answer.
Great. Angie had gone full-on quincezilla.
“Open the door. It’s me—Cas.”
Still nothing. I pressed my ear to the door. No TV or music from the other side. Just the click-click-click of stilettos pacing across marble floors.
“Angie, if you don’t open this door right now”—since we were both too old to believe in El Cucuy, I reached for the other monster Latines feared until they died—“I’ll go get your abuelita.”
A huge gasp from the other side of the door. But hey, desperate times called for desperate measures. The door creaked open; Angie grabbed my pink blouse and dragged me in. “Careful, Ang! This is my lucky shirt.”
She locked the door behind us. “Sorry. If I tore anything, I’ll buy you a new one.”
I brushed my hands down my blouse. Every pearl button had stayed put. No tears in the pink silk. The shirt I planned to wear to Mandy’s fairy godmother internship interview one day was still intact. I blew out a sigh of relief. “It’s fine.”
“I’m glad one of us is.” The top of her bronzed and contoured chest rose and fell. The Swarovski crystals beading her bodice sprayed tiny rainbows on the walls.
“Why are you freaking out now, Angie? You’ve worked your butt off learning all the routines.” Contrary to stereotype, not all Latinas had rhythm. In exchange for Spanish tutoring, Marcus Bennett, our school’s captain of the dance team, agreed to choreograph the dances. Except, to get them down, Angie had put in the ten thousand hours herself. “You could do the father-daughter dance, the group waltz, and el baile de sorpresa blindfolded.”
“I wish I was blindfolded.”
“And mess up your makeup?”
She jabbed me on the shoulder. “I’m serious, Cas. I know we practiced everything for weeks now…” She didn’t have to finish telling me. I’d spent the last month of the spring semester and the first week of summer vacation prepping this party. “Except we didn’t practice”—Angie dropped her chin to the neckline of her gown—“how it’s going to feel having everyone staring at me.”
I swallowed a chuckle. Most prom queens and homecoming kings couldn’t wait for the one night that guaranteed all eyes on them.
“How did you handle it for your quince? Was it as big as this?”
“Well, I actually—” My voice broke off, then vanished.
“Let me guess. It was an outdoor venue, wasn’t it?”
A lump lodged itself in my throat. Over a year ago, my fifteenth birthday’s venue had been outdoors, all right.
“I knew it.” She stomped her foot.
“Careful with that.” I crouched to the floor, checking the heel. “Your mom’s going to kill me if another pair of Louboutins gets ruined on my watch.” Even worse, one more complaint from Mami Dearest and she’d probably bad-mouth me to all her friends. I didn’t even want to entertain how the bad reviews could impact this side hustle. Or, by extension, the internship.
My shoulders tensed before relaxing. “Thankfully, the heel’s intact.”
Angie stuck her tongue out at me.
“Real adult behavior from someone who is about to become a woman.” The moment I said it, the walkie-talkie crackled from my back pocket. Either an electric volt from Pikachu or an incoming message from Callie. Both probably warnings that Mami Dearest or—gasp—Abuelita stormed this way.
I rose up and spun Angie around toward the mirror. Pinned up a tendril that had already come loose. “Showtime,” I said, dragging her by the elbow.
Except she dug in her high heels. “A daytime quince was my first choice, you know. Outdoors, like yours.” Her voice got soft, faraway. “But Abuelita didn’t want me to get even darker.”
I bit my lips. Protested silently by letting another ringlet stay outside the perfectly sculpted bun.
“And what about the flowers?” Angie asked, probably to keep stalling. “Which kinds did you have?”
“All types.” Technically not a lie. But ugh. That damn lump kept swelling.
“Probably in every arrangement imaginable?”
“Yup.” Also true. Only they’d been placed on the ground, not across the middles of exquisitely decorated tables.
A wistful sigh escaped her lips, as if she were watching a memory reel inside my head. Before she realized the true story, I bent down again. Rearranged gigantic swaths of pink tulle swallowing the lower half of her body.
Copyright © 2024 by Jessica Parra
