The Quince Project

Chapter Eight

I threw the blankets off me. Swung my feet over the bed and reached for my phone. I blinked and blinked. How could it only be 50 percent charged?

Oh. Po’s electric toothbrush—that’s how. Sometime during the night she’d unplugged my phone and hijacked the socket. “Ugh!” I leaned over, fixing the situation. Scrolled through my notifications as the battery juiced up.

More likes on Angie’s quince photos. Two more party requests: A sophomore’s pool party. A junior’s cat’s first birthday. Every option seemed fun. Except neither screamed Mandy material. Especially since—

The phone pinged inside my hands.

Paulina

Excited for our first planning session later

I squirmed against the mattress. Without iconic Disney soundtracks, characters walking by, or any of the enchantments of the happiest place on earth to lose myself in, the realities of my plan sunk in.

This party had to go off without a single hitch. Or else adiós to everything I’d worked for. Buh-bye, everything I was hoping to achieve.

With shaky fingers, I typed, ME TOO.

Technically, not a lie. In fact, if Po were here, she’d probably say something like, Excitement and anxiety are two sides of the same nickel.

New plan: solely focus on the excitement part of said nickel.

Another ping, followed by a chorus more.

Callie

Want to grab an acai bowl after the event?

I flicked her text away to text Po You better not be late for the fundraiser to cover my bases.

Po

Doggos will be washed on time. I’ll head over after I finish spiking these balls.

GAH! THAT SOUNDS SO GROSS

It’s at 11? Or 1? I know there’s a 1 in it.

Ohhhh and I took your car Dad’s working this weekend so use my bike.

Hauling the fundraiser’s rip-away banner and the extra flyers inside of a backpack, which I’d have to strap on my back like a pack mule? Peachy.

I checked the time. Flipped through my planner. Hovered the pencil over hair wash and flatiron. Considering it’d now take me three times longer to get to school, I had no option but to cross that out.

Gritting my teeth, I tapped out a text. FUNDRAISER STARTS AT 12. As an extra precaution, I added the event to our shared family calendar and set an alert for two hours before the event. DON’T BE LATE OR I WILL FIRE YOU AS MY ASSISTANT FOR PAULINA’S PARTY. SRSLY MARIPOSA.

Po

The idea for tweaking the dog-wash fundraiser came to me freshman year. Why not sell hot dogs while owners waited for their dogs to be washed? A win for them and more cash for the photography club.

I rushed down the hallway, crammed backpack knocking against my spine and planner and pencil in hand as I ran through today’s checklist. Extra tubs, shampoos, towels, brushes, dryers. Some of these items were currently inside my car.

The one Po had carjacked. My stomach sank. I waved the pencil over the list, as if sprinkling it with fairy dust. “Po’s going to be on time. Po’s going to be on time.”

I moved on to the next items: King’s Hawaiian hot dog buns, Angus beef franks, and condiments. At least these were (safely) stored inside the cafeteria. I made a sharp turn into the kitchen. My loafers squeaked against the floor in an attempt to avoid a collision with Dad.

He swerved, causing most of his Cuban coffee to geyser up—and out—the yellow demitasse cup. It splashed on the floor, luckily missing his white button-down shirt. And my pink blouse. The Tide wipes inside my utility bag were good, but not enough to bleach Cuban rocket fuel from garments.

“Whoa, there, kiddo.” He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and bent down to mop the puddle between us. “The way you shot in here, I thought you were Po.”

I scrunched my nose. He cracked up, his laughter a mix between donkey bray and dolphin squeak. Ridiculous, yes. But the melody sounded better than any song played at Angie’s quince. Better than the songs at any of the school dances this year.

“You should do that more.” I plucked a red apple from the fruit bowl and took hurried bites.

“What? Compare you to your sister?”

“Ew, no.” Although the sweetness of the Gala coated my tongue, my mouth puckered like I’d tasted mojo sauce heavy on garlic and light on orange juice. “I meant laugh more.” With the quintessential Cuban condiment on my mind, I said, “While we’re at it, you should cook more, too.”

Once upon a time, Mom used to experiment with her catered menus here. Using us as her most trusted taste-testers. The kitchen always swam in Cuban scents and flavors. Phantom smells washed over me, rousing echoes of past conversations. Who taught you how to cook such simple dishes with such big flavors, Mom? Po had asked.

Castro, she’d snorted.

In exile, Mom had morphed her passion for cooking into a thriving business. I could almost hear her raspy voice say, These are my ways of staying connected to La Islita. Rabo encendido, congri, vaca frita.

I licked my lips, wishing for the taste of lime-marinated crispy beef. The only Cuban staple in regular rotation now was coffee.

That’s the thing about loss. You lose not only a person, but the tether to so many things about their past—about the places they’d come from.

I spun around before he caught my eyes misting. Busied myself with pouring some cafecito into a cup of my own.

He stepped next to me to refill his. “I’ll take the cooking suggestion under consideration,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t look so glum. There are worse things than being compared to your sister, you know?”

“Doubt it. And if I look ‘glum,’ it’s because…” I brought the cup to my lips, hoping he could finish my sentence. Hoping we could finally talk about the absence that crowded every inch of this house, though we pretended it didn’t.

If Po and I had been able to talk about Mom the other night—heck, if we could venture back to her happy place—shouldn’t I take another stab at a Mom-related convo with Dad?

I took a sip of the coffee for some liquid courage. The drink went down my throat, hot and bitter. “I miss—”

I hadn’t even said her name, and all the color drained from Dad’s face as he tugged his collar.

Got it. The Madrigals didn’t talk about Bruno. And Diego Torres didn’t talk about Mom.

I cleared my throat to reset the words. “I miss Cuban food. Like I said… um, maybe you should cook more?”

“I miss Cuban food, too.” He scratched at the stubble growing against his jawline. “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it, but how about I try making us some tostones this week?”

His plantain slices would probably turn out super uneven. So long as we spent time together, I supposed their symmetry didn’t really matter.

“Deal.” My heart ballooned to triple its size. “Adding dinner to our family calendar right now.”

He grabbed his briefcase from the table and kissed the top of my head. “What do you have stashed back here, kiddo?” He jiggled the top of the rolled banner sticking through the top of my backpack. “A lightsaber?”

“Ha ha,” I deadpanned. Apparently, Dad couldn’t veer too far away from his favorite galaxy. Still. It felt good to know he was capable of making some pit stops in this one.

On the other side of the bike path, golden sand stretched far into the low tide. Strobing sunlight rippled across the ocean’s surface, creating a runway of sparkles stretching to the horizon. The faster I rode, the more salty air raked through my hair.

The speed and humidity probably expanded the frizz. A huge price for not having hid my car keys from Po. With a sigh, I revved the throttle.

Sidewalk joggers blurred past. So did the rows of steel posts holding up volleyball nets. I slowed down, craning my neck.

No Po spiking balls to be found. Good—though not a guarantee that she was currently inside our school’s parking lot, setting up doggie tubs like she’d promised.

I pressed on the throttle again. Eased up only at the sight of a dog walker up ahead. A pack of leashed pups yanked him forward, like Roger getting dragged by all 101 Dalmatians.

I slowed to a stop and pulled one of the flyers from my pocket. Handing it over, I said, “Enjoy some Angus franks while we wash your dogs.”

“Sweet. I’ll head over when it starts.”

Despite this morning’s setback, I was back on track.

I inhaled a victory breath. I even—gasp—gulped in another.

Wait. Was this “stopping to smell the tulips”? One Disney day with my sister and her Poverbs had started to grow on me. I cracked up. What if Dad was onto something?

Maybe being a bit like Po wasn’t a bad thing.

I pressed the throttle again. Scents ribboned around me. The soundtrack of crashing waves, yapping Chihuahuas, and squawking gulls drifted from every corner of the beach. Colors blended.

It was as if I’d stepped into one of my old paintings.

The urge to capture this moment buzzed though me. I pulled my phone from my back pocket. Using the other hand to ease up on the throttle, I snapped a photo.

A collection of neon streaks with nothing in focus.

I didn’t delete it or try for a picture-perfect take. This one contained its own type of charm.

Okay. Enough tulip smelling. Besides pulling off Paulina’s party, I’d still need to excel as SBA’s event chair. Mandy required both before gracing me with fairy godmother apprentice robes. I clutched the throttle. Uh—

Why wasn’t the bike speeding up?

Nothing flashed on the battery indicator. Hold on. Where was the dang thing?

I ran my fingers over the handlebars. Stickers coated every inch of them. Down each curve of the bike. All the way to the rectangular box by the pedals.

An edge of a pastel purple volleyball sticker had peeled off just enough to let a red light blink through.

“No, no, no!”

Yesterday, a part of me wanted to smooch Po. Today, all of me wanted to strangle her. “Come on, come on. You can do it,” I coaxed the bike. But no amount of cheerleading kept its motor from sputtering.

I’d always thought of myself as a fairy godmother in training. For the first time in my life, I felt like a Disney princess.

Cinderella, specifically, watching her carriage morph back into a pumpkin with each tick-tock closer to midnight.

If I didn’t get to the fundraiser before noon, something was bound to go astray. And by “something,” I mostly meant Po. Her distracting the committee from the tasks at hand. Trying to adopt the dogs instead of washing them.

Remember how to breathe.

If the battery was on its last legs, it simply meant I’d have to pump mine a little harder.

I glanced down to check if Matteo Beach’s strand hadn’t suddenly transformed into the La Brea Tar Pits. But no. Turned out pedaling an electric bike took tons more effort than riding a regular one.

Cyclists swerved around me, serving me dirty looks. Their wheels kicked back tendrils of sand. Great. This impromptu Tour de France was quickly turning into the 405 during rush hour.

Joggers—even walkers—zipped by.

“Get off the road, kid!” Not what I expected from a grandpa clad in neon spandex. I took his “suggestion” before becoming roadkill and hopped off the bicycle. With a grunt, I lugged the bike off the pavement. Plowed it through hot sand which quickly began to fill my loafers. Another problem to fix after dealing with the battery.

Propping the bike against a double set of trash cans, I crouched to my knees. Ugh. My portable charger couldn’t power this type of battery. I’d need another ride to get to the fundraiser. I tugged my phone from my back pocket. The trash cans cast enough shade onto the screen for the notifications to beam brighter.

Callie

36 mins until kickoff! ETA?

CAS?! Where are you? We need to hang up the banner ASAP. The photo club’s on their way!

Po

How is it possible that I’m here before YOU?

Callie

Your sister said you okayed her being behind the grills today instead of at the washtubs. She brought her own condiments and is handing out recipes for “secret menu” items

Po

IF THE CORPORATE OVERLORDS OF IN-N-OUT CAN’T APPRECIATE MY COOKING SKILLS, I HAVE FULL FAITH THAT THE DOG OWNERS OF MATTEO BEACH WILL!

How did the phone screen not break with how hard I hit the call button?

“Pick up, Po,” I rasped between trills. What was the point of having a phone only to leave it on silent?

One more ring and I’d call Callie. Have her put Po on the phone and then make her come get me.

“Little Cuchara! Where you at?”

The knot in my chest loosened. For a second. “Where. Am. I?” I forced through clenched teeth. “Stranded on the side of the bike path.”

“Battery give out again?” She tsk-tsked. “Just tell me what lifeguard tower’s nearby and I’ll pick you up. No problema.”

I had ninety-nine problems, and Po was quickly becoming all of them.

I wanted to unleash my fury, yes. But I wanted to get to the fundraiser on time even more. I pushed off the sand. “Let me check.”

Midturn toward the lifeguard towers, someone yelled, “Watch out!”

The shout blared so loudly it rooted me in place.

A bang across my backpack. The strike hit hard enough to tip me forward. Then a pop followed by an explosion of icy wetness slapping the nape of my neck.

What. The. F—

My hand flew back. My fingers came away moistened by brownish liquid.

Since I’d been holding the phone to my ear, the same fluid trickled over its edges and—oh no—onto its screen.

I broke into a string of curses. Both in English and Spanish. If the little kids building sandcastles nearby heard me, que será será.

“Cas? What happened?”

“A seagull pooped on me!” I shivered at the chorro flowing down my back. “This bird must’ve flown in from Antarctica or something, because its feces are colder than icicles.” I cocked my head, nostrils flaring at a familiar scent. “Did this beast stop at Starbucks on the way north? Because its crap reeks of iced mocha.”

Po guffawed, sharing some expletives of her own. I couldn’t catch all of them because her voice sounded like it was sinking farther and farther underwater—before vanishing altogether.

A voice behind me took its place. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!”

I didn’t immediately turn around to see who it belonged to. Not when I was too busy tapping the phone’s screen, squeezing its edges in a desperate attempt to revive it.

A guy shuffled around me. He bent down and grabbed a massive (and empty) Starbucks cup by my loafers. That hadn’t been there a second ago, had it?

The muscles in his tan calves bulged as he rose up. He was around my age and way taller than me. So much so that my nose was almost level with his collarbones.

I looked up.

The lingering coffee scent must’ve been messing with me, because his brown eyes reminded me of chocolate syrup drizzled over a mocha.

Similarly dark waves, with ends bleached lighter by the sun, curved from under a red cap. An OC Junior Lifeguard patch was stitched in the middle. The same patch was sewn over the left side of his red board shorts. And above his left pec on the matching rash guard. Its fabric so tight it left little to the imagination.

“I swear I didn’t see you back there.” His thick brows knitted together. “Are you hurt?”

My back stung from the ice. But my insides were melting.

“Is everything okay?”

Now I felt like another Disney princess. Voiceless. Weak-kneed. Under the spell of someone who probably spent many hours at sea.

I scanned the sand, but alas—a musically inclined crab eager to warn about the dangers of swooning over a hottie was nowhere to be found.