around with thought it was—
afeminado
—to be in a court. To have to dress up in a monkey suit, and learn all those silly dances . . . we just wanted to be Americans, to drive around in cars and be cool.”
“And you still can’t dance to this day.”
He threw me a look of mock hurt. “I can dance the macarena!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him how uncool the macarena was.
“But your friend Rudi—he did go to the parties, didn’t he?”
Dad ducked his head. “Well, yes, apparently so.”
Aha!
“And you’re
jealous
of your old pal for knowing more about your own daughter’s
quince
than you do!”
Dad’s face sort of melted then, his features becoming fluid in a way that signaled my cross-examination had worked. I thought about what I had just said. “That’s okay, Dad,” I soothed him. “I’d never even heard about this
quince
thing before Abuela brought it up. I don’t know any more than you do, other than what I’ve read in this book.” I patted the copy of
Quinceañero for the Gringo Dummy
on my desk.
“Er, that’s what I’ve come to ask you, Violet. Can I borrow that book for a day or two?”
Oh no you don’t, I thought. The book was the only thing that stood between me and complete chaos. “Why don’t you just ask Abuela if you have questions?”
He stood to leave and growled, “She’s the one who told me to go read the book! Said if I wasn’t paying attention to the world around me when I was growing up, well, it wasn’t her fault.”
We both gave fractured smiles.
“So can I borrow it, please?” Dad asked. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled a cassette tape from the pocket of his shirt and tossed it on the bed. It was his favorite
Women in Blues
compilation tape, the one with Koko Taylor singing “Hound Dog” on it. I’d been begging him to make me a copy of it forever.
I handed over the book. “Deal.”
10
The
quince
bible was making the rounds. “Listen, listen. Get this,” Leda said to Janell and me a few days later. She sprawled on my bed in jeans and a tank top that said HERBIVORE on it, paging through the manual. “After the opening dance number by the court comes the presentation—when the
quince
-babe makes her entrance. That’s you, Violet,” she reminded me, as if I needed it. “Followed directly by the waltz with the father.”
I grimaced.
She quoted from the book: “ ‘The presentation shows the passage from the girl onto a woman.’ ”
Janell hooted. “Sounds suggestive.”
“It says that different countries have different customs. In Puerto Rico and Mexico the
quince
-chick makes her entrance and sits on a throne, where one of her parents changes her shoes from flats to heels. You don’t even own a pair of heels, do you?”
“Dad says they’re bad for your feet.”
“Oh, come on,” said Janell. “So are toe shoes.” She sat on my floor in tan leggings and an orange T-shirt, stretching. “What’s wrong with dressing up every once in a while?”
My face colored. “Sometimes you just have to make your own style,” I said. Thank God for Mom’s common-sense approach to fashion.
“Listen, listen,” Leda interrupted, and read aloud: “ ‘Cuban
quinceañeros
lies somewhere in between the myth and the legend. Girls has been presented in giant silver teacups, in swings lowered from the ceiling, and on an Egyptian litter carried by bearers in costume.’ ” She turned her blue eyes pleadingly on me. “
Dude
. . . can we?”
“I’m not that much of a ham. Besides, the theme’s not Egyptian.”
“ ‘All the World’s a Stage,’ ” said Janell. “I like it. So, the presentation has to be dramatic.”
“Hey! I know. You could descend from a spiral staircase in one of those vamp outfits,” suggested Leda.
The thought made me squeamish. “That’ll all be taken care of.” I waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “We’re going to a party planner who will design the whole event. We’ll have
afeminado
—to be in a court. To have to dress up in a monkey suit, and learn all those silly dances . . . we just wanted to be Americans, to drive around in cars and be cool.”
“And you still can’t dance to this day.”
He threw me a look of mock hurt. “I can dance the macarena!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him how uncool the macarena was.
“But your friend Rudi—he did go to the parties, didn’t he?”
Dad ducked his head. “Well, yes, apparently so.”
Aha!
“And you’re
jealous
of your old pal for knowing more about your own daughter’s
quince
than you do!”
Dad’s face sort of melted then, his features becoming fluid in a way that signaled my cross-examination had worked. I thought about what I had just said. “That’s okay, Dad,” I soothed him. “I’d never even heard about this
quince
thing before Abuela brought it up. I don’t know any more than you do, other than what I’ve read in this book.” I patted the copy of
Quinceañero for the Gringo Dummy
on my desk.
“Er, that’s what I’ve come to ask you, Violet. Can I borrow that book for a day or two?”
Oh no you don’t, I thought. The book was the only thing that stood between me and complete chaos. “Why don’t you just ask Abuela if you have questions?”
He stood to leave and growled, “She’s the one who told me to go read the book! Said if I wasn’t paying attention to the world around me when I was growing up, well, it wasn’t her fault.”
We both gave fractured smiles.
“So can I borrow it, please?” Dad asked. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled a cassette tape from the pocket of his shirt and tossed it on the bed. It was his favorite
Women in Blues
compilation tape, the one with Koko Taylor singing “Hound Dog” on it. I’d been begging him to make me a copy of it forever.
I handed over the book. “Deal.”
10
The
quince
bible was making the rounds. “Listen, listen. Get this,” Leda said to Janell and me a few days later. She sprawled on my bed in jeans and a tank top that said HERBIVORE on it, paging through the manual. “After the opening dance number by the court comes the presentation—when the
quince
-babe makes her entrance. That’s you, Violet,” she reminded me, as if I needed it. “Followed directly by the waltz with the father.”
I grimaced.
She quoted from the book: “ ‘The presentation shows the passage from the girl onto a woman.’ ”
Janell hooted. “Sounds suggestive.”
“It says that different countries have different customs. In Puerto Rico and Mexico the
quince
-chick makes her entrance and sits on a throne, where one of her parents changes her shoes from flats to heels. You don’t even own a pair of heels, do you?”
“Dad says they’re bad for your feet.”
“Oh, come on,” said Janell. “So are toe shoes.” She sat on my floor in tan leggings and an orange T-shirt, stretching. “What’s wrong with dressing up every once in a while?”
My face colored. “Sometimes you just have to make your own style,” I said. Thank God for Mom’s common-sense approach to fashion.
“Listen, listen,” Leda interrupted, and read aloud: “ ‘Cuban
quinceañeros
lies somewhere in between the myth and the legend. Girls has been presented in giant silver teacups, in swings lowered from the ceiling, and on an Egyptian litter carried by bearers in costume.’ ” She turned her blue eyes pleadingly on me. “
Dude
. . . can we?”
“I’m not that much of a ham. Besides, the theme’s not Egyptian.”
“ ‘All the World’s a Stage,’ ” said Janell. “I like it. So, the presentation has to be dramatic.”
“Hey! I know. You could descend from a spiral staircase in one of those vamp outfits,” suggested Leda.
The thought made me squeamish. “That’ll all be taken care of.” I waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “We’re going to a party planner who will design the whole event. We’ll have
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