The Quince Project

Chapter Twelve

After spending the rest of the afternoon shampooing and flat ironing my hair, I headed to the laundry room to check on my (and Po’s) clothes—and Javi’s lifeguard flags.

Sounds of slushing water and a whirring motor filled the small room, along with waves of heat pumping from the drying machine. Po’s brightly printed nylons tumbled over my neutral cottons in a pirouette of fabrics. With dance on my mind, I tapped a pen against my lips like a metronome.

Which baile would best suit Paulina’s deconstructed quince? A sexy but simple salsa? A festive cha-cha? An elegant waltz?

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I opened the day planner, flipping to the section reserved for Paulina’s unquince. I brought the pencil under the word dance but didn’t fill any of the open slots with a particular type of routine.

How could I when none of these ballroom styles fit her vibe like a pair of lace quincea?era gloves?

With the pre-soaked flags sloshing and the drying machine rumbling, I swapped the day planner for my iPad. “Paulinaland,” I said, typing the name of her YouTube channel.

Time for more research.

I fast-forwarded through a few videos. Hmm… Jet-black clothing. Onyx nails. Wedged Jordans. The only bursts of color came from her signature red-glitter eyeliner and statement jewelry.

Gold hoops were her go-to. When they didn’t flash between sleek tresses and her long neck (always clasped with her nameplate necklace), dangly red lightsabers did. Occasionally, some other type of Star Wars–looking earrings.

Sparklers went off inside me, spurring my pencil across the page. Red lightsabers. Darth Vader. Stormtroopers. I drew a corresponding sketch below each word.

A laser sword. An outline of the helmet worn by the biggest baddie of the galaxy far, far away. The armor donned by the army of his henchmen. “Holy crap,” I muttered, slouching over a paused video.

Despite being built like a Disney princess, Paulina dressed like a Star Wars villain. I checked out a few more vlogs to confirm my theory.

Thanks to Dad fanboying over the franchise, we used to have family movie nights where we’d stream the prequels and originals. I recognized Darth Vader’s color palette and Anakin’s vested silhouettes in some of Paulina’s clothing. Were her other wardrobe choices based on new villains’ outfits?

After Mom got sick, we never watched the more recent content…

The washing machine’s loud timer went off. My head snapped up. For a second, Mom’s dark brown eyes reflected off the machine’s window instead of mine. A flash of her white chef’s coats and a blur of the red aprons she’d wear over them replaced Po’s clothes clashing against mine.

I scurried backward until my spine smashed into the wall.

When I blinked, none of her things were there anymore.

In the seconds between chest heaves, it hit me again. Like always.

She was gone.

Millions of milestones we’d planned to do as a family, gone with her.

The air in the laundry room went from cozy to oppressive. The smells of detergent and fabric softener, cloying instead of crisp. I scratched at my throat, terrified of drowning underneath it.

Why did some memories dull the heartache, while other times the same ones sharpened the edges of my heart, making every breath physically hurt as badly as it had those first days After?

I sprang up, grabbed the iPad, and rushed into the hallway.

With every step forward I outpaced the pain, shutting my eyes when I neared the family photos. Why add more salt to my wounds?

By the time I neared the kitchen, my pulse had slowed. If Po had glanced in my direction, she probably wouldn’t have guessed anything was wrong.

Thankfully, she didn’t. She sat right where I’d left her, keyboard clicking and bracelets jingling from behind the laptop. Brows furrowed in concentration as she followed through on finishing college applications. As promised.

As planned. Good. She deserved the chance to make her once-upon-a-time college dream come true. I touched the eraser end of my pencil, tucked behind my ear. We did good.

A piece of the Torres HEA clicked into place.

I rolled my shoulders back. Even the pew-pew-pews growing louder did nothing to weigh them down.

I turned into the living room, screenshots pulled up on the iPad, ready to go.

A familiar spray of curls, and the headset crowning them, rose from the back of the gaming chair. I edged around it and stood next to the TV.

Did a newbie fairy godmother accidentally cast a reverse makeover after work or something? Because the dad from this morning was long gone.

A five-o’clock shadow stubbly enough to grate Parmesan cheese covered half his face. His lawyer’s garb? Replaced by thick white socks in Adidas slides, red mesh Angels baseball shorts, and a white V-neck undershirt. Attire suited for a boxer without any fight left in him.

Probably not the best time to remind him about the family dinner night next week. I pulled up the event on our family calendar and added a reminder alert for a few days before.

I stepped in front of the screen, waving my arms. “Dad? Um, hello!”

“Hey, kiddo.” He took a swig of kombucha. “Um, can you move a little to the left? You’re in the way of the game.”

“I’ll move after you help me identify these Star Wars items.”

He scooted the chair forward. Craned his neck around me, fingers still flying over the controller.

“The faster you let me know what these items are, the faster I’ll get out of your way.” I held up the iPad and flicked through the pictures.

“Sith holocron, Kylo Ren’s saber, and”—his eyes darted from my iPad to the parts of the TV my small frame or big hair didn’t block out—“Dark Acolyte helmet.”

“Gracias.” I stepped out of his way, typing everything he’d listed. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“I guess not.” He chuckled. “Why do you want to know what they are, anyway? Thinking of becoming a Sith Lord without telling your papá?” He laughed again, not quite the booming laughter from this morning. But enough to make me join in.

“Who knew your Wikipedic knowledge on this stuff would actually come in handy one day?” I added Sith Lord to my notes. “This isn’t for me; it’s for a new client. I’m planning a Star Wars–themed quincea?era for her.”

His eyes brightened. “First off, it’s Wookieepedic knowledge. Secondly, wow, kiddo.” He paused the game to look at me. “That’s super rad.”

Now that I had his full attention, I waded deeper in. “What type of ballroom dance fits best for a”—I glanced at the iPad—“Sith Lord?”

His smile from this morning boomeranged back. Yes! Then, oh my Sith Lord—

I put a hand over my mouth, muffling the telenovela style gasp when he set the controller down. See?! I wanted to shout. This quest to become Mandy’s fairy godmother apprentice really was the golden ticket to getting my family back on track.

“Definitely a toss-up between a tango and a paso doble,” he said. I typed both down. “A tango’s all about syncopated steps, high elbows, and constant connection between bodies.” My face flamed at the memory of wearing Javi like a life jacket. I grabbed Dad’s kombucha, held my breath, and chugged, hoping the chilled drink would cool me. Nope.

“There’s a looser American style. You kids should opt for that version instead of the traditional dance.”

“Dad, stop! Like I said, it’s for a quince client. I’m not going to be part of the court. Actually, no one is.” Dad quirked his eyebrows. “She wants to do a solo dance as a symbol of empowerment.”

“That’s pretty awesome.”

Yup. Precisely the reason why Paulina wanted to upload this vlog to her Very Merry Unquince series first. Though for her mom—and my Mandy “dossier”—she’d promised to create another video, frankenbiting footage she’d taken from this year’s prom to make it look like a traditional quince court swirled around her unaccompanied performance.

“In that case, solo tangos are becoming more popular. An Argentine one would be great for a Star Wars dance.”

“What song would you pair it with?” I leaned in.

“Remember the song in Phantom Menace when Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon battled with Darth Maul?”

I couldn’t place the names anymore. I nodded anyway, because this was the longest conversation we’d had in months.

“Duel of the…” His voice trailed off like he was waiting for me to finish the sentence for him. When it became apparent I couldn’t, he said, “Fates.”

“Riiight.” I jotted it down. “Duel of the Fates.” Little did he know how much my fate, and by extension his and Po’s, rested on getting this party right.

“We should do a prequel rewatch this summer.” He scratched his stubble. “Put it on our calendar.”

I nodded, pulling it up. Two events in one month? I almost pinched myself to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

“But a paso doble…” he continued.

“Double step? Is that another type of dance?”

“Yup. It can also be performed without a special someone.” His voice lowered when he said, “I suppose any dance can.” He paused for a beat before continuing. “Its choreography’s faster and more complicated than other Latin ballroom styles.”

Right before I could grasp what was happening, he reached between the bottle of kombucha and a glass of iced coffee. Picked up the controller—

And turned off the Xbox.

Unable to keep the joy out of my voice, I said, “I’ve never heard of that dance before. Is it new?”

“Heck no, kiddo. Its roots go way back in Spanish history. Bullfights and military marches.” His cheekbones glowed from the ceiling lights. Or maybe from the ill-tended fire inside of him sparking back up. “The name paso doble allegedly comes from those marches. You see, tunes were played during marching, and they were set to a very fast tempo.”

As fast as the speed of his voice? The only thing Dad loved more than talking about Star Wars was chatting about political history. I glanced at the far end of the wall, imagining his Alma University diploma hanging on it. Pictured the embossed Bachelor of Arts in History gleaming in gold.

Too bad the only history he didn’t discuss was our recent past.

“The music would ‘inspire’ the troops to take one hundred and twenty steps per minute instead of the standard sixty,” he said.

“Double the number of steps.”

“Ergo, the name paso doble. If you go with this style…” He pulled off the headset. “Then Darth Vader’s theme song”—he gestured for me to start writing on my iPad; good looking out, Dad—“‘The Imperial March,’ would be da bomb.”

Laughter rang from the hallway. “Your vocabulary gives your age away faster than the salt seasoning your pepper hair,” Po said, stepping into the room.

Dad chuckled. “Thanks for the reminder, mija.”

Then he did more of the unexpected. He sprang from his gaming chair. “But talking to your elders that way?” he tsked-tsked. “I suppose you’re too old for a time-out, so doing a demonstration for your sister seems like a fitting punishment.” He extended a hand.

Even though Po rolled her eyes, a smile crept to her lips. She was setting her hand inside his when he grabbed it, using her fingers to lift the hem of her duster. “Pretend you’re a matador and this is your cape.”

He stepped back and began to circle her, belting out, “Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, paa-ruumm, Pum, paa-ruumm…” He pointed at me, then the tablet. “‘Imperial March.’ Darth Vader’s theme song.”

I missed this side of him so much. Assertive. Dorky. Laughing. And most importantly, spending time with us.

Exactly like he used to Before.

I pulled the track up, cranking the volume as high as it could go.

The blare of trombones and trumpets swelled and crescendoed. The music must’ve helped Po and Dad get into character, because their movements, while improvised, became more fluid.

At the next flick of Po’s duster, Dad rushed under it and charged toward me. “No!” I yelped, except he latched on to my hand and swung me around anyway. “Just because I plan school dances, Dad, doesn’t mean I actually dance!”

“Oh, c’mon, kiddo. You’re Cuban. Of course you dance.”

I shot Po a pleading look. The traitor yanked the iPad from me and said, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

To reward her for getting the saying right, I did.

Cymbals crashed. Violins trilled. Brass instruments boomed. My loafers stomped across the floor, toes somehow finding the steps to a dance I didn’t know.

We looped one another, laughing as we morphed from matador to bull and back again. The song gathered speed. Surged with power and control. Right as I pictured how good the swish of Darth Vader’s black cape would look flying around Paulina—with smoke machines shooting fog to curl around black heels—the percussion and brass gave way to a run of delicate flutes and ethereal xylophone chimes.

Paulina’s glitter makeup came to mind, along with the softness in her face when she dropped the YouTube persona. This part of the song fit her perfectly, too.

Would she be as happy about this baile and song choice as I was?

When the faster tempo returned, my heartbeat dashed off to the races. Violin vibratos and percussion booms quickened, sprinting with the brass blasts to see who’d cross the finish line first. The music reverberated against the floors, ricocheting off the ceiling. It went through my limbs. Thrummed at the marrow deep inside in my bones.

Reminded me of just how alive I was.

The notes crescendoed. I turned into the bull again and charged at Dad and Po. At their wide smiles and red cheeks. Every instrument struck in unison one more time, before falling silent.

Our laughter bounced from every corner of the room. The life was finally back inside the “living” room. By the looks on Dad’s and Po’s faces, they felt it, too.