The Quince Project

Chapter Six

Paulina’s eyes darted from Po to me before landing on the pretzel clutched between Po’s fingers. “Mike said he sold you the last one.”

Of course she was on a first-name basis with the vendors here. She was a Disneyland food vlogger.

“I don’t know if there’s a non-bizarre way to ask this, but would it be possible to borrow your pretzel for a few minutes?” She made praying hands. “I promise I’ll give it back. After I take a bite from it for a vlog. Maybe two?” She leaned forward.

Po drew back. Anyone else would’ve thought she was putting some distance between her and a stranger’s wild request. In reality, she probably didn’t want Paulina to hear how hard her heart was probably thudding.“You know what? Never mind.” Paulina shook her head. Her gold hoops bounced against her sleek, black hair. “I’m acting like a complete weirdo. Pretend this never happened.” She settled into that stoic look I recognized from her vlog and turned on wedged Jordans.

Po opened and closed her mouth like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. She stuck her free hand into her cross-body. Lipstick tubes knocked against each other. When her hand came back up, nada.

Apparently, the shade for say something quick didn’t exist in her palette yet.

Po’s squirming at Paulina’s retreat tugged at something. Fragments of a past Disney day rose to my mind.

Mom, Po, and I sitting on a curb watching the Main Street Electrical Parade. Instead of taking in the hundreds of lights covering so many fantastic floats, or reveling in the soundtracks of so many iconic Disney songs, Mom lasered in on the park-goer next to us: Cuban legend Andy García. Not getting a selfie with him filled our household with soliloquies of regret which lasted for days.

Shyness didn’t necessarily run in our family. Still. A huge gap separated imagining how something’s going to unfold and it actually happening in real life.

Right now, Po floundered at that juncture.

Paulina disappeared into the crowd. Po’s sigh rang hollow, like a pi?ata devoid of any candy. My pulse beat against my eardrums. I imagined it thumping in Morse code: fix this now.

So what if Po scoring a selfie wasn’t big enough to include in my HEA? Shouldn’t I try to help her anyway?

It’d put a smile on her face and earn me sisterly brownie points. The latter would come in handy when I nagged her about college applications again. The former I simply liked to see.

I plucked the pretzel from her hand and pushed through the crowd. “Paulina, wait!”

She turned, her hair swishing like layers of a prom dress. I handed her the pretzel. “Be our guest.” Po’s combat boots clomped behind me. I sneaked a wink at her as she sidled up next to me. “Anything to help one of our favorite Disney vloggers.”

If Po was shocked by how smoothly my lie slipped out, she didn’t say anything. Her brain was probably still busy rebooting.

“Wow, thank you.” Paulina pursed her lips like she did in her videos. Slowly, she released a tiny smile. Did the small favor from a “fan” begin to crack her laid-back veneer? Or was it Po’s Jack Skellington–size grin at her? “I swear I’m not this big of a weirdo,” she added, her attention on Po. “Most of the time.”

Po coughed out a laugh, which made Paulina’s smile grow. The wattage of her pearly whites outshone the Matterhorn’s snowy peaks.

Oh boy. If I looked up swooning in the dictionary, I’d find a picture of Po right then. Her giddiness was so palpable, so uncharacteristically cute, that I pretended to snap a picture of Buzz Lightyear dancing, while in reality, I captured my sister.

A photo like this needed to go on a “flirty” mood board. And if we had still lived in the Before era, hell, maybe it would have even been turned into a watercolor portrait.

While I slipped my phone back into my utility bag, Po rummaged for something in her cross-body. She lifted a studded tube of lipstick. Glossy coral.

Her color of choice to summon courage.

“Are you reviewing the new pretzel for a vlog?” Aaannnd she was back. “Don’t new flavors drop every week?”

“Yes. They do.” Paulina’s voice bubbled more in real life. “And I really need to film today’s because Mom wants me to meet with—” A shadow flickered across her dark eyes.

If I had to pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey on it, maybe sadness? Regret?

Was that why she lined her eyelids with so much sparkle? An attempt at convincing her subscribers that all that glittered was, in fact, gold?

“Never mind about my mom,” she said, lifting the pretzel. “And sorry for the snack-snatching divaness, but as the great philosopher Wayne Gretzky once said, ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.’”

Po’s side-glance screamed, She’s fluent in quotes?

Mine: Plus, she got it right?

“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” Paulina said.

“How about letting us watch you film your vlog?” Po said, batting her eyelashes.

“Deal.” Once more, Paulina’s smile seemed reserved only for Po.

I took one step back, then another. While Po was occupied with this flirt fest, she wouldn’t even notice my momentary absence.

By the looks of Mel’s newest story, she was about to board Star Tours. If I loitered around its exit, maybe I’d finally be able to cross off book another party.

Even if Po had no idea I was giving them the slip, Paulina sure did.

“Hold on.” She threw her hands up. Flamin’ Hot Cheeto dust swirled around her like red-orange confetti. “You’re. A. Party. Planner. At. Mandy. Whitmore?” Her voice rose on every word. “Didn’t she just do JLo’s sixth wedding?!”

“Actually, it was her fifth.” My eyebrows shot higher than the Space Mountain’s spires. Why did she think I already worked for Mandy?

Po draped an arm across my shoulders and flicked my I’m Celebrating pin.

Oh—that’s why.

“Technically, I’m the event chair for Matteo Beach High’s student body association—” A group of squealing kids rushed past us. Mom and Dad always harped on never selling ourselves short, so I continued. “But yes, I’ve recently started party planning on the side.” I waited until the Monorail finished whooshing by before straightening her misunderstanding.

Only she jumped in again. “No way. I’m about to have a quincea?era. Mandy Whitmore and Associates are La Mera Mera’s top choice for planners, FYI.”

Huh. Maybe it was the clothes and makeup that made Paulina look older than the cusp of fifteen.

“In her words, ‘We are rich now, PauPau. Una fiesta grandísima.’” She brushed Cheeto dust off her hands. “That’s the type of party that’s expected of us.’”

“Urgh,” Po said.

I nodded. Through dealing with Angie’s Mami Dearest, I’d experienced these displays of newfound wealth myself. As much as the phenomenon soured my stomach, better a showy mamá than no mom, so.

Paulina continued imitating her mother’s Mexico City (I presumed) accent and said, “‘Can you imagine how jealous a Whitmore-planned extravaganza would make Tía Mari?’” She tugged at her gold necklace. “Come to find out Mandy has a two-year-long wait list.”

“The gestation period for the African elephant,” Po said, balling her fists in commiseration.

“That’s exactly what I said.” Paulina shared a look with Po before shining her attention on me. “Can you believe the wait?” She face-palmed, then quickly composed herself. “Of course you can—you work there.” She inched closer. “Waiting blows so much, doesn’t it? It’d mean so much to me and my mom if, um, you and I maybe…” She ran her tongue across her teeth.

Ah, I got it. Tiptoeing around asking for another favor? One much bigger than a Mickey Mouse–shaped pretzel.

I dropped my gaze to the I’m Celebrating button and shook my head. “Paulina, I’m not—”

“Say no more—I get it,” she said, rushing in again. “You’re not an associate planner yet. That’s fine. I prefer working with people my age anyway. Considering how many culturally specific rituals quincea?eras include, a fellow Latine planner’s a must, too. Except—” She fidgeted with the cursive script on her necklace. “I also want it to be experimental. And innovative.”

“Well, what do you know? Innovative happens to be the middle name of my talented younger sister, Castillo Torres,” Po said. “I’m Po.”

“Mariposa, I don’t have a middle name.” It was easier to correct my sister than a stranger.

Suddenly, Po knocked against me and reached into my bag without permission.

What were her fingers poking around for? Considering her nose was starting to look shinier than her lip gloss, maybe the oil blotters?

That was when my soul exited my body.

Po not only pulled out my planner, but also started flipping to the back of it.

After SBA events, I posted a few pics to the event committee’s socials. For my personal—and private—use however, I sometimes sketched said pics on these blank pages.

My tongue fell out of my mouth. It didn’t hang all the way out like the Pluto walking by. But enough to make it hard to ask how she knew about this secret section.

And even harder to protest Po inviting Paulina to take a look.

With a fingernail, Paulina traced the messy outlines of Zooey and Julie getting crowned homecoming royalty on the football field. The sharp (and not perfectly drawn) angles of Callie’s face, smiling at the wad of one-dollar bills after the winter bake sale. The hasty sketch of Sarah surrounded by softball bats topped with pink flowers while Ishaan was on bended knee, promposing junior year.

The drawings were more rough outlines than accurate likenesses. I’d gone wild with the shapes and proportions. The grays in the color palette were brighter or darker depending on how hard I’d pressed on the pencil.

A silly art hobby carried over from what felt like a different lifetime. A pastime I should’ve stopped when I hung up watercoloring.

But here it was, out in the open.

Somehow, I lifted a loafer. Purposefully stepped on Po’s foot on the way to retaking the planner. Surrounded by little kids, she was forced to swallow a curse.

I let a laugh loose. Paulina looked up.

While reaching for the planner, I extended my phone. “Here. The mood boards and Canva collages are much more professional examples of my work than those drawings.”

Paulina gave the planner back but made zero attempts to take the phone. “Your sketches…” Her voice was as delicate as crepe paper. “Are amazing.”

Mom used to always say the same thing. My fingertips, especially the recently pin-pricked one, tingled. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” The sparkle in Paulina’s eyes almost encouraged me to hand the planner back so she could flip through more.

I shook my head, snapping out of it. “I haven’t taken an art class since eighth grade.” I wiggled the phone at her. “Like I mentioned, these are higher-caliber.”

What better way to boost my confidence before showing them to Mel, or any of my other classmates, than by getting the stamp of approval from someone as glamorous as Paulina?

“No. I don’t need to see those.” She perked up. “My mind’s already made. I want you to plan my party.”

All of Tomorrowland folded in on me. When I regained the ability to speak, I said, “NO.”

I should’ve known Po would choose that exact moment to yell “YES!”