Chapter Twenty-Six
People pushed rolling racks through the foyer. Others hustled through hallways, flipping tabbed day planners and scrolling tablet screens. Everywhere inside the lobby of Mandy’s office was a flurry of making fantasies come true.
I curled my toes inside my loafers to make sure I really stood there. Inside the fairest fairy godmother’s real-life grid.
Soft lighting gleamed across pastel-colored decor. Fresh flowers bloomed inside crystal vases. Silver frames glinted across the high-reaching walls, showcasing special events. Every picture-perfect moment held the promise of a great, big, beautiful tomorrow.
“Yes,” I whispered to myself. “All that glitters is, in fact, gold.”
I hurried to the reception area. “Castillo Torres,” I said to the elegant person behind a white lacquered desk. “I have an appointment with Ms. Whitmore.”
The last stop before turning around the not-a-real-intern situation. The final test before Mandy sprinkled me with her pixie dust, imbuing me with the power to fix the mess at home.
“I’ll let her know you’re here,” the receptionist said. “Please take a seat.”
Sinking into the white-tufted couch, I glanced back at the receptionist. At her pin-straight hair cascading over her back. Reflexively, my fingers went to my waist.
“Ahh,” I muttered, unzipping my utility bag and reaching inside. There you are. Since I hadn’t had time to flat-iron my hair, anti-frizz serum would have to do. I ran a few drops through the ends of my hair. Using the phone’s screen, I gave myself a once-over.
Years of straightening had flattened some of the spring from my natural hair. Some curls frizzed; others hung a little limper than I would have liked. Still.
The ringlets were beginning to reclaim the space across my shoulders. Slowly remembering how to corkscrew instead of falling in straight lines. And as jarring as it was to see Mom’s texture inside of my own tresses, I cracked a grin.
“Something old, something new, something borrowed…” I whispered, happy that part of her would be joining me in this interview.
Must wear it curly from now on, I added to my personal agenda. That way, part of her could join every other important event.
I uncapped the coral lip gloss I’d borrowed from Po and smoothed it over my lips. Her version of liquid courage. It felt right to take a piece of her into this interview, too.
“Miss Torres.” Soraya’s throaty voice pulled my face from the screen. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Not as good as it is to see you.” I rose from the couch. “Thank you so much for expediting my application and squeezing me in last-minute.”
“Of course.” She led me down a hallway flanked by glass walls. On one side was a conference room big enough to fit every Disney princess. On the other were smaller but no less beautifully decorated offices.
“I bet that one’s yours.” I pointed to the room with red abstract art on the walls and a massive throne / office chair behind a mahogany desk.
She glanced back, the corners of her mouth curled. “Right you are.”
We approached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Keeping up with Soraya and the excitement and nervousness of finally meeting the woman behind the bejeweled curtain left me breathless.
“Ready?” Soraya asked.
I quickly added another layer of the coral gloss. “Always,” I answered.
She knocked three times before flinging the doors open.
A small gasp escaped me.
I’d always sketched Mandy’s office like a SoCal modern art museum meets Beast’s library. Instead, I stepped into something pulled less from a fairy tale and more from a beach-cottage Pinterest board.
Patchwork cushions framed window seats. A cozy spot for perfect views of PCH. Of seaside homes dotting both shoreline and the rugged hills above it.
A small desk took up the space near the back wall. In the middle of it, her signature diamond-studded stylus twinkled like a real fairy godmother’s wand.
One flick of the wrist could turn any life around. This was everything I’d wanted. Everything I’d worked for. So why wasn’t I stepping forward?
Or falling as deeply under its spell as I thought I would?
Did the desk being awash in an expanse of perfume bottles, empty glasses, and party favors dilute the stylus-wand’s magic? This mess reminded me too much of Dad’s console table.
Her bookcases were no better. Where were the style books and the photos of VIP ceremonies from the lobby to crown these shelves? Only mismatched frames encasing faded pictures reigned on each ledge.
What was so special about sitting on a park bench or drinking a Big Gulp? Wasn’t Mandy supposed to be the patron saint of crafting magical memories?
Mandy motioned us over to a big couch. Clearing the tickle in my throat, I headed over.
Up close, she looked even more like Michelle Obama’s doppelg?nger than in her grid photos. If Cinderella’s mice cut up Glinda the Good Witch’s pink dress to create a pantsuit, that’s what Mandy wore. Diamonds studded her earlobes and wrapped around both wrists. Even if her office didn’t look the part, she did.
She cupped my hands like we were long-lost sisters. “It’s so nice to meet you, Castillo.”
“Ditto, Ms. Whitmore.” I gave her a firm handshake, pulling away before she felt my pulse picking up speed. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”
“Please call me Mandy.” She grinned, putting deep dimples on display. Double that of Javi’s.
“If you insist… Mandy.” Her name rhymed with candy and tasted like it inside my mouth, too. Excitement began to eclipse my first (not-so-impressed) impressions of this room.
“Soraya told me you’re quite the planner already.” The diamonds on her wrists glittered as she waved for me to sit. Notes of honeysuckle and lavender wafted from her.
Mom’s perfume and Javi’s shampoo. The main ingredients in a bravery potion, apparently. The second I breathed it in, I took my place on her couch and said, “I’m the youngest event chair Matteo Beach High’s student body association has ever had. Recently, I started a side business where I help classmates plan birthdays.”
Mandy and Soraya nodded approvingly.
Maybe Po was right. I should celebrate myself more.
Soraya sat on the pleated arm of the sofa and handed Mandy a gold folder. She opened it, slipping out my application. I took another inhale of the valor perfume.
“Your last, and current, parties are both quincea?eras,” Mandy said.
“That’s one type of party that’s been growing at our firm exponentially,” Soraya said.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said.
Soraya scooted to the edge of the sofa arm. Mandy tipped her chin up. “How do you mean?” she asked.
For years I’d been prepping for this moment. “People like honoring traditions as much as creating new memories…”
The monologue came out as polished as silverware. What I didn’t expect was for the words to land in the pit of my stomach.
Or have memories of Mom’s Disney pins float to the surface—much less for them to pull up thoughts of Paulina’s and Angie’s moms. I tugged at my blouse’s collar and continued with my sales pitch. “Quinces are a bridge that connects kids to countries their parents left behind.”
Soraya and Mandy exchanged pleased looks. Please let my sigh of relief go unnoticed.
Mandy handed me a glossy photo from the folder. “Thoughts on a quincea?era who wants her court to wear these?”
The fourteen damas wore gowns in an array of neon taffeta. “This quincea?era is not afraid to let her court shine as brightly as she does,” I said, sitting straighter.
A flicker of approval danced across Mandy’s eyes. If I continued to bibbidi-bobbidi-blow this test out of the water, I’d transform from faux intern to the real deal.
“What about one that wants to play Cardi B’s ‘Be Careful’ for the main dance routine?” Soraya asked.
I winced. “Sheesh. The chambelán wasn’t simply a friendly escort to the party.” Like Javi was to Paulina. “But a boyfriend who cheated.” I tapped my finger against my chin to the beat of the song. “And the birthday girl wants the entire party to know it.”
“Bingo,” Soraya said, sparking giggles from Mandy.
“I’m so happy to not be fifteen anymore,” she said through a wistful exhale.
In none of my wildest dreams would I have ever thought to add two unsolicited cents to this interview. Let alone want to interject based on the Poverb barging in, Go grande, or return to your casa.
I couldn’t go home. Not until I nailed this.
“Actually, you don’t need to be fifteen to have a quince anymore,” I said.
The wheels of rolling racks, clicks of stilettos, and orders barked on headpieces crept in from under the door. The clangor was like their minds collectively churning. “Oh, no? Please illuminate us,” Mandy said.
“There are double quinces now, for people turning thirty. Or whenever they can afford to have one.” My heart sputtered. Stay on task. “My current client, a Disney YouTuber with over one hundred thousand subscribers…” I didn’t have to pause long for the numbers to sink in. For Mandy and Soraya’s eyes to widen on cue.
I hated using Paulina’s platform for my benefit. Then again, she was doing the same thing. I unclenched my jaw and continued. “Paulina Reyes, also known as Paulinaland, is having a Star Wars–themed ‘quince’ even though she’s turning eighteen.”
Mandy’s fingers drummed against the folder. “Are you saying she probably feels more rooted in her young adulthood now than she did at fifteen?” More like she’s gaming the admissions board to get into a prestigious film school. “That she wants to be the one who decides when she leaves her adolescence behind?” she asked, rolling the diamond bracelet around her wrist.
All those twinkling diamonds, combined with the way the sun sparked on her stylus-wand… at last, I began to fall fully under her spell.
The air turned heavy. Squeezed my chest until my heart contracted.
No. Expanded.
The expansion caused something to unlatch. Almost every time I met with Paulina, she offered up another reason for wanting a quince. If I peeled back the layers of her motivations, would this ultimately be why she wanted one now, deconstructed or not?
To be in the driver’s seat—er, director’s chair—of her adulthood?
Something wedged in my throat. Mandy was right. People should get to decide which parts of themselves to shed, and when to cast them away. Versus being forced to let go because of an arbitrary timeline.
Because here’s the rub: on a person’s fifteenth year, not everyone is ready to make that leap at the stroke of midnight.
Sure, I had to jump into adulting younger than fifteen. Our family needed a grown-up. Speaking more on my behalf than Paulina’s, I answered, “Yes.”
“It’s a lovely sentiment, Castillo. I hope this becomes more popular in the party-planning community.”
How different would Po’s quince have turned out if she hadn’t rushed it? No mistakes, no absent tilde. No disaster.
“I hope it does, too,” I said, scooting closer to Mandy.
This was why I needed to get the internship.
Not just to transform the lie into the truth, but for these nuggets of insight that she sprinkled like fairy dust. Mandy sifted through pages inside the folder, most likely looking for a harder question to throw my way. “You know what?” She shut the folder. “Why don’t you just tell us why you want to be a party planner?”
The clouds outside shifted, flooding the room—me—with light. The answer I’d written on countless index cards buzzed at my lips.
“My older sister had a quince a few years ago,” I said. “It was a disaster—namely, because the banner person forgot to put the tilde over the word a?os.” Retelling the story never got easier. “So instead of wishing her happy fifteen years, it encouraged her to celebrate her fifteen happy buttholes.”
Their eyes rounded in disbelief.
“Yeah, I know.” Still cringeworthy. “In that moment, something switched inside me.” Slam-dunking this interview loomed on the horizon. “If I could help prevent a special event from being ruined, I vowed I would.” A pause for dramatic effect. “Crafting special events are about attention to details, hard work, and sticking to plans. Parties are a science.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, though, they clashed against images flashing inside my head.
The fundraiser banner. Darth Vader’s paso doble. The new “member” of the sculpture family inside the Arctic Art Studio.
Soraya and Mandy looked at me with expressions that yelled, Is that all party planning is, though?
“But parties are also magic. And maybe…” I pushed past the lines in my monologue for something new. “Magic sometimes also needs spontaneity for it to spark.”
Mandy’s and Soraya’s nods synced up. “Now, can you tell us why you love parties?” Mandy asked.
I squared my shoulders. “They celebrate new beginnings and transformations. They are keys that unlock happy endings.” Although I was back to my scripted answers, I believed each word with every atom of my being. “They’re the best way to share joy. With so much fun and beauty swirling on the dance floor, how could anyone feel anything but happiness?”
There. The end of my monologue.
Mandy and Soraya both smiled at me like I’d crushed it. Except… Blame it on Mandy’s stylus-wand, twinkling from the middle of her desk, bewitching me with another spell. One that compelled me to go off script again.
“Lately, I’ve realized sharing other emotions is equally important.”
Too chicken to see what reactions painted their expressions, or maybe afraid of them spying mine, I looked out the window.
An oil tanker and a cargo ship floated in the teal waters, rippling all the way to the horizon. Not only did my heartbreak weigh more than these ships, its hurt heavier than the Queen Mary harbored a few beach cities up PCH—my family’s grief had been a shipwreck.
One that left us marooned in an archipelago of pain.
Po, Dad, and I all occupied different islands of it.
Until recently. Add that to practicing Parental Past Tense with Javi, getting to know Paulina better, and rekindling my friendship with Callie…
Under the guise of fixing a pearl button on my pink blouse, I pressed my hand to my chest. The fractures running through it still cut. But the Mom-shaped hole ached a little less, its depth no longer bottomless.
“Tears of joy, tears of sadness? Parties are a safe canvas to let emotions out.” Saying it out loud was like breaking another curse.
Or like casting my first real fairy godmother spell. One that let my heart refill space left by Mom’s absence.
“If you hire me, you’ll get an apprentice that’s the love child of a fairy godmother and a scientist. I’ll help make events look good enough to post on a grid”—I pulled the pencil-wand from my tote, pressing the gold-ringed end to my chest—“and memorable enough to stick here.”
My pulse pounded strong. It could’ve come from the way Mandy nodded, from her eyes flicking to Soraya before landing on me. But maybe it came from letting parts of myself out of the castle towers. From allowing pieces of me to crash my own party and become honored guests.