THE FOLLOWING Saturday morning, Alicia stood on the beach, shivering in her wet suit. When Mr. Stevens had mentioned his surfing class, he hadn’t said anything about being encased in rubber and on the beach at six A.M. As she looked around at the group of men and women twice her age, she wondered how she’d let her girls off the hook so easily. Jamie was traveling to see Dash compete in a tournament in Orlando, and Carmen had flat-out not wanted to go.

“I like surf-inspired fashion,” Carmen had said. “Like the cool T’s and cute dresses designers like Cynthia Rowley have been doing. I like listening to surf-inspired ska, and I love old nineteen-fifties surfing movies. What I don’t like—and can’t see happening—is me, trying to stand on a board in freezing cold water while said board knocks me upside the head every time I fall off it.”

Wow, Alicia remembered thinking. Way to sell it, Carmen. Now she wondered if her friend hadn’t been absolutamente y completamente right. It was chilly, it was still a little dark, and the ocean did not look either fun or inviting.

Mr. Stevens, however, didn’t seem to mind the cold or the hour. “Good morning!” he bellowed as he jogged happily toward the sullen-looking group, some of whom were hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to stay warm. “Welcome to Surfing the New Economy! You are a very special group of people, and not just because you’re all dressed in these neoprene penguin suits! You are all business owners. Why don’t you each go ahead and introduce yourselves?”

There were eight people in the group; Alicia was the youngest by far.

A tall guy with red hair, who looked about her father’s age, stepped forward confidently and said, “Hi, I’m Dave, of Dave’s Honey Wagons. We rent trailers to celebrities who are shooting in Miami—movies, TV commercials, music videos—you name it.”

Alicia was impressed and immediately began thinking about how she could incorporate trailers used by real movie stars into a quinceañera theme.

Next, a woman with dark brown shoulder-length hair and deep dimples smiled at the group and said, “I’m, Maya, the owner of Buscar, a new age bookshop and café in West Park.” She clasped her hands together and did a little bow. “Namaste,” she told the group.

The rest had equally interesting pursuits—from a cupcake shop to a pharmacy that had been the family business for over a hundred years.

When it was Alicia’s turn, she found that she wasn’t as cold as she had been when she had first arrived. The sun was shining more brightly, and she no longer felt so shy.

“Hola, everybody,” she said, waving at the small group. “I’m Alicia, and I’m the cofounder of Amigas Inc., a full-service quinceañera planning business.”

Everyone seemed surprised that someone as young as Alicia could have her own business.

“Excuse me,” a woman named Terri, who owned a Pilates studio, said, “but would it be rude for me to ask your age?”

Alicia smiled. “Not at all. I’m seventeen.”

“And how long have you had this business?” Dave wondered.

“For two years,” Alicia replied.

“Impressive!” Dave said brightly.

“Have you ever thought of taking your quince business national?” asked Lily, who owned the cupcake shop. “My sister lives in San Antonio, and I know they could use something like this out there.”

All of a sudden, Alicia felt the pride that had been eluding her since the beginning of senior year. Maybe she didn’t have the musical talent that Gaz had; she certainly didn’t have Jamie’s artistic gifts; and she couldn’t sketch or sew like Carmen (then again, who could?). But what she’d done with the help of her oh-so-talented friends was to start a business that could actually go national, a business that could potentially last a very long time.

The group chatted for a few minutes, and then Mr. Stevens interrupted. “Okay, people, now it’s time to do the work,” he announced. “Your first exercise is a pop-up.” As if it were the easiest thing in the world, he jumped onto the sand, landed in a full push-up, and from there, jumped back to a standing position. “That is essentially how you stand up on a surfboard.

“Now, everybody try it,” he suggested cheerfully.

They did, and, from the sloppy scrambles to the ground, coupled with a few real moans and groans, Alicia could tell that everyone found the exercise quite as difficult as she did.

The beach was getting more crowded, and soon the would-be surfers were sharing their turf with couples out together for an early-morning stroll and others walking their dogs. Alicia tried to fight her self-consciousness.

Mr. Stevens asked the group, “So, where did you feel that exercise?”

People called out answers ranging from “my legs” to “my hips” to, oddly enough, “my ankles.”

Mr. Stevens pointed to his stomach. “Where you should be feeling it is right here. Surfing is all about using your core. And this is where what you learn on the board will help you become chairman or chairwoman of the board. Because in business, as in life, you’ve got to trust your gut.” Then he said, “Okay, folks, give me fifteen pop-ups.”

Alicia did ten pop-ups and thought her arms would drop off, or her legs, or both.

Next thing she knew, she was in the ocean, sitting on top of her board and gazing out at the horizon. The sound of the bright blue waves echoed the churning that she felt inside. There was so much to think about: the future of Amigas Inc.; her relationship with Gaz; college…As she paddled out further, she considered Mr. Stevens’s recommendation: Trust your gut. Alicia felt that his message had been for her and only her. Was her gut telling her something that she had been trying hard to ignore? She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Suddenly, she knew. Harvard was her first-choice school. That was where she wanted to be. Not because it was where her parents had gone or because it was where everyone expected her to go, but because it was the best place for a young entrepreneur like herself. She was so happy she wanted to hug Mr. Stevens.

The group had barely gotten the hang of paddling out when the two-hour class was over.

Afterward, Mr. Stevens, all grins, asked her, “So, what do you think? You didn’t want to come, did you? I really wasn’t sure you would show up.”

Alicia looked shyly down at her bare feet. “I think I loved it. And you were right about learning to read the waves. Out on the water, I suddenly felt so strong and calm. I’ve been struggling for so long to decide which college felt like the best fit for me, and now I know for certain that Harvard is my first choice.”

Mr. Stevens crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well, that’s interesting news. You know, I get my best ideas when I’m out in the ocean.”

Alicia nodded. She wasn’t ready to ride a giant just yet; she was more a baby-stepping surfing wannabe. But she’d gone beyond her comfort zone, and that small move had made everything else seem possible. “I know it here,” she said, pointing to her stomach. “In my gut. I also don’t want to apply just to Ivy League schools. I want to target schools that will help me nurture my creativity and business skills. Schools that have innovative programs where I can meet cool people like I met today.”

Mr. Stevens patted her on the shoulder. “Alicia, girl, I think you just caught your first big wave.”

Later that morning, Alicia arrived at home to find her parents swimming in the pool. It always surprised her to see them just chilling like a couple of teenagers. Her parents usually just sat by the pool. Her father liked to read international newspapers on his Kindle, and her mother was surgically attached to her BlackBerry. But for Marisol and Enrique Cruz to be in their swimsuits, in the water? Not so much.

Alicia kicked off her flip-flops and sat at the edge of the pool, letting her legs dangle in the water.

“¡Hola, gente!” she announced, beckoning to her parents the way her father had used to call out to her and her brother when he wanted to get their attention.

They swam over, amused expressions on their faces.

“I have an announcement,” Alicia proclaimed. “Harvard has a joint BA/MBA program that I’m really excited about. It’s going to be my first-choice school.”

Her mother was smiling so broadly that Alicia couldn’t help teasing her. “Mom, relax! You look like one of those Botoxed South Beach ladies.”

Marisol Cruz splashed her, despite the fact that Alicia was fully dressed, in a very cute boatneck T and denim shorts.

“Can’t a mother be proud?” her mom asked.

Alicia blushed. “Mom, for real, chill. Let me get into Harvard first.”

Her father might not have been a practicing lawyer anymore, but he still knew how to cross-examine a witness. “Lici,” he ventured, “you’ve been so secretive about college applications. Is there something we should know?”

Alicia sighed. She remembered how brave she had felt paddling out on her rented longboard into the big blue ocean, and she knew she was brave enough, finally, to tell her parents the truth.

“Hey, I don’t want to turn this into some big, deep moment,” she began, “but the truth is I’ve been really conflicted about applying to Harvard. You guys are so successful; it’s a lot to live up to. I’ve been fighting Harvard, because I didn’t want to just follow in your footsteps. I wanted to achieve something on my own.”

Her parents looked shocked, as if they had just spotted her on TV in some “Secret Life of Teenagers” documentary special.

“Lici!” her father exclaimed. “You are seventeen years old and you’ve started a business that grosses more than I made my first year out of college.”

Her mother put on a robe and sat down next to her at the edge of the pool. Reflexively, Alicia rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“You are a complete original,” her mother said. “There’s no limit to what you can do. Your father and I have been fortunate. We’ve done well, and we’re grateful for that. But our dream was never just to give you and your brother a fancy house with a swimming pool. Our goal—our desire—was to have enough to give you choices, to show you all the possibilities the world has to offer. But with your quince business, you have shown us what our own culture and heritage have to offer.”

In spite of herself, Alicia started crying. Her mother joined her. Out of the corner of her eye, Alicia could see that her father was tearing up, too. “Are you crying, Papa?” she asked.

Enrique dived underneath the water and spiraled back up to the surface. “I’m not crying,” he sniffed.

Then, in a more serious tone, he said to his daughter, “You are my best gift.”

Alicia, ever the little sister, asked, “What about Alex?”

Her father guffawed. “When he comes home from college and mows the lawn, he can be my best gift, too.”

That night, before she went to sleep, Alicia texted all of her friends.

The message read: Big announcement. Figured out my college dream. Applying to Harvard, their joint ba/mba program rocks. Next step: amigas inc. omnimedia.

She hit send with an excited flourish. It felt so good just to be putting the idea out there.

Carmen wrote: Love it, amiga!

Gaz wrote: Boston or bust, mi amor!

Maxo wrote: We’ll all be working for you one day. (the title I want is: chief technical officer.)

And of course, Jamie had to put her sassy spin on the whole thing: You and Harvard are like peanut butter and jelly. No-brainer, Lici.

It was fabulous, Alicia thought as she crawled into bed. Now, all she had to do was get accepted.