Chapter Thirty-Two
The pink turrets and blue bricks of Sleeping Beauty’s castle gleamed under the sunshine. As I walked toward it, that familiar swell of grief knocked against my chest. Only not as hard as the last time I’d stood here.
Po had been right about a lot of things. So had Javi.
Grief didn’t get any easier. Maybe it never would.
But now that I didn’t have to shoulder the burden of fairy-godmothering everything, of forcibly patching up this Mom-size hole… I could stand inside the happiest place on earth and feel a glimmer of joy alongside the hurt.
I stopped at the foot of the castle, tipping my face up. I’d never know if Mom named me after this specific one. Even if she hadn’t, I wanted to live up to my namesake to make her—and myself—proud.
I’d rise to the occasion. Never let my walls get so thick they become impenetrable. Lower my drawbridge. How would I ever get inside my own castle to enjoy soirees if I didn’t? Never mind inviting others to share in my life’s celebrations. To help me survive my life when calamities took it under siege.
I let out a long exhale, the whoosh echoing Aladdin letting Genie out of his lamp.
Showtime.
I pushed forward, dodging a horse-drawn cart and sprays from bubble wands. Hurdling over a momma duck and a line of waddling ducklings, I rushed through the iconic set of fort-style gates made from ponderosa logs, their tops sharpened into spikes. Hurried under the carved FRONTIERLAND sign hanging overhead.
It was fitting that Paulina was filming her latest food vlog here—the themed place Walt Disney built as a tribute to faith, courage, and ingenuity. Three things I’d need in droves to get her to listen to me.
My pulse pounded faster than my loafers. My soles skidded to a stop in front of the tiled entrance of Rancho del Zocalo Restaurante.
The summer crowds faded away as I zeroed in on Paulina, tucked in the back corner of the Spanish-mission-style courtyard / eating area.
Her hair shined so brightly some strands gleamed like indigo streamers. She stood over a table, camera hovering above a plate of enchiladas drenched in red sauce. She moved it to the SoCal-style street tacos, before landing on a pink concha ice-cream sandwich.
Her face scrunched when some of the whipped cream dribbled down the sweet bread’s sides. She wiped the bottom of the plate with the tip of a napkin before recording again.
Paulina and I shared more similarities than I could’ve ever imagined: a burning desire to focus on the best. A tendency to crop out whatever mess pooled around the “perfect” parts. But didn’t whipped cream taste just as sweet on the bottom as it did on top?
I approached.
Paulina clocked me. Her face hardened with a stoic mask. She set the camera down and crossed her arms over her black vest. “If you’re here with a message from Po, save your breath.”
“She doesn’t even know I’m here.” Sweat pooled at the back of my blouse. “We got into a fight after the call with you.”
Paulina’s nostrils flared. In the event she was about to lay into me again, I jumped in with, “I’m sorry for ruining your Very Merry Unquince—”
A scoff turned into a snort. “Although I want to kill you, I really should be kissing you. Ew, no, that would be super weird considering—” Her cheeks flushed red; she shook her head. “What I meant to say is, people love romance. But what they really want is drama. A quince turned telenovela? Irresistible.”
My jaw hinged open. “Wait. Are you saying this—”
“This charade of yours doubled my views. The comment section’s on fire. My college adviser said USC’s in the bag, so yeah.” A flash of a smile.
The tiny gesture untangled some of my stomach’s knots.
“In the end, your farce turned out to be a good thing,” she said.
The lip wobble betrayed her. Plus, I was too well practiced in acting like things were fine when they weren’t.
Paulina lowered herself into a chair. I sunk into the one across from hers. “No, Paulina. I ruined your party.”
She flicked some locks over her shoulder. “Not really. As pissed off as La Mera Mera is over the drama, I finally had a valid excuse to cancel the dinner party.” She rubbed her hands together like a Sith Lord and continued. “With all the planning you did, I only have to finish filming this food segment and pick up the AT-ATs from that PP place you went to with Baymoon.”
Javi. My knight in rusted armor.
“Pose with them in our outfits for a photo shoot, and that’s a wrap on the vlog series.” She shrugged. “As much as you and your sister screwed up, worry not—the show will go on.”
Her voice sounded too rehearsed, the delivery too chipper. Once again, she focused only on the “good” parts.
“This isn’t a ‘show,’ Paulina. It’s your quince.”
At that, she paled.
Too much time in the director’s chair probably led to this leave-everything-bad-on-the-cutting-room-floor mentality. It struck very close to my Pinterest-board cropping. That similar coping mechanism helped me survive. For a while.
Turned out, mess always found a way. Instead of preventing it, or pretending like it wasn’t there, maybe it was better to face it head-on.
“Deconstructed or not, you won’t have an actual get-together to celebrate with your mom, um, parents. Or your escort.”
Paulina slumped into the chair. Lapsing into an awkward silence, she dropped her head into her hands.
Seconds ticked by before she looked up. Her glitter eyeliner had smudged a little. “I could care less about having La Mera Mera there.” Her chin tipped up, as if proud that she’d finally voiced something long resounding in her head—and heart. “As for Baymoon, it’s been great having him around to film these videos. But now that you mention it, it would have also been great if…” She swallowed, quickly replacing her stoic mask. “Forget it.”
Leave it to me to put the ass back into assuming.
I always thought a quincea?era required a mom’s presence. The person cheering loudest during the grand entrance. The VIP, helping the belle of the ball find her footing if she stumbled. The guest of honor sitting at the best table, watching her daughter plant seeds of dreams that would one day reach higher than magic beanstalks.
Paulina didn’t want her mom there at all. It seemed like Javi—and Po—would have been enough.
And I screwed half of that equation up for her.
I ran a cold hand through my curls. Fingers got tangled in knots. Another problem that needed to be smoothed over.
After apologizing to her.
“I really wanted to throw you the best party I could. Except I wanted the internship more,” I licked away the sweat mustache. “I’m sorry.”
“I wish you would’ve been up-front about it,” she said.
“Same here.” I closed my eyes, picturing the red-velvet birthday cake I’d insisted I didn’t want this year. I exhaled sharply, as if blowing out its sixteen candles, and made my wish.
If she can’t forgive me, at least let her forgive Po.
I opened my eyes slowly.
Paulina’s face remained guarded, so I continued. “I don’t know if Po told you what happened at her quince.”
“She might’ve mentioned something.”
“Instead of ‘fifteen buttholes’ crashing your party, it only took one asshole to ruin yours.”
That earned me a laugh… and a grin. Maybe my unused birthday wish worked its magic, after all. Or it was a gift for finally being real with her.
What I should’ve done from the start.
“I just got so caught up with the fantasy of how perfect things could be again.” All of Frontierland went fuzzy as my vision blurred with tears. Weird, considering I finally saw some things clearly.
In my obsession with fixing things, it became easy to skip over the parts of myself that needed mending. And celebrating. Easy to shut out the layers of Dad and Po that I should’ve been applauding.
Dad’s Wikipedia-style brain with an imaginative flair. The grit it took to drag his butt to work every day, even though he deserved every break from the world to heal himself. Po’s effervescence. Her ability to kick ass—on the court and inside the kitchen. A heart bigger than the Matterhorn. And while hers was as mangled as Dad’s, as mine, she never kept it from shining anything but gold.
“Whatever Po told you about this situation, I guarantee she exaggerated her role to cover for me.”
“Even if you were the leading lady, she was your supporting actress in this melodrama.” Paulina dug her nails into her palms, indenting half moons on her skin. “She’s not some little ángel.”
“Firstly, I’d consider this more of a dramedy.” My attempt at a joke stilled her hands. It would probably be smart to stop there, but no. “Secondly, you’re right. She’s not ‘some’ angel.” A loud group ran by, giving my head time to sync up with my heart. “She’s my guardian one.”
And just like that, another spell broke.
What—who—I needed to paint for the art fundraiser became crystal clear. Along with so many other things. “She’s also my sister, my best friend, my number one cheerleader.”
To me, she’d come off as scattered. In reality, she’d tapped into all the different parts of herself, used them to stay afloat amid this grief. Buoyed me in the process without me even knowing it.
I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my pink blouse. “She can be all of those things to you, too—well, except the sister part—if you give her another chance.”
Slowly, the shadows lifted from Paulina’s eyes. Was she actually considering everything I’d said?
Hope bubbled. If Paulina gave Po another shot, would Javi give me one, too?
“I know you don’t need me as a planner anymore, but if you ever need a friend, I’ll be here for you,” I said, rising from the chair.
Paulina’s voice stopped me from taking another step. “There’s another Movies at the Beach next Saturday.”
The twinkle in her eyes—encouragements not to miss it.
Latine prayer candles are traditionally made from white wax, encased in a long, cylindrical glass, and plastered with a saint or archangel sticker down the middle. Recently, the stickers have started featuring new “saints” and “guardian angels.”
Taylor Swift blessing her Swifties, Oprah anointing her devotees. Dad had one of Ruth Bader Ginsburg in his home office. Whenever he needed guidance for work, he’d light it up and ask, “What would RBG do?”
Callie loved my idea for doing a prayer-candle-style watercolor portrait of Po. After stuffing ourselves on double scoops of sea-salt-and-caramel-ribbons ice cream at Salt Straw, I rushed home to get to work.
Sprawled on my bedroom floor, I started by googling images of guardian angels. I filled the college-ruled lines of the day planner with a checklist of common elements: a billowy gown, golden halo, huge wings.
I sprung from the floor, laughing as the pieces clicked together.
Over billowy gown, I wrote quince dress. I crossed out goldenhalo and jotted tiara. I tapped the pencil against my lips. Velvet curtains or Po’s duster to sub as wings?
A sketch of my idea bloomed over the page. I turned to the closet.
Go time.
When Po moved into my room, I’d made some space for her clothes inside my closet. Of course, she hadn’t stuck to the designated area. I lifted armfuls of brightly colored crop tops and leggings, curbing the urge to fold them and put them where they belonged.
“Where did she put you?” I muttered, rummaging through the closet. Grabbing a chair, I stepped on it, lifting to my tiptoes. Searched the shelves above the clothing racks.
“Ah-ha!” My heart leapt at the ArtBin and watercolor paper pad behind it. I scooped both into my arms. And that’s when I saw it.
The Danish tin Mom used to store our Disney celebration pins. After the funeral, Dad pretty much went into Mr. Clean mode. Anything of Mom’s not nailed to the wall he threw away or moved into the garage.
I’d looked for the pins there but found nothing. Now I knew why.
Po had dived in for the save. Once again.
My knees unlocked and I stepped off the chair. Eased the tin and the art supplies onto the floor. My fingertips skirted the rim of the royal blue lid. With my thumb, I tried to pry it open.
The lid made a sharp pop, like a needle straight to the side of a helium balloon—or an exhale after holding your breath for over two years.
Afternoon sunbeams slanted through the window. Stretched across the room, casting a spotlight on so many memories.
Metal clinked over metal as I sifted through the buttons illustrated with Goofy holding ballons. Underneath him: I’M CELEbrATING and words and phrases we’d filled in.
I pulled out some pins written in Spanish, all featuring Mom’s neat cursive. Catering another party. I set it beside me. Cebollas. Yes. Onions definitely needed to be commemorated. Another Cuban playing in the Major League. My chest swelled with secondhand pride.
Mi familia.
Closing my eyes, I conjured Mom’s face. Pressed the button to my chest. My heart didn’t sputter. It continued to beat slow and steady.
Rifling through more, I grabbed some penned by Po. Three-day weekends. Cutting an avocado perfectly around the pit. Cheers to that, for sure. Toes!
I picked up some of Dad’s, too. Making partner. Finding a parking spot at South Coast on Black Friday. Jedi Knights.
Of course, I had to grab some of mine: My first day at school, Christmas Eve, Straight A’s.
I spread the buttons all around me, arranging them into my own sort of grid.
The realization started slowly, but when it hit, it filled every inch of me.
Unlike Mandy’s, these celebrations didn’t highlight very important events. Those were bound to be inside the tin, too, and yet… I got an inkling that most of these honored everyday moments.
Being “everyday” didn’t make them less magical. Any less worthy of praising.
If anything, they deserved to be revered more. Life was a collection of moments like these. The fairy-tale events sprinkled in simply provided an extra sparkle.
I snatched my phone, flicked past texts from Dad, Po, and Callie. Clicking on the Mandy Whitmore and Associates IG page, I scrolled down her feed. One spellbinding moment after the next. My heart still leapt at them.
Except—
In trying to keep up with her feed, in trying to create my own Pinterest board of my family’s HEA, I’d completely overlooked all of Mom’s—all of our—happily ever nows.
I’d stocked up on a wealth of storybook moments already. And although our time was cut short, I was so grateful I’d shared so many of them with Mom.
I hit Unfollow.
I didn’t need Mandy’s grid anymore. Not when I’d always had my own.
Not every new event would be happy. Some occasions would rip my heart open. Or stitch it back up. Others would take my breath away because they were so unexpected.
Like this moment right now, writing an email to politely decline Mandy’s offer.
My fingers shook, excited to find out what I’d be celebrating next.