Once Upon a Quinceañera Read online

  “Cinderella would be so embarrassed if you saw her in her underwear.”

  Every nerve in my body was suddenly on red alert.

  That wasn’t Tran’s voice. And it wasn’t Matt’s, either.

  I knew it, but at the same time, I didn’t.

  Because it couldn’t be the voice I thought it was.

  No way could it be . . . but it was. Mauro Reyes.

  Two

  I’M NOT (THAT) SUPERSTITIOUS, but my first thought was that I must have called him here with my car thoughts. Because Mauro Reyes hadn’t entered my mind in ages, and suddenly . . . this? No lo creo.

  For starters, Mauro didn’t live here anymore and hadn’t for years. (Gracias a Dios.) Considering how often he’d gone off about the Disneyfication of culture, blah, blah, I couldn’t see him doing this job, not even for extra cash.

  Mauro Reyes, son of famous photographer Oscar Reyes, would definitely never need extra cash anyway.

  Richie Rich asshole.

  But the real reason that it couldn’t be Mauro was that none of Belle’s stories ended with her knocking the Beast sideways for hooking up with her three and a half years ago, insulting her, lying about everything, and taking off.

  So, you see, my logic was sound. Except that then the Beast muttered, “Uh . . . hi, Carmen. Wow. Um . . . yeah, sorry I’m late. Traffic,” and damn it, I just KNEW that terrible voice.

  “Uh . . . hi, Carmen” might be the only honest thing he’s ever said to me. Maybe. Just the fact that my name had come out of his face made me want to double-check my birth certificate—to be sure that it wasn’t a lie, too.

  I looked toward the door, willing Cinderella to come back with a princess wave and steer us back on schedule, but I guess the bluebirds were taking their sweet time.

  This was so not the moment for a reunion. Whoever was behind the mask didn’t matter. I knew that I needed to stay in character. Mauro wasn’t going to be the reason I screwed up my only chance of getting my high school diploma by the end of the summer.

  Besides, I was Belle. These little girls deserved it, these mamis were paying for it, and el diablo himself could be behind that mask (though that might be an improvement, believe me) and I’d still playact love.

  If I knew anything about him, I knew Mauro Reyes could pretend to feel anything. A mask would only help.

  “Oye!” One of the aunts of Birthday Girl stumbled into the doorway and put her hands on her hips. “Why you all standing around for? Dance or something!”

  Princesses don’t glare, so I put on my sparkliest voice. “Who wants more cake?” Waverly had told me that I could get out of most bad situations as a party princess by offering cake. But the girls saw an opportunity for something new, and their eyes gleamed. “Yes!” they breathed out like one organism. “Dance, dance!” A few of them even sighed. The aunt raised her chin at me, and I could see the laughter in her eyes—the mojitos, too. Alcohol makes some people mean.

  I looked at the Beast and shrugged, praying for the baldosa floor to open and swallow me up.

  Because this was not good. Mauro had just started today. We’d never danced together, not even when we were together, and the waltz wasn’t exactly something you could expect people to know off the top of their furry heads.

  I turned to the Beast and gave him a deep curtsy, battle drums beating in my head. Because while I’m actually a pretty good dancer (Mami would have kicked my ass if I weren’t . . . she considered it one of the most important parts of being a Latina), it wasn’t like I could lead myself in a waltz. Especially not while wearing heels and a too-long dress and making sure I didn’t end up headfirst in the flat-screen TV.

  Thankfully, the Beast bowed deeply, strolled forward, and took my hand like we’d been doing this all our lives. Simone’s training certainly hadn’t said one word about how to act if your ex showed up dressed like a cross between a French soldier and Chewbacca, so I concentrated on the mask—because at least THAT wasn’t him.

  Under the mask, he could be anyone! Right?

  Who was I kidding? Three and a half years later, and the pressure of his hand on my waist tumbled me back into the high school darkroom. My body knew this wasn’t Tran, and I couldn’t tell if Mauro was feeling anything at all.

  Mauro Reyes wasn’t supposed to be here in this house, or here working for Simone, or even here in Miami—holding me tighter in his arms than any guy who hated me had a reason to.

  I gritted my teeth in a smile and waited for the waltz music to start and for this to be over. Ideally, my alarm would go off and this whole thing would just be a too-much-tres-leches-cake-at-dinner-fueled bad dream.

  Except then Birthday Girl’s cute big brother put on a CD and what blared out was a little more Daddy Yankee and a little less Uncle Walt (Disney, that is). What was I supposed to do? Start grinding in my ball gown? With Mauro? That wasn’t going to happen. No high school diploma was worth that kind of humiliation.

  Mauro didn’t miss a beat, though, throwing up his hands and bouncing up and down. I just . . . stood there for a second. No way was I shaking what my mami gave me in front of Mauro and a bunch of six-year-olds. So I settled for wiggling my shoulders a little and kept smiling. Always freaking smiling.

  “Ay, mija, that’s not dancing!” one of the tías shouted, and the others laughed and started giving me encouragement in two languages. “Gotta get closer . . . un movimiento sexy!” They acted out the moves in case I needed a visual aid.

  When the abuelitas started to drift into the room on their cloud of talcum powder and curiosity, the brother quickly put on a merengue. Mauro immediately started the quick, jerky two-step, pulling me even closer while I pushed him away. People started to laugh.

  It may have been three and a half years later, but he was still bad luck. Mauro was playing with me; he wanted me to join in, one-up him. Even though I couldn’t see his face (and hated that he could see mine), I could feel that he was laughing underneath his furry head. Enjoying watching my reaction, the asshole. But I couldn’t afford to screw around. My future literally depended on me not kicking him in the shin.

  Not that it wasn’t tempting.

  I gave Birthday Girl’s mother a smile that managed to be happy and pleading at the same time, and she clapped. “OK, Miguel. Enough is enough. Put the right song on, por favor.”

  He shook his head like we were ruining his fun and put on the Disney one.

  The dulcet sounds of “A Whole New World” started up. Now the little girls who had giggled when we were dropping it like it was hot howled in protest. “NOO! That’s from Aladdin!”

  He shrugged. “So? It’s Disney, right?”

  They rolled their eyes in unison. “It’s not the right STORY! You can’t put them in the wrong STORY! It doesn’t make SENSE!”

  The mami, tired of her son screwing things up, sighed loudly enough to be heard next door and then changed the song. “Tale as Old as Time” filled the room. Mauro, who had been whipping and bouncing three seconds ago, and doing a not-terrible merengue two seconds ago, turned to me then and gave me another perfect, elegant bow. I curtsied back, even as I panicked. I was hoping we were done with the dance portion of the evening. One of the abuelos, apparently thinking that we were still taking requests, shouted out, “Bah, put on a good salsa!” Birthday Girl’s dad laughed and shook his head. By now, the other parents from the party had come in from the kitchen and the patio, all teetering on the same good mojitos, smelling of lime and pan con bistec.

  Luckily, I’d made myself sit through the whole Disney movie oeuvre as soon as I got this internship, so I knew the scene in question. I looked away coyly, and then put my hand delicately on Mauro’s arm. This was formal and pretty and totally wrong for us. I didn’t like feeling shy around Mauro, of all things.

  “This is so awkward,” I muttered through my smile.

  He cocked his lionesque head at me. “Don’t worry, I know how to waltz. I dated a debutante once. Unless you mean awkward for another rea
son?” He was just daring me to say something about our past. Our stupid, meaningless past.

  “It’s awkward like those movies where the actors have to kiss five seconds after meeting,” I told him.

  “We’re not kissing, though. Are we?”

  Ugh, why did I have to bring up kissing at all? I willed myself to be a robot, to only speak in character.

  “Fine.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “I promise not to ravish you on the dance floor. Unless the girls ask for it, of course. Gotta give the kids what they want.”

  He started whirling me around in time, and then I couldn’t think about anything but making sure I didn’t go skidding across the floor like a rag doll. Dance-wise, I had to admit, he was always in control. Solid. Mauro had always been on the scrawny side of skinny. Still, the arm I was holding on to was strong. Even stronger than I had expected.

  Have I mentioned how much I hated having these thoughts at all?

  In the movie, Belle and the Beast are dancing in a gorgeous EMPTY ballroom, serenaded by the teapot chick. That was not our situation. The Florida room wasn’t small, but it was packed with eight little girls who were whirling around us, like drunk little backup dancers. They were crashing into each other and into us. Meanwhile, the parents hadn’t done much more than move the oversize recliners against the wall. The coffee table was still there, close to the center of the room. Still smothered by about a million photos of the family at the beach, at weddings, at random parties a lot like this one. Still perfectly level with my knees.

  Oof. A munchkin plowed directly into my side.

  “Wow, you took that hit like a linebacker,” Mauro said, admiration in his voice. I couldn’t see his face through the mask. I gritted my teeth through my princess smile and said nothing at all. I could hear the abuelos, already bored, muttering in Spanish. But the grown women were strangely enthralled.

  “Ay, que lindo! Reminds me of my quince. Oh, to be fifteen again,” one of the mamis sighed to another.

  But Drunk Tía wasn’t fooled. “Óyeme, isn’t this a love story? Don’t you have to, you know, LOVE each other? It’s like you’re dancing in different rooms!” She wiggled her fingers at us, like she was flinging some love dust at us. Birthday Girl’s mami laughed and nudged her playfully. My hands twitched. I wanted to shove someone. Guess I’m not cut out for that fairy-tale life.

  “They don’t get romantic until he becomes the prince!” one of the three Ariels pointed out. “He’s not sexy till then.”

  Sexy? I thought these kids were, like, six.

  “Naw,” said a fellow little Belle. “He was hotter as the Beast, THAT’S when they fell in love. Him being a prince was, like, TOTAL Ken doll.” She looked at Mauro and said, politely, “No offense.”

  “None taken,” he said in a laugh-choked voice. Finally, FINALLY, the damn song ended. I was ready to drop another curtsy to him and then to the girls, when he surprised me by dipping me and lowering his masked face to mine, I guess to make the little shipper who loved the Beast AS a beast happy. Thank goodness for the plastic and hair between us. I clutched his arm, making sure to dig my nails in there a bit. If he could go off script, so could I.

  The girls screeched with delight. At least they seemed happy. So did the parents, who had brought out a pitcher of sangria and were now dancing together, exaggerated versions of our waltz.

  Birthday Girl glanced at them. Her face clouded over. It was an expression I recognized. The adults were taking over. She could feel her birthday slipping away.

  Damn it. No. I wouldn’t let that happen. Not on my watch. But before I could do anything, Mauro stepped in front of her and bowed. “Princess, may I have this dance?”

  She squealed and clapped her hands. He began to whirl her around, evoking several high-pitched little girl shrieks. All the mamis stopped and sighed. A few whipped out their phones to memorialize the moment of extreme cuteness.

  Cinderella finally reappeared next to me. “Uh, that doesn’t look like Matt.”

  “That’s because it’s not. Thanks for leaving me out here alone, by the way.”

  She shrugged. “When nature calls, even Cinderella must answer. Besides, I caught a bit of that dance. I liked the method acting. Playing Belle pre-romantic furry feelings? Respect the choice.”

  I ignored that. “You were gone awhile. You OK?”

  “Yeah, this is a new costume and I couldn’t get the clasp undone. I think I peed on it a little bit.”

  Note to self: Try not to play Cinderella any time soon.

  We began to unobtrusively clean around the room. Hoping to make a quick getaway and let the parents handle their little sugared-up chiquitas.

  Thank goodness my first party hadn’t been very elaborate, no face painting or animal balloons. Just fairy tea and misery.

  Cinderella clapped her hands. “Oh MY! Tee-hee, look at the time! It’s time to get back to the castle. The prince gets SO worried.”

  “Then Belle can stay ’cause the Beast is already here,” one of the Rapunzels pointed out. She put her hands on her waist.

  “And he JUST got here.”

  A papi smothered his laugh. Must have been his little angel.

  Cinderella’s smile wobbled for a moment, but unlike me, she was a pro. “We all have to make sure to get back to Fairyland together!”

  “Is it like catching the train to Hogwarts?”

  “Something like that,” I assured the girl. “And if we don’t get back soon, why, Lumière might torch the whole place! You know how he gets.”

  I don’t know how Cinderella managed to look smiley and demure and STILL shoot me a warning look, but she did.

  As we were saying our goodbyes (and Waverly was in the kitchen collecting our fee plus, please lord, any tips), Birthday Girl gave me a huge hug and buried her face in my neck. Her cheeks felt sticky against mine. She smelled like buttercream.

  “I love you, Belle. I love you forever.”

  I knew she wasn’t talking to me, just the character I was playing, but my eyes stung anyway. They were unexpected words to hear. Her parents watched me warily, like they wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to whisper to the kid that this was all just pretend.

  They didn’t need to worry. I wouldn’t crush this kid’s dreams. Life would do it to her soon enough.

  “Happy birthday” was all I said, my voice feeling a little shaky. “Feliz cumpleaños, little princess.”

  “Jessie, quieres más cake?” her tía called. Jessie pulled away from me and patted my little yellow satin purse. “Bye!”

  “Bye.” I waved and sighed.

  Time to head back to the not-so-fairyland of my real life.

  When we were safely out of view of the party house, Waverly turned to Mauro and said, “You aren’t Tran. Or Matt.” She crossed her arms and waited.

  “Uh . . . not the last time I checked,” Mauro said, giving her that smile that I still remembered. The teasing one where it felt like he was including you in the joke.

  “Um, that was your cue to introduce yourself. Here, I’ll demonstrate.” She held out her hand and gave him a Princess Sparkle smile. “I’m Waverly, aka Cinderella, and this is Carmen.”

  “We’ve met,” I grumbled.

  “Repeatedly,” Mauro said. And then shifted the furry Beast head to the crook of his other arm and held out his hand to her. “I’m Mauro. The once and future Beast.”

  I couldn’t help it, I snorted.

  Waverly raised her eyebrows at me. “Why am I getting the feeling you two know each other?”

  I said, “Barely,” at the same time that Mauro said, “Very well, actually.”

  I could almost see the gears behind Waverly’s blue eyes turning.

  I’d told Waverly about Mauro exactly once, a late-night whispered confession earlier this year when she’d asked me about my worst breakup.

  I’d left a lot out, though. Like, you know, his name. He was just “the photographer.”

  The night I told her the story, it was still s
o easy to fall back into remembering. Barely a blink and there I was. Back at the party. The See and Be Seen Party.

  If I could find him, if we could talk, maybe we could find some understanding. I hated that he thought I was someone I wasn’t. Someone who would brag about a promise that I hadn’t even wanted him to make. He needed to know that I didn’t even care about whether his father took pictures of me or not.

  Ariana was going to confess. That’s why I’d risked bringing her here. But I wanted to talk to him first.

  I hadn’t even thought about what I might find when I got there.

  I made my way toward the back of the house. His father’s bedroom. I’d never been here.

  Voices, inside. Mauro’s and another.

  A girl’s.

  A part of me wanted to go stomping in there, shouting, throwing shit, right?

  But it was like I was frozen to the floor.

  Mauro. His shirt off, pants unbuckled. On top of another girl. A blonde. I couldn’t see much of her, and whoever she was didn’t matter. What mattered was who she wasn’t.

  She wasn’t me.

  “Hey . . . uh . . . you planning on walking home?” Mauro asked me. I’d walked right past the Dreams van, caught up in the toxic movie replaying in my brain.

  Oh, how I would have loved to have done just that. But I knew Simone was expecting us back at the Shack, and I wasn’t about to drag my Belle dress through the dusty Kendall streets.

  I swept past him and got into the van. I’d never been inside it before. Props lay in heaps around us—extra gloves and bunches of silk flowers and bags of bright-colored plastic beads and party favors. A wire rod was propped against the back door, for us to hang our costumes on when we weren’t wearing them. It all smelled a little like watermelon candy.

  I didn’t even ask how Mauro had gotten access to the Dreams van, considering that as far as I knew this was his first party, too. But that was Mauro. He could talk people into things. Lots and lots of things.

  “Are you Simone’s long-lost kid or something?” Waverly asked. “I’ve never seen you before, and she’s letting you drive the van? No one drives the van.”