Chapter 2
Lying on my white, shabby chic four-poster bed, I grabbed the buzzing cell phone beside me and glanced at the screen. “Madison,” it read. Not that I was surprised, she called at least twice a day.
“Hey,” I said, as I flipped the phone to my ear.
“What up, girrl?” she asked, in a hardcore rap voice.
Madison Fox was platinum blonde with ice-blue eyes and about as white and Protestant as they come. Her only exposure to rap was the runway show for Sean John.
I rolled my eyes and giggled.
“Well,” I answered, “Vince and my father had another blowout. He’s still harping about this whole Europe thing.”
I lifted my hand to eye level and inspected the fuchsia polish on my nails. It was already chipping.
“Whatever, it sucks he can’t go. But it’s not the end of the world.There’s gonna be plenty to do here this summer, like my party.”
“Sure, you wanna come over and explain that to Vince? ’Cause, seriously, I’m about ready to shove him in a suitcase and ship him off to Europe myself,” I stated as I flopped onto the throw pillows covering my bed.
“So Gayle called again today,” Madison said, revolving the conversation back to her party once again. “Can you believe she can’t find a single baker who will make a six-tier cake in the shape of Louis Vuitton purses? They’re all worried about some copyright crap. Like, whatever.”
Madison’s Sweet Sixteen was only a few weeks away. For the past six months she’d done nothing but obsess over details with Gayle, an event planner to the stars (or at least to the Philadelphia elite). Madison would be the first in our entire grade to turn sixteen, so she felt it her obligation to kick the monumental year off with a bang worthy of the cover of Philadelphia magazine. Her parents had reserved the ballroom at the Rittenhouse Hotel, a posh hotel in Center City so glamorous and expensive it would make any bride choke with envy. She even bought a silver Vera Wang gown with matching Manolo Blahniks to catch the glint in the room’s chandeliers.
“Well, Mad, maybe the cake can just be purses. Do they have to have the LV logo?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s the whole point. What, do I want a bunch of knockoffs at my party?”
“It’s a cake!”
“So? My parents are paying this woman a truckload! She should be able to find a baker who will do what I want. Heck, can’t she just call Louis Vuitton’s people and get permission?”
“I’m sure it’s not that easy.” I sighed.
“Anyway,” Madison said, “I can’t wait for my party to get here. It’s the only thing happening this summer. We’re gonna have, like, nothing to do afterward.”
“Well, sort of. I was actually thinking of getting a job. Maybe as a camp counselor at the elementary school,” I stated, as I stared at the skylight on my ceiling.
“Oh, my God! You’re getting a job? Why? You’re fifteen!”
“So? Most of the counselors are fifteen.”
“Yeah, and they’re losers.”
“Madison, my dad’s always up my brother’s butt because he’s such a mooch. At least if I have my own money I can prevent ever having the same arguments they’re having right now.”
“So, what? You’re gonna save your money so when you graduate from high school you can pay your own way through a drunken European vacation?”
“I don’t know, maybe. But at least I’ll have the option. And my own bank account.”
“You’re such a freak.”
“Am not! Anyway, I gotta go. My mom’ll be home soon.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll see you in Spanish class tomorrow, señorita!” Madison teased.
“Whatever, chica. Only two weeks of school left!”
“You know it!”
I hung up my cell phone, rolled off the bed and walked toward my bedroom door, which held a full-length mirror. I thought once I got into high school, I’d be different. But my reflection still had the same pasty skin, wavy red hair and geeky freckles that I always had. I pressed on my nonexistent chest. I was barely a B-cup (I had too much pride to ever buy an A cup), but at least I could finally see a hint of cleavage through the top of my scoop neck tee—meaning I could see it if I squished my boobs together with my triceps as hard as I could. My legs still looked too long for my body, which while an asset in ballet class, were not really an asset amongst my peers. Even my best friends made fun of the giraffe legs that consumed my entire appearance and forced me to avoid skirts of any kind.
Truthfully, I didn’t look like a single member of my entire family. My mom is stereotypical Polish—round face, blond curls, pale eyes, full figure. My dad and brother could practically pass for twins—another fact my brother refused to admit— with dark, almost black, hair, light skin and a five-o’clock shadow that grew two hours after they shaved (my brother had a mustache before most boys his age could tie their shoes). If it weren’t for our shared brown eyes, we wouldn’t have a single physical feature in common.
But at least Vince’s appearance hinted at the ethnicity that fit with the name “Ruíz.” I, on the other hand, was often mistaken for being Irish, which really didn’t bother me. Because usually when people find out I’m a “Puerto Rican Polack” they either laugh or don’t believe me. Personally, I preferred disbelief, mostly because I also doubted I was a genetic member of this family. Seriously, sometimes I felt this close to ordering a blood test.