The Quince Project

Chapter Ten

The inside of lifeguard tower eighteen thrummed with a flurry of hands and markers. Javier dotted the i in fundraiser. The black marker squeaked across nylon as I put finishing touches on several dog sketches.

Without SBA’s stencils or photos to trace, Javier’s lettering wasn’t precise, and my drawings leaned more 2D than 3D. But on the red, yellow, and green lifeguard flags, his loopy letters coupled with my freestyle sketches did exude a cool, street-art vibe.

Scanning the rectangular and triangular flags strewn around us, I asked, “Are you sure borrowing this many won’t be an issue?”

“Positive.” With the way he kept glancing over his shoulder, though, vandalizing and loaning beach property was probably a bigger problem than he let on.

As big of an issue as me not getting to the fundraiser on time. My shoulders slumped.

“What is it?” Javier asked, lowering the marker.

“The banner problem is fixed.” I recapped the marker. Snuck a peek at the dial hands ticking upward on the watch strapped to his wrist. “But it’s T-minus ten until dogs get washed and grilled—”

Javier gasped, telenovela style, before chuckling. “Teasing!”

I threw the marker at him. He tried to catch it but missed. It rolled on the floor, bumping up against a blue sling bag. A vinyl Mickey appliqué decorated the front compartment. Cord extenders were hooked onto the zip pulls.

I should add those to my utility bag. He must’ve thought I was staring at the grinning Mickey patch instead of the cord extenders because he said, “I got it at Disneyland.” He shrugged. “I like the idea of always taking a smile with me wherever I go.”

Even if his sentiment did hit a little saccharine for my taste, I couldn’t deny its sweetness. Or its usefulness.

It’d taken me forever to smile After Mom. Having an example of one nearby would’ve probably helped me remember how to much quicker. “Do you wear it over the shoulder or cross-body?”

“Cross-body,” he said, gathering the markers for me. “My best friend trolls me whenever I even wear it as a fanny pack, but hey, it frees up more space that way.”

I pressed my lips to hide a smile. Fought the urge to retrieve my utility bag lying at the bottom of my backpack, belt it around my waist, and show it off as a symbol of recognition.

Focus. If this lifeguard tower became a stage for show-and-tell, I’d never get to school. “As I was saying, the fundraiser starts in ten, and I’m stranded here with a dead bike.” I shoved the markers into my backpack’s front compartment. “And a drowned phone.”

Javier swallowed loudly. “Use mine.”

School was only a mile away. But even if Po did rush over, what about traffic? In SoCal, distance bore zero relation to ETAs. Especially by the beach at the start of summer. “Never mind. It will probably take too long for my sister to pick me up.” Ugh. I should’ve called Po before going Picasso on these flags.

“Well…” Javier scratched the back of his head. “I’m still on my lunch break, so what about”—were those red blotches spreading across his checks the result of not reapplying sunscreen, or—“me driving you there?”

“I’m not getting in a car with a stranger.” Sure, he was starting to feel less like one, but still.

A grin stretched across his face. “Who said anything about a car?”

The scooter rumbled louder than the waves crashing on the shore. “Hold on,” Javier said.

No need to ask me twice. I wrapped my arms across him.

This feels nothing like the torso I practiced CPR on in PE.

I cleared my throat. Thankfully the roar of the motor masked it when he revved the scooter forward.

Javier had used the term loosely. The “scooter” looked—and drove—more like the love child between a Vespa and a motorcycle.

Air rushed past us. Every curl long (and brave) enough to escape my helmet’s confines whipped across my face while the ends of Javier’s hair tickled my nose. Did he use lavender-scented shampoo?

I held back giggles, a sneeze, and a swoon in favor of what I did best. “Left at the pier. Right at the base of the hill.”

“You got it.”

The rumble of the scooter reverberated inside my bones. Beach and beachgoers blurred. Soon, Matteo Beach’s pier shrunk smaller and smaller behind us. At every click of a turn signal, I suggested a better route whenever one presented itself. “That way is faster.” Or “Left instead of right.”

“I sure picked up a real backseat driver today, didn’t I?” He glanced over his shoulder. Rays of sun lit the single dimple deepening his cheek.

“Eyes on the road.” I couldn’t deny I liked having his eyes—his body—on me, though. “And FYI, this ‘backseat driving’ is the only reason we’re making such good progress.”

He laugh-snorted. “The only reason, huh?” He pressed on the throttle and the scooter charged forward.

I fastened my arms tighter around him. For safety reasons, obviously. “Okay. Point taken. Your Lightning McQueen skills—”

“Oooh, I love him.”

Same, I wanted to say but didn’t. Better to keep the door to a best-Disney-character debate closed. Ha! As if anyone in the lineup could hold a candle to the Fairy Godmother.

“Your driving skills,” I continued, “are equally as important as my navigation ones.”

But would the duo be enough to get me to the fundraiser on time?

I craned my neck over Javier’s shoulders and leaned forward, checking the scooter’s time display.

I blinked and blinked. Unless he set the clock to run ahead, I’d arrive late.

To. An. Event. I’d. Planned.

Even worse, I was the (ir)responsible party that’d unleashed the force of Hurricane Po upon it. How much damage had she wrecked already? Could I salvage the destruction?

Like trying to snuff out a hundred birthday candles in one go, I blew a hard sigh. If I couldn’t handle a school fundraiser, could I actually plan a magical (and fiasco-free) event fit for Paulina? One that she’d remember forever?

One that would enchant Mandy enough to invite me for an interview?

Right as I was slumping back onto the seat, the scooter drove over a speed bump.

My body lurched forward. My small boobs smashed into Javier’s shoulder blades. Helmets knocked together. Everything wobbled. Seconds before I toppled off the seat, Javier’s hand latched around mine.

He pulled my body back to his. “I got you,” he said, keeping his hand over mine.

Electricity went through me. Thank god for the helmet keeping my hair from standing (more) on end. Who could blame me? This was the most physical I’d gotten with anyone.

Sure, the arrangement of our bodies somewhat resembled the configurations of Po’s and my Big Spoon / Little Cuchara.

Except this rumbling motor was anything but sisterly. Same thing could be said about the too-small seat directly over it. I’d never felt flutters like this before.

The breakfast apple must’ve been cursed. Instead of lulling all my senses into a Snow White–style slumber, the forbidden fruit stirred every cell in my body awake.

I couldn’t classify the uninvited sensations as completely unwelcome either. If anything, they tempted me to RSVP Yes and More, please.

If Po could read my thoughts, or had thermal vision goggles lying around, she’d never let me live this moment down. I couldn’t help but giggle.

“What’s so funny back there?” Javier asked.

Everything.“Um, I swallowed a bug and it tickled my throat.” If my hands weren’t latched around him, I’d use them to face-palm.

“Snacking on insects, huh? I mean, they’re probably tastier than those franks you’re grilling. What’s the special ingredient again? Ten percent anu—”

I squeezed him with the strength normally reserved for wrestling Po. I eased my grip only to let him gulp some air and laugh-snort more. “Left at the next corner and then we’re there,” I said.

A row of dogs and their owners lined the metal fence. The queue snaked up the hill, double the length of last year. My stomach clenched with nerves. When the scent of burning charcoal and grilled beef franks reached me, the belly growls helped loosen some of its knots.

I took another whiff. Grilled onions? Was this one of Po’s “secret menu” items that Callie mentioned? While I was over here sniffing everything, I might as well take one last inhale of Javier’s lavender shampoo. Too bad I nearly broke my nose on his helmet when he swerved into the high school’s parking lot.

The screech of the scooter’s tires made some dogs whip their heads at us. Others barked from inside washtubs.

Wow. SBA did a great job of executing my vision.

Two rows of tubs bordered the sides of the parking lot, the space between them creating a makeshift aisle. Callie paced up and down it, handing towels and refilling shampoo bottles for SBA members lathering dogs. She stopped for a second and snagged her phone from her pocket. Her thumbs tapped across the screen. At the next string of barks, she lifted her head. “Finally! I was just texting you.”

Even though Callie beelined toward me, I couldn’t tear my attention from Po.

She stood at the far end of the parking lot, behind one of the BBQs. Earbuds in. Head bopping and hips swaying. Wrists jangling with charm bracelets as she stoked the charcoal. She flipped over franks and onions, cooking with an ease that mirrored Mom’s.

How had I never noticed the physical resemblance to Mom? Eyes set over high cheekbones. Matching curves. Hair the color of burnt cinnamon. Only, Po’s hung so straight nothing could frizz it up. Not an occasional rainstorm or the grill’s smoke.

Either because she felt my eyes on her, or the barking finally cut through her music, she looked up from the BBQ. In a very unlike-Mom move, she dropped the cooking tongs onto the flaming grill grate. Thankfully, Wesley leaned over from the BBQ next to hers and picked them up, turning the row of hot dogs over before they met a fiery end.

“I want to give you something for helping me,” I said to Javier. “Can you wait here for a second?”

“Sure thing, Castle Towers. It’s going to take me a few to unload your bike anyway.”

I hopped off the scooter. It had to be the gust of wind that made me shiver. No way I could be missing his body heat this quickly.

I sprinted across the parking lot. Even without me to chaperone the committee—and Po—everything appeared to be under control. Dozens of dogs were getting washed. Double the amount of hot dogs were being prepared.

A huge sigh of relief. Except—

If I was really as relieved as I told myself, why was a lump the size of an ice sculpture forming inside my throat? I swallowed it and reeled off some orders. “Brush in the direction of fur growth, Julie!” I snagged the portable dryer from the backpack’s side pocket, handing it off like a baton to Mark. “Wesley, make sure the buns are toasted, not charred!”

I kept running. Closing the triangular space between Callie rushing from the tubs and Po charging from the BBQs.

“You hung up before telling me where to pick you up,” Po panted at the same time Callie asked, “Where’s the banner? The photography club will be here any second.”

“I had a snafu with the banner—that’s why I’m late.”

Callie’s porcelain skin somehow went even paler. “Will the dogs still be able to tear through it? Repeat customers keep asking.”

“Um, about that.” I lifted the backpack. Its zipper bulged, on the brink of bursting. “Hopefully this will be as fun for the dogs. And equally Instagrammable.”

I motioned for each of them to take one of the zippers. Those cord extenders on Javi’s Mickey Mouse sling would have really come in handy. Po and Callie managed to pull them down—unleashing an explosion of newly illustrated flags that tumbled to their feet.

They rummaged through them. Their eyes widened like little kids searching through a broken pi?ata’s bounty.

Please like them; please like them.

Just when I thought my lungs would catch fire, Po’s voice cut through my worry. “Little Cuchara, these are amazing. Uber-Banksy.”

Callie rolled the edge of a flag between her fingers. “With a touch of Basquiat. They’ll look good in photos,” she said, frowning a little. “But—”

I put a hand up. “I know. Too thick for a tear-through.” I dipped a hand into my backpack, snatched my pencil from inside my utility bag. “But what if we string these together? Turn it into a jump rope that the dogs can hop over?” I flicked the pencil’s eraser end at the flags. “Or a limbo bar that they can crawl under?”

Po gave me a round of applause. “Teaching old dogs new tricks! Brava, maestro!” She nudged Callie in the ribs. “This is why she’s the best event chair SBA’s ever had.” Po winked at me.

That tiny gesture felt like a huge gift.

“And why you’re going to crush Paulina’s party,” she muttered into my ear.

My chest filled with more bubbles than the iridescent foam clinging to the edges of the washtubs. “Thanks, guys. But in full disclosure, I didn’t make them alone.” I gestured over my shoulder. “Javier helped me.”

Their heads snapped to him, more accurately his butt, since he was bent over unhooking Po’s bike from the back of his scooter.

Po waggled her eyebrows. “Here I was worried about you getting kidnapped by a stranger with candy.”

“I’d eat his candy anytime.” Pink splotches bloomed on Callie’s cheeks before we burst out laughing.

“Okay, less drooling and more working.” Even if there were no disasters of apocalyptic proportions to fix or prevent, decorating needed to be finished before the photo club came to shoot the event. I scooped up the flags, pushing them into Callie’s arms.

“Do you want me to hang all the flags together? That could look neat,” she said.

“Negative. The rectangular flags should go along the fences.” I flicked my pencil to the right. “For the triangle ones, let’s string them together in the picnic-slash-BBQ area. Over the tables.” I pointed the eraser end from one light post to the other. “I want the individual letters spelling fundraiser to look like the Venice sign.”

“Oooh yes,” Callie said. “That’s much better.”

“Really putting the I back in committee, eh?” Po said.

I ignored her and kept going. “There are also some deflated beach balls mixed in there.” Treasures Javier offered from tower eighteen’s lost-and-found bin. “If we blow them up, they can look really cute for the dog photos.”

“On it,” Callie said.

It felt great to be back at SBA’s helm. My cheeks ached from smiling so wide.

Po grinned, too. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your little friend?” The last part she said à la Al Pacino in Scarface—the worst portrayal of both Cuban refugee and accent in history.

“Fine. But grab me a hot dog first. Secret-menu items and all.”

For once, she did as she was told without protest. With an extra spring in my loafers, I headed back to Javier.

“Thanks again for the help,” I said, trying to undo the helmet’s strap under my chin. Javier leaned closer, taking it between his fingers.

“This clasp always sticks.” His hands grazed my jawline on every attempt to undo the fastener. Good thing my tan skin didn’t allow blushing. Otherwise, my cheeks would match the school’s red bricks.

Finally, the clasp clicked. Javier slipped the helmet off. If my hair matched one of the poodles being blow-dried right now, he didn’t say anything.

“It’s good to know there are still some knights in shining armor,” Po said from behind us.

I glared at her. “Javier, meet my sister, Mariposa Torres.”

She stuck out her free hand. “Older sister, FYI. Feel free to call me Po.”

After they shook, I snatched the plastic to-go box from her. “Now that you’ve met, hot-dog duty awaits,” I said, turning her in the grills’ direction.

She rolled her eyes but smiled hard, mouthing, Go get ’em, lion.

I swallowed a groan, praying Javier hadn’t caught that. When she was on the way back to the grills, I said, “Since you missed your lunch break, please take this as a token of my appreciation.”

“You don’t need to give me anything. I had fun decorating those banners with you.”

“Yeah, same here.” Drawing on something bigger than the six-by-eight-and-a-half-inch pages in the back of my day planner had been fun. So was working on drawings with someone. Riding his scooter hadn’t been too shabby, either.

Heat crept up my neck. Best cool down by bathing some dogs.

“Just take it.” I pushed the to-go box into his hands. “No buts.”

His eyes narrowed over the hot dog topped with sautéed onions, cotija crumbles, and gochujang. “You promise no butts were harmed in the making of this hot dog?”

We both laughed. “Pinky promise,” I said.

He licked his lips. I did, too. I suspected it wasn’t only because of the mouthwatering food.

Thankfully, Callie shouted for my help. Fixing an event issue took precedence over categorizing these weird emotions. “I gotta go. Thanks again, Javier.”

“Wait. Can I get your number?” His voice cracked a little. “That way we could—”

“Schedule the flag drop-off?”

Maybe it was a stray cloud, but a shadow flickered across his face. “Right. Alcohol or nail polish should help get the ink out.” He handed me his phone. “Sorry again for drowning your cell,” he said as I began filling out the new contact card. “Leave it in a bag of dry rice overnight to help it come back to life.”

Here I was, caught between Po’s backward pearls of wisdom and Javier’s Farmer’s Almanac. I couldn’t help but laugh again. My fingers stopped typing. I deleted a few letters, then returned his phone.

His face lit up brighter than the glowing screen.

“Thanks again, Javi.”

“My pleasure, Cas.”

Javi jumped back onto his scooter.

Behind me, Po squealed, setting off an encore of dog barks.

“Cas, I really need a hand with this Saint Bernard!” a voice yelled.

Blame that cursed apple for leaving me standing there, staring at Javi’s scooter ride off into the sunshine, instead of helping Julie wash Nana’s doppelg?nger from Peter Pan. Or catching the foam-covered Chihuahua running all over the parking lot.

How did Snow White break the curse again? Before I could mull it over, Po materialized at my side, grabbed my elbow and said, “Debrief, now.”

Even from afar Callie must’ve spotted the stars in my eyes because she suddenly looked less eager to hang flags and more interested in running over to get my personal edition of Hot Goss.

I took a deep breath, ready to dish it to them. But of course, that’s when the photography club strolled into the parking lot. Just because things hadn’t gone awry so far didn’t mean there weren’t disasters lurking around every washtub.

“No time for the details,” I said, reaching for the next best thing: the lipstick sticking out of Po’s front pocket. Whether by luck or destiny, the color was exactly the one I needed.

I swooshed the tube of pink across my lips.

Po turned her phone’s volume all the way up. Cuban rhythms and Celia Cruz’s throaty voice crooned from its speakers. The Afro-Cuban diva sang about how if you wanted to arrive first, you had to run slow.

No wonder Po always got everything backward.

“Praise the gods,” she whooped, breaking out into an end zone dance. “Cas has a crush!”