The Quince Project

Chapter Three

Po sat against her headboard, a gold-embroidered silk duster wrapped around her curves. Stickers coated every inch of the laptop perched on her knees. The back of the screen panel blocked most of her face from view.

“When are you going to move your bed back into your room? It’s right across the hallway, in case you forgot.” I kicked off my loafers and threw myself onto my bed. Sinking into the mattress, I felt sixteen going on sixty… because as much as I wanted to tell her how awesome tonight had been, parts of my HEA began to paint themselves behind my drooping eyelids again.

I pulled a pillow over my eyes, darkening the canvas. The images slotted into place, glowing brighter.

The fairy godmother’s internship.

Po back on track with college planning.

Dad, well, dad-ing again.

Po’s mattress squeaked. Pounding steps. A pillow ripping off my face. The blinding light sent the pieces of my vision board scurrying down the Mom-size hole inside my chest.

“Argh! Mariposa!” Calling her by her full name meant peak annoyance. “I was just beginning to fall asleep!”

“Uh-uh-uh. Not until you tell me how the party went.”

I squinted one eye at her. Having spent my entire life with my sister, I knew how to decode her moods via her lipstick shade alone. Purple translated to “extra good.”

And extra-good mood implied she’d keep me up for another hour. At least. “And PS, I’m not going back to my room anytime soon. It’s cozy in here with the two of us.” She spiked the pillow toward the wall. “Soo… about the party? Dish.”

Her interest reinflated the excitement balloons inside my chest, propping me onto my elbows. “It went off without a hitch.” Well, none that I didn’t nip in the bud. “I think I have a knack for this.”

After giving me a round of applause, she skipped to her bed. Flopped onto the only patch not littered with mounds of rainbow-colored or animal-print athleisure. “You have a knack for lots of things, BTW.”

She gestured toward the closet. To the exact spot where I’d stashed my old watercolor supplies. “If you’re referring to me painting…” Another life, another me. “I prefer less messy activities to fill my time now, thank you very much. While we’re on the topic of messy—”

I walked over to her, lifted my thumb to her mouth, and wiped the lipstick smudge on her lower lip. “There. Now on to the next items. Organizing,” I said, shoving a pile of clothes to the edge of her bed. “And planning.” I lowered myself onto the mattress. “Have you carved out time in your schedule tomorrow to start your college applications?”

She tsk-tsked. “Yesterday’s history. Tomorrow’s a mystery. But today’s a gift.” A dramatic pause. “That’s why it’s called the present.”

I rolled my eyes. There she went, breezing past my question. Fine. Like Elsa in Frozen, I’d let it go—for a few minutes. “Is that an original ‘Poverb’? Or did you read it off a meme?”

She clutched her chest in faux pain. “Well, if you’re going to nag me about applications, then I’ll return the favor. Now that you’ve got a fiesta in the books, can you finally apply to that internship?”

I recited the fairy godmother requirements by heart. “‘Leadership position in school extracurricular.’” Event chair—check. “‘Minimum GPA of three point five.’” I raise you a 4.0, Ms. Whitmore. “‘Able to lift thirty pounds as needed.’” I scooped an armload of Po’s clothes over my head. “‘Ability to work with difficult people.’” I jutted my chin at her.

Although I wasn’t really joking, it earned me a laugh anyway. “What else?” she asked.

An unwavering belief in happily ever afters. I kept that one to myself, not wanting her to rebut this prerequisite with one of her aphorisms. As if to compensate, I projected my voice loudly when I got to the end of the list. “‘Party-planning experience preferred.’ If this party hustle continues to take off, I can apply by the end of summer.”

With my plans on track, I went back to her summer agenda. “Did you look through the college PowerPoint presentations I emailed you earlier? Both schools have great volleyball teams.”

Po glanced down to a mound of sports bras. “UCI ain’t going to happen, Cas. Alma even less.”

Before Mom, the four of us would joke about how Po and me were like those trains that math word problems loved so much: Departing at different times. Heading to awesome collegiate destinations. Ending up at the same one, eventually.

But After Mom, Po dropped out of Future Leaders of OC. Paired the early exit with less-than-stellar grades throughout the whole of sophomore year. She did manage to stay on the volleyball team, rising to become captain of our school’s nationally award-winning squad. Plus, she’d held her position at In-N-Out for over a year now.

Heading into senior year this coming fall, she’d have a semester and a half to raise her GPA back to Before Mom levels.

“Both schools are still very much in play, Po.” Not to mention interchangeable for my vision board.

I pulled some of her shorts and sports bras closer, folding them into the fancy shapes I picked up from a Martha Stewart YouTube tutorial. “If you stick to my plan, you’ll get into UCI or Alma. Then, when I’m a senior, it’ll be my turn to do the same.”

“Cas!” Po grabbed another pillow, squeezing it so hard I was shocked goose feathers didn’t shoot out of it like a party popper. “Are we really going to talk about colleges now when we should celebrate you killing it at Angie’s party?”

“I help arrange events and celebrations for other people. Patting myself on the back for my role in planning them, though? Hard pass.”

Po put up her hands. “Fine. If you don’t want to toot your own kite, then at the very least, step away from my shorts.” She pulled my hands away from the Lycra. Without my thumbs to keep the fabric in place, the neatly angled folds I’d created came undone.

“These keep the chub rub away like no one’s business,” she said, before flinging them to the side. “C’mere. Watch this video I found.”

“I’ve reached my quota of hairless cats playing piano,” I said, groaning.

“No, no, no. I found a new lifestyle channel, and I’m obsessed.” Ever since summer started, she’d slowly started swapping kitty videos for lifestyle ones.

“Don’t you think it’s a little shallow, indulgent even, to document slash perform your life for views?” I asked.

“Charola calling the olla black much? How is this any different than that Maisey Whitemore woman you’re obsessed with?” She puckered her mouth like she’d had a swig of Dad’s kombucha. “Isn’t she the poster child for emceeing keggers for the overly privileged?”

I bunched some of the sheets between my fists. Reducing Mandy’s genius to a ringmaster for parties of the rich and famous irked me. “Firstly, her name is Mandy Whitmore. Secondly, she convinced Bad Bunny out of retirement to perform at Governor Kardashian’s inauguration. And hello, JLo’s current marriage? It’s not a coincidence that Mandy planned the only matrimony of hers that’s lasted.”

Mandy understood the power of creating magical memories. The power one perfectly crafted moment had in unfurling the next.

“Thirdly, just because her Insta is literally picture-perfect doesn’t mean it’s shallow.” After Mom, I’d needed a reminder that beauty and joy remained in the world. That happily ever afters did, in fact, exist. Thankfully, my algorithm led me to Mandy’s account.

The images didn’t fill the Mom-shaped hole completely. But they did pad the sharp edges.

Huh… I narrowed my eyes at Po. Maybe watching cats, or the day-to-day of strangers’ lives, comforted her the way Mandy’s flawlessly executed events comforted me.

I released my grip on the sheets. “Okay. I’ll watch the video.”

She squealed and flipped the laptop over. Paused on the screen was someone our age. And totally Po’s type.

Tall, dark, and extremely good-looking.

My eyes widened at the hundred thousand views before going to the gold nameplate necklace clasped around the YouTuber’s neck that spelled Paulina. My eyeballs bugged out more at the ginormous chocolate-covered banana she was… eating?

Po’s laughter filled the room. “Her whole shtick is going to Disneyland to try secret menu items every week. Cool, huh? We should totally go back to try some of them out. Whaddya say?” Po drummed her fingers on the keys, waiting for a response.

She’d have to keep waiting. Because the word Disneyland set my head spinning faster than LED projection lights.

She knew I always froze at the Matterhorn rising from behind the 5 whenever we drove down that stretch of freeway. So to have the guts to suggest watching a video, filmed inside Mom’s happiest place on earth? Then follow it up with an invite to go back, in such an easy, breezy way?

Then again, this was Hurricane Po. She handled all aspects of life, especially the tough ones, by throwing caution to gale-force winds. I scratched at my blouse’s lowest pearl button, trying to stave off the churn of anxiety and annoyance picking up speed inside my stomach.

Why couldn’t one good day stay that way, all the way through?

She jabbed me in the ribs. “Earth to Cas! A Disney return? Secret menu items?”

After Mom, we stopped sharing two things: makeup and most feelings. Instead of telling her how I felt about returning there, I said, “Uh-huh. Secret menu items. Cuz we all know about your passion for making them at work.” I rolled over, intent on heading back to my own bed. Except Po locked me in her arms, preventing my escape. “Stop!” I yelled. “I don’t want to be suffocated by your flesh beasts!”

She laughed. I squirmed. “You’re never going to be too old for a cuddle.” She swore she was ten years older than me, not ten months. “No matter how old you get, you’ll always be my Little Cuchara.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be her little spoon anymore. But Mom’s death cut me so deeply, left too many jagged edges. Made it impossible for my angles to fit snugly against her curves like they used to.

Even with the back of my elbows pushing against the round of her belly, Po squeezed tighter, pressing the side of her cheek to mine. A whiff of fries and the onions she’d probably spent all afternoon grilling curled up my nose. I inhaled deeply, hoping to catch a phantom smell of the garlic mojo Mom would make.

Nothing, and yet… I retracted my elbows. A little.

“Cas, Dad keeps harping on us about having fun this summer.” Apparently, he’d not even spared his first-born from his spiel. “Considering he’s kept on renewing our Magic Keys… don’t you think we should, I don’t know, use them?”

Thankfully I was turned in the opposite direction. That way she couldn’t see me frown at the suggestion. Wrapping all the reasons I didn’t want to go back to Disneyland with my hypothesis for why she did, I said, “Why? So you can run into your new crush?”

“Noo,” she protested a little too forcibly. “So we can try those frozen bananas.”

“I don’t think my jaw can open that wide.”

She cackled, squeezing me so tightly one of my vertebrae cracked.

“But seriously, think about it. We haven’t been there since—” Her voice broke off. “Mom.”

The space between her big cuchara and my little spoon filled with more loss and memory.

Two things I tried hardest to keep at bay.

Two things she usually blew past.

Now she wanted to start chipping away at our unspoken we-don’t-talk-about-Mom rule? What the hell was happening?

Part of the reason I loved planning so much was to avoid treading unknown waters.

I extended an arm, reaching for my phone. For Mandy’s grid, the life preserver to keep me from getting dragged underwater. Except Po drew back my shaky hand and used it to hit Play on the laptop.

Paulina bit into the banana. She held her lips tightly as she chewed, almost like she wanted to hold in groans of delight. A few slipped out anyway. She zoomed in on what was left of the snack, then cut away to her riding Tiana’s Bayou Adventure.

“Ah, don’t you miss that smell?” Po said.

Mom used to love the damp and musty scents inside the Disney water attractions. Bromine, she’d said. That’s what made the gallons of recycled water smell so weirdly good. “Yeah.” A huge gulp. “I do,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen.

Paulina’s log splashed through swamps, caves, and backwoods of the bayou. She didn’t squeeze her red-glitter-lined eyes shut when the log tipped over waterfalls. Or when it charged down the biggie—a fifty-two-foot drop. About halfway down the dip, she shot her arms into the air. Water hit her in all the right places.

Even though she tried to keep her face still, her nostrils flared on a quick inhale. Wait, was that twitch an attempt at a smile? Paulina blotted the water from her chest.

Po angled closer. “Wow. No hands on the drop. That’s tons of courage right there.”

More like tons of cleavage, I wanted to say but didn’t. Not when I found myself inching closer to get a better look at the all-black clothing.

The color palette (or lack thereof) was another interesting juxtaposition. Not only against the rich hues of the attractions and throng of guests she moved past after the ride, but especially next to the Winnie the Pooh she took a selfie with.

No amount of lip biting could bridle her smile then. Stepping away from the character, she flipped long locks behind her shoulders, like she was pleased that at least the grin hadn’t grown wide enough to show teeth.

She ended the vlog with a walk down Main Street, U.S.A., pointing out some of its secret history. How the shade of the bricks paving the ground was meant to resemble red carpets welcoming guests to the park. Her voice lowered a bit when she talked about how several names painted on the windows were dedications to Disney family members. Like the Walt on the last window.

His older sibling, Roy, put it there so Walt would always have a view of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Paulina snapped another selfie, capturing the castle in the background.

Like we’d done with Mom countless times. Despite the summertime heat slipping in through the windows, every inch of me froze.

“I know it’ll be hard to go back,” Po said.

A banquet hall of emotions swirled inside me. At its center, a tango between loss and fear. Could I really go back to the hub of so many memories?

“C’mon, Cas. You can’t tell me this”—she pointed to the screen, to Paulina—“doesn’t look fun.”

“If that’s what you’re calling it these days,” I said.

Her chuckle swelled to a laugh. “Aren’t, like, half of our school events—events you’re in charge of planning—Disney themed?”

“‘Under the Sea.’ ‘A Whole New World.’ ‘Villains Night.’” The words tumbled out without permission. If our SBA events weren’t straight-up Disney rip-offs, they were fairy-tale adjacent for sure.

“Your subconscious must’ve soaked it up with every visit there.”

Dang it. Po was right. Over a decade of Disney-movie marathons with Mom, semesters filled with trips with her to the park—all of it had embedded into my cells. Dormant but not gone, like a dragon sleeping beneath a castle.

Not that I would admit any of this to Po.

“Since that Mandy woman’s office is in OC, I bet her parties are also Disney inspired,” she said.

I dragged the laptop closer. Split the screen by opening another tab and scrolled through Mandy’s grid.

The latest wedding took place at a chateau. The bride donned heels that’d make Cinderella do a double take. Of course, there was the matter of Mandy calling herself a fairy godmother.

And she made HEAs come true.

Apparently, acing AP precalculus bore no correlation to being able to put two and two together. Because clearly SBA wasn’t the only Disney stan. I glanced at Po.

“I’m in no rush to go back to the place we spent so many days with Mom.” A sigh blew out of me, like helium shooting out of the pinched end of a balloon. “Including our last good day with her.”

Po nodded. After what felt like an eternity, she said, “Same.” One word, yet her voice shook with the intensity of a magnitude seven quake. “Except, what if…” She gestured to the screen. “What if we adopted the adage ‘The difference between a former Splash Mountain and an anthill is our perception’?”

“Molehill,” I said, correcting her latest miswording.

“The specific word doesn’t matter. What matters is our ability to look at Disneyland less like a triggering place and more like”—her eyes flicked to the section of the screen filled with Mandy’s grid—“an opportunity for future growth.”

It was impossible to deny going back would serve as good prep for future Pinterest boards. Ones I could show to classmates. And ones to attach to my Mandy application when the time finally came.

Hmm… If I could change my outlook on the park from past hurt to future planning like Po suggested, would I be able to handle venturing back? “RSVPing ‘maybe’ to your invite.”

“If that logic isn’t enough to get a yes, have you ever heard the saying ‘Happy sister, happy life’?” Po readjusted herself, jamming her knees into my kidneys.

“You really want to check out this vlogger in person, don’t you?”

“No, I want to hang with you. But also, yeah? A crush a day keeps the doctor away.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s apples.”

“No apples are as juicy as—”

I yanked the laptop away from her and slammed it shut before her drool short-circuited it. “My virgin ears!”

She narrowed her eyes as if to say, Your virgin everything, before bursting with laughter again. “Last time I checked, it wasn’t illegal to have a crush. You should try it sometime.”

Between making these high school events happen, growing my side hustle, college planning for both of us… my schedule didn’t allow for a crush. Even if I wanted one.

My stomach growled, catching another whiff of the scents clinging to her skin. “Hey, did you sneak any burgers home tonight?”

Her body tensed.

“Fries? A shake?” Planning extravaganzas didn’t translate to feasting with the guests. Usually she brought me a literal midnight snack when her shifts overlapped with my events. “Anything?”

The mattress squeaked as she peeled away from me. Propping herself against the headboard, she said, “Promise you won’t get mad.”

I rolled over to face her. “I promise nothing.”

She grunted, wiping the purple off her lips with the back of her hand. Reaching over to her nightstand, she dipped her fingers into a bowl of lipsticks. “I didn’t bring animal-style fries home. Or a Neapolitan shake.”

My pulse drumrolled against my temples as she coated her mouth red.

As in code red.

“I got fired, Cas.” She gulped. “The ketchup and Thousand Island train is over.”