Cuba 15 Read online

So I agreed. But I made her come with me.

  Dad was on morning shift now. He hated all the shift changes but never got around to looking for a job at another pharmacy. When we got home, Leda and I found him lounging in the family room in his neatly creased sweatpants, just as he was sliding his yellow-socked feet into his maroon slipper-shoes.

  As we’d planned, Leda was the one to put the touch on him. Her tone was abjectly humble. When she asked if he could find it in his heart to “please mentor this important project,” Dad puffed out his chest under a lavender polo shirt that most men his age wouldn’t be caught dead in and said, “Sure. I’d love to.”

  I stared at him, but not because of the shirt. I was used to that. I wasn’t used to hearing him say he’d love to talk about Cuban music, or life on the island, or anything about Cuba—which he just had.

  “I’ll give you a few tapes and a cigar for your show-and-tell,” he even offered.

  “It’s not show-and-tell, Dad,” I snapped.

  “No,” he said with a grin, not noticing my mood. “More like hear-and-smell. HA! ” He gave Mom’s laugh, not bothering with the beats.

  “Dad, y’know, cigars and the cha-cha are not going to cut it with our teacher. That’s all people already know about Cuba.” It was all I knew.

  He and Leda were still smiling at his joke. “What else do you need to know, Violet? What about all that history I told you?”

  Had I missed a decade somewhere?

  “What! Dad, all you ever say about Cuba’s past is that Batista was a real bastard.” Dad’s smile ran down like an old battery. “You never even made it to Castro!” Not in English, anyway.

  He had no answer for that. While I flashed my eyes at him, Leda put in, “I guess we’ll have to do mambo, then.”

  Dad threw her a grateful look. “Sí,” he said, not returning my gaze. “We’ll do mambo.”

  Leda and I practiced “Plows, Not Cows” and what Mr. Soloman had dubbed “The Loco Family” for each other out on the porch, with one of Abuelo’s discarded tapes playing in the background; my grandfather had upgraded to CD years ago.

  “This is nice and everything,” Leda said as the last song played. “But can you understand a word they’re saying?”

  I cocked my head. “I heard amor . . .”

  “And pata—what’s that again?”

  “Foot, I believe.”

  We looked at each other quizzically.

  I sighed. “I’ll try to get some more information out of Dad.”

  She put on her jacket. “See you tomorrow.”

  I went downstairs and found my father, still in the family room, reading a copy of Golf World. I plopped onto the couch next to his chair.

  “Eh, Violeta. ¿Qué te pasa?” He closed the magazine.

  “It’s those tapes, Dad. We’re supposed to write a little talk to give, and we don’t know what to say. Can’t you tell me about the styles of Cuban music, or the history behind it all?”

  Dad colored. “Pues, those are not really my tapes. . . . They’re before my time.” He twisted Golf World into a telescope, peered through it, put it down. “I like to listen to them every now and then, but I’m not up on the music like your abuelo is. You could ask him . . . but he and Mami just left on a cruise for their anniversary.”

  “I don’t have much time. We’re looking for something more modern, anyway. We have to show sources for our topic by the end of next week. Don’t you have a book or something?”

  “I’ll tell you what. Now is the time for your tía Luci to come to the rescue. Why don’t you give her a call?”

  Incredible. He was weaseling out again. “Dad! Hello, it’s me. Your daughter, Violet? Isn’t there a single thing you can tell me about Cuban music?”

  He went pink again, let out his breath. “Well, no, not really. See, I didn’t listen to that stuff when I was growing up.” He fiddled with the magazine in his lap. “I listened to rock and roll—the Rolling Stones, Clapton, Led Zeppelin. . . . Papi’s music?” He rolled his eyes. “It embarrassed me. Like, I’d roll up the car window if Papi’s radio station was too loud when we stopped at a stoplight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Only now I kind of like to listen to it.”

  The way I like to listen to his music sometimes. “I’ll give Tía a call, Dad.” I slid my eyes sideways at him. “Hey? And if I find out any information, I’ll let you know.”

  He grinned and uncrumpled his magazine. “I could learn something, ¿no? ”

  “It’s possible.” I sat back against the cushions as Mom and Chucho joined us.

  Mom looked tired; Friday is a busy day for thrift. I asked her if she could drive me to school to catch the tournament bus in the morning.

  “On one condition,” she said, settling Chucho on her lap. He yawned, gave a little squeak, and closed his eyes.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen your speech yet. I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d do it for your father and me.”

  Dad put Golf World down again. “Sí, Violet. Let’s see the speech.”

  Another command performance. Suddenly, I was much more nervous than I’d been at the first tournament. I didn’t have to live with anyone from that audience. But Mom’s and Dad’s eyes were trained on me. I wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.

  I tested out my new beginning on them, making them jump, and wound my way through the speech. Mom started laughing early on—“HA!” —but I didn’t let her throw me. Dad kept up a rolling chuckle as I did my impression of his relatives one by one, and by the end they were both howling. Only Chucho was silent.

  “¡Brava!” cried Dad.

  “That was wonderful, honey,” Mom said, smiling.

  “Of course,” said Dad, “people are going to think we are a little bit crazy. . . .”

  Mom looked at him crossways. “If the shoe fits, Albert.”

  I held my breath.

  He relaxed, and they both chuckled.

  Sure, they are my parents and all, and they’re supposed to cheer me on. But it felt good. I went up to my room with a warm swelling in my chest—or was it in my head? Either way, I was nearly ready for the tourney.

  22

  Gust like every year, I couldn’t think of a decent Halloween costume. I would end up throwing together something from the thrift shop as usual. Why was it so hard to be creative on demand? The speech coaches expected us to just scribble up a little old speech, perform as if we’d been doing it for years, and win. So did Abuela, in a way. And Señora Doble-U thought she could wring blood from a stone: “Be creativo.”

  On Tuesday when I got home from rehearsal, I decided to do the most uncreative thing I could think of: watch TV. I popped a bowl of popcorn and got my book for the commercial breaks. Then I went downstairs to watch some junky reruns. Entering the family room, I was assailed by the whine of an electric drill and my brother’s muffled mutters emanating from beneath his Cubs hat. I looked forward to seeing Mark’s head again, once baseball-cap season ended with the World Series. It looked like it would be Atlanta on top again this year.

  Mark sat in Dad’s avocado-colored vinyl recliner, with a bucket of golf balls at his feet. On a folded newspaper atop the matching avocado vinyl footstool, he was drilling holes in the balls, one by one. He stopped to stretch out a palm for some popcorn.

  “Dad’s gonna kill you,” I said, giving Mark about six kernels, which he inhaled.

  “I’m not hurtin’ the furniture.”

  “You’ll wake him up, then.”

  “Will not.”

  “Yes, you will, Mark.”

  “He’s not here,” Mark said with satisfaction, and his drill bit poked through the golf ball and into the newspaper below. He lifted the paper to show me that the footstool remained intact.

  I stared at him. Was this kid charmed, or what? “What are you doing anyway?”

  “Making my Halloween costume. I had to do something with these balls.”

  “And wh
at are you making exactly?”

  “Mom’s going to sew them all over my old Batman costume, and, check it out! Golf Ball Man!”

  I had to hand it to him. That was a pretty good idea. Weird. And original. He could safely say that no one else would be wearing that one.

  I gave up on watching TV—it was too noisy—and took my popcorn up to my room. For once, I appreciated my little brother’s weirdness. Fueled by the specter of Golf Ball Man, I decided to go through my closet and see if there was any costume material I had overlooked.

  There wasn’t. But I did find some decent clothes to wear to the Rolling Hills tournament on Saturday: my blue power suit. That’s what Mom called it, crisp cerulean-blue pants with a puffy-sleeved jacket to match. The jacket had four huge black buttons down the front that made it— powerful. And me, in it. I wore it to church at St. Edna’s once, and it was hard to sit, stand, and kneel sedately.

  I remembered feeling underdressed at the last tourney, even though there had been plenty of kids in casual pants and shirts. Clarence and Vera, in their Sunday or weekday best, seemed to grab an edge in their rounds. In speech events with no costume requirement, dress was indeed crucial. So I did the unthinkable.

  I ironed my power suit.

  Dad had come home, and he gasped when he found me in a corner of the family room, iron in hand. “Job interview?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Speech tournament.”

  He nodded approvingly. His clothing combinations may be unorthodox, but he’s no slob. Dad irons everything, even velour. He dumped a pile of dress socks on the board as I hung up my blue suit. “Y cómo va el ehspeech?”

  “I think I’m getting better.”

  “Mejorar es mejor que nada,” he said wisely. “Ah, you have an e-mail from your abuela. On my desk.”

  “Thanks. Uh, what did that mean, that thing in Spanish?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, nothing,” he said, frowning at the iron controls.

  I set my lips. “There’s no setting for ‘sock,’ Dad,” I said, picking up the hanger with my suit on it and exiting, stage left.

  Querida Nieta, the e-mail message read, The cruise, it was wonderful. How is the school? lt makes a long time that we don’t talk, your Abuelo says HOLA. Mamita sends a hug. Listen, my dear, when will be the dress fitting? Let me know, because l have something very especial for you. Love y besos, Abuela

  Ugh, the dress. All the rest of the ceremony, I thought I could handle. It was time to face my fears. I decided to give Señora Fauna a call. Flora answered the telephone and said she’d just been thinking about me. She gave an animated account of my party design, detailing everything from the Playbill look-alike invitations to the red carpet and rental chandeliers.

  Fauna had good news for me too. My dress was ready to try on and measure for alterations, and similar styles could be fashioned for my damas at a reasonable price. But I should be sure to have them mention my name at the desk. I wondered if Señora Fauna, dressmaker to the party planner to the stars, had been a Secret Service agent in a past life.

  Leda, Janell, and I all went for a fitting together with Mom. I was just thinking that it was a good thing Abuela wasn’t here to start a Pink fight, when Fauna brought my “dress” out on a hanger and swirled it around in front of us.

  The skirt fabric was the familiar breezy white muslin, but not so sheer. Fauna had added purple velvet dot accents and a royal purple velvet bodice, delicately embroidered in a white curling-leaf pattern. But it wasn’t a dress at all.

  For once, my entourage allowed me into the fitting room by myself. I emerged and turned slowly in a circle in this whisper of a gown, really a costume out of Cleopatra or The Arabian Nights, with sheer cap sleeves, a tight purple bodice, and a long white billowy skirt that gathered tight at each ankle. Pants! Really good-looking pants.

  I stared at Fauna and asked Why? How? with my hands. She went to her worktable and returned with a folded note. It was Abuela’s note, the one I’d delivered. I recognized por favor and vestido and my name in her choppy handwriting, and next to it she’d sketched my outfit. Wow. I twirled around a few more times.

  Señora Flora waltzed in for a look, and everyone agreed that Abuela’s idea had turned out perfectly. Fauna would sew Janell’s and Leda’s gowns in different solid colors, in the same contrasting fabrics as mine. Janell picked an undersea green-gray shade and Leda a dusky rose from Fauna’s swatches. Next—Flora checked her list—shoes and jewelry, followed by my first dance lesson.

  I called Abuela in Miami as soon as I got home. “Abuela, the dress! It’s gorgeous!”

  “You like, no?” she said proudly.

  “I like, I like. Was that the special something you promised me?”

  “Eh? Ah, eso. No, Violet, something else is coming,” she teased.

  “Like what?”

  “Paciencia. Espérate.”

  Those words I knew. Similar to mañana—the way Dad says it, like tomorrow will never come—espera means “wait.”

  Meanwhile, pledges from my party sponsors continued to roll in. Mom received weekly updates from Abuela via e-mail; it looked as though we might end up with a surplus of money.

  Dad’s eyes lit up when Mom mentioned this. They dimmed when she said we’d have to return any extra cash.

  I didn’t care what they did with it. I’d passed the pink dress test. I might make it through Year Fifteen unscathed yet. Bonus-plus: My cast of quince characters, both on and off the stage, was seemingly under control, and I had a headless date for Halloween. Wonders would never cease.

  23

  The next morning, packing sugar cubes and this huge ego, I rode the team bus to Rolling Hills High and checked the O.C. board for my name. Sweet! Two early rounds, then a few hours to sit in on performances. And Janell had said I could come watch her.

  On the way to my first round, Clarence slipped me a message on a ripped triangle of notebook paper. In square-lettered printing it said,

  SEE YOU TONIGHT, C.

  A strong chemical reaction took place inside me; I might have discovered a new element. I put the note in my jacket pocket for luck.

  I was a little nervous about my lines since I’d changed so many, but my power suit got me through the door, and once again the sugar cube revved my engine and let me think ahead as I talked. Or at least it seemed that way.

  The judge called me third, after two people I didn’t know. The second girl spoke in such a mouse squeak that everyone had to lean forward to hear, and the applause afterward was aptly hushed. So the stage was set for my new entrance.

  “Violet Paz?”

  I waited a beat, two, three—until heads began to turn. Then I jumped out of my seat, shouting, “Stop! Police!” I ran for the front of the room, whooping my best rendition of a police siren at full volume.

  I broke off in midcry and made eye contact with the crowd. “The story you are about to hear is true. None of the names have been changed, because no one is innocent. . . .”

  I segued to the flashback: me, the narrator, playing straight man to me, my cousin Marianao con cigarro.

  “Wha’ ju mean, ‘no ehsmoking’?” my Marianao said with indignation. That is, me, doing a bad imitation of a Cuban with a bad accent. “I yam no ehsmoking, cousin.”

  My narrator jammed hands on hips. “And just what would you call this?” I exaggerated huffs and puffs, wheezing a little.

  The response? “Is the cigarro which is ehsmoking. I only happen to be breathing on the other end.”

  Some laughs here. I took the audience by the hand and led them through my house, past my relatives, into the backyard. Then I became my grandfather.

  “¡Ay, ay, ay! I am hot tonight, como Tito Puente. I am el rey de los disc jockeys, and king of the Weber!”

  I pantomimed the conga line picking him up, a bit of body comedy that resembled a cross between a Russian dance and Pin the Tail on the Donkey. It worked. I heard actual giggles out there.

  By the time I raised the noise level agai
n with Abuelo’s shouts, Chucho’s howling, and another siren, the room was breaking up. I let the police lead me away to prison and brought the story in a neat circle, ending in my monotone, “Maybe they’ll put me in solitary confinement. It would be a relief.” I made eye contact again for punch, and dropped my head.

  To thunderous applause.

  Round Two went as well, and then I headed for Janell’s second round. I didn’t try to get her attention, just slipped in with the others and sat quietly across the room from her. She had told me earlier that she’d chosen the first poem especially to read at my quince party. She and Leda and I would begin rehearsals soon.

  To my surprise, the round was pretty evenly mixed with girls and guys. I listened to four Verse programs— seemingly dozens of poems, all unfamiliar except for one Emily Dickinson that I vaguely recalled—and then the judge asked for Janell. Looking confident in a pale-yellow print dress that reached her ankles and displayed her usual clunky black boots, she glided up front. The woman was light on her feet. And thanks to the martial arts, I bet she could kill you with those shoes.

  “Growing up”—she addressed the audience—“is a state of body and a state of mind. The two don’t always mature together, and growth never really stops—it just slows down, until one day you find you’re a”—hairsbreadth of a beat— “phenomenal woman. ‘Phenomenal Woman,’ a poem by Maya Angelou.” My quince poem.

  Phenomenal? Me? A fuzzy glow spread inward. I didn’t know Janell cared so.

  She recited in a voice near her own, but with a swing to it. “ ‘Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. / I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion / Model’s size . . .’ ”

  Hey, wait a minute. My glow tapered off.

  “ ‘But when I start to tell them, / They think I’m telling lies. / I say, / It’s in the reach of my arms, / The span of my hips, / The stride of my step, / The curl of my lips.’ ”

  The glow fuzzed out. My hips and lips were nobody’s business.

  “ ‘I’m a woman / Phenomenally. / Phenomenal woman, / That’s me.’ ”