THE NEXT MORNING, Alicia walked into the kitchen to find Maribelle, the cook, making a feast: chocolate-chip waffles, bacon, banana bread with pecan-and-brown-sugar glaze, fruit salad, and fresh papaya smoothies. Maribelle had been with the Cruz family since Alicia was a baby and was less an employee and more a bonus abuela.

“Whoa, whoa, who’s coming to breakfast?” Alicia asked as she surveyed the counters and the ever so slightly frazzled Maribelle. It had been only three weeks since Alicia’s older brother, Alex, had gone off to college, but Maribelle, more than Alicia’s parents, even, seemed to be experiencing a bad case of empty-nest syndrome. She still set the table for four at dinnertime, still picked up a six-pack of coconut water every time she went grocery-shopping, even though the unopened cartons now crowded the second shelf of the pantry.

Alicia walked over to Maribelle and gave her a hug. “Alex is at college. Who are you cooking for?”

Maribelle wagged her finger and said, “I’m not senile yet! I know Alex is at college. I light a candle for him at church every week. But this breakfast is for you, niña. Isn’t today the big college-fair day?”

Alicia gulped. In all the excitement over Carmela Ortega’s quinceañera, she’d completely forgotten that today was the day when college reps from around the country descended on C. G. High. The reps were there, allegedly, to distribute information and to give students a flesh-and-blood representation of their respective schools. But everybody knew that college day was the academic equivalent of a record company label coming to see your band—the reps were there scouting talent, and a good meeting could do more for your chances of getting into your dream school than even the most pristine application or gushing recommendation.

Alicia looked down at her outfit. The black silk romper with cuffed shorts, the patterned tights and T-strap heels had been perfectly fine for a regular Tuesday. But this wasn’t a regular Tuesday. “I’d better change,” she mumbled.

In the hallway, she bumped into her mother, who looked shocked to see her in glittery tights. “You’re not wearing those for college day, are you?”

Alicia fought the temptation to roll her eyes. “Nope, Mom, I’m changing.”

Her father was just coming out of the bathroom and caught a glimpse of her outfit. “Shorts, Lici?” he said.

Alicia grimaced, “No, Papi, I’m changing.”

Then, just in case any of her friends might have been as absentminded as she was, she sent a text to her whole crew: Heads up, people. College day. Dress to Impress.

Right away, her phone started buzzing.

Jamie wrote back: Thanks for looking out for us, Lici. Changing now.

Carmen texted: I was asleep. Audrey Hepburn marathon on AMC last night. Gracias for the wake-up call.

Maxo wrote: Breaking out my special occasion Converses.

And Gaz sent a picture of himself wearing a tie and a note that said: GQ enough 4U?

Alicia laughed and quickly changed into one of her mother’s hand-me-downs, a respectable, but fun, cherry red wrap dress. She added a pair of black tights, a pair of black leather boots, and her lucky charm: a silver letter A on a chain, which her parents had gotten her for Christmas the year before.

Returning to the kitchen, she helped herself to a chocolate-chip waffle, heaped a pile of strawberries on it, and covered the whole concoction with whipped cream. She was about to fold the waffle in half to eat as a sandwich at the bus stop when her mother said, “Whoa, chica, slow down. I’ll drive you to school. Sit down and eat like a sane person.”

Relieved, Alicia took a seat at the dining table with her parents.

“You look very nice, Lici,” her father commented, a twinkle in his eyes. He was the city’s deputy mayor; he’d left a thriving law practice for public service. Alicia knew that it was from her father that she had gotten her gift for gab and the desire to help people, or as Gaz jokingly called it, her buttinsky gene.

Alicia’s mom was a judge, and she had the take-charge mentality that was needed in order to preside over the largest district court in Miami. Alicia wasn’t sure if she’d inherited her mother’s gift for organization or if it had just been drilled into her since the age of six, but having to buy her own school supplies and submit to weekly inspections of her pencil box, her backpack, and her lunch box, she, like her brother, Alex, had learned how to make lists and budgets, and to maintain their personal belongings with neatness and precision.

It was certainly from her mother that Alicia had inherited her love of style. Every year, over the Christmas holiday, she and her mom picked a night to stay up late and watch their favorite movie, Celestial Clockwork. And in the scene where Ariel D. sings “La ropa, la ropa, la ropa” (clothes, clothes, clothes), they always got up to sing along. A few years back, Miami magazine had even named her mother on its list of best-dressed Floridians, praising her for wearing suits made by up-and-coming local South Beach designers.

Alicia’s parents had met at Harvard Law School, and the question of whether she would follow in their footsteps was always in the air. Her parents never pushed, they merely suggested. But for an overachiever like Alicia, the difference between a push and a suggestion was not always so easily discerned. Alicia’s brother had cleverly sidestepped the issue by getting into a superprestigious engineering program at McGill University in Montreal, which her parents proudly told friends was the Harvard of the North.

“So, remind me of the schools that you’re meeting with today,” her father asked, helping himself to another slice of banana bread.

“Columbia, Brown, Penn, Yale, and Harvard,” Alicia replied.

“Hmmm, Harvard. I think I’ve heard of that school.”

Alicia smiled. Dad humor—never subtle, always cheery. She wondered if it were part of the deal before a dad could bring his child home from the hospital: if he had to promise never to tell a joke that was actually funny.

Her mother, as usual, was much more businesslike. “Do we know the name of the Harvard rep who’s visiting the school today?”

Alicia shook her head.

Her father smiled. “Gosh, I hope it’s not my freshman-year roommate, David Lawrence. I still owe that guy five dollars.”

Alicia grinned at her father. “Don’t quit your day job, Dad. Stand-up’s not your thing. On an entirely different subject, we’ve figured out who our mystery quince is.”

Her parents exchanged glances, which Alicia took to mean that they wanted to talk college, not quinces.

“Come on, you guys. Guess,” she pleaded.

“Is she famous?” her mother asked.

“Does she go to your school?” her father wondered.

“Oh, you’re both hopeless,” Alicia said. “It’s Carmela Ortega.”

Her parents looked at each other blankly.

“Daughter of Yesenia Ortega, the US ambassador to Mexico,” Alicia said, beaming. “Pretty impressive, don’t you think?”

“Wow, that is impressive,” her father said. “And do your friends agree?”

Alicia nodded, “Absolutely. It all fits. She turns fifteen on December seventeenth, two days after the requested party day. She’s originally from Miami. And she has to keep any event a secret—it’s a matter of national security. This quince is going to be swarming with Secret Service men—and women. There’re Secret Service women, too.”

Her dad let out a little laugh.

“What?” Alicia asked.

“Secret Service women?” he said. “That’s funny. I mean, in my day, we said women could do anything, but nobody really believed it. We just said it so they wouldn’t whomp us over the heads with their pocketbooks.”

Alicia looked at her mother. “Tell me he’s kidding, right?”

Marisol stood up. “Of course he’s kidding. Now, let me drive you to school before we’re both late.”

“Next thing you know, you’re going to tell me women can play pro basketball and run for president.” Her father winked at Alicia.

“I love you, Dad,” she said, kissing him on the forehead.

Her father hugged her. “You know we’re proud, regardless of where you go to school.” Then he took five dollars out of his wallet. “But just in case, take this, in case you happen to run into that Lawrence guy from Harvard.”