Chapter 26
The tent was hot. Scorching, one-hundred-degree, can’t-stop-the-sweat-from-rolling-down-my-face hot. About a half dozen tall metal fans were blowing at maximum speed, but the air was too humid to cool off. Every inch of the massive tent was filled with tan bodies glistening in perspiration.
A large brass band rocked on stage, blaring its beats under flashing, colorful lights. Couples filled the floor in front of them, their hair saturated and their hips swaying to the pounding rhythms. The whole place smelled like summer: sweat mixed with coconut mixed with perfume mixed with adrenaline. I seemed to be the only female who missed the memo about the proper way to deal with the heat. The other women wore sleeveless gowns that fell no longer than their knees, and each had her hair pulled elegantly off her sticky neck.
In comparison, I looked like I was about to run errands. I’d worn the dress a thousand times back home, to church and to dinners. But the sleeveless navy frock with a hemline that brushed my ankles looked like a parka in comparison to the other partygoers. I was the only woman not in high heels, and my auburn locks were falling limp around my face. I had added a hint of mascara and pink lip gloss before entering the reception, thinking it was an “evening look,” but clearly I was out of my league. I made the mistake of assuming the “bridesmaids,” or members of the court were the fashion victims in neon fabrics, only I was wrong. I wasn’t in Spring Mills anymore. Our urban fashion rules didn’t apply.
Dozens of tan, exotic teens and twentysomethings, presumably Lilly’s friends and relatives, crowded the tent’s bar. I grabbed Vince’s arm.
“Is it just me or do I look like a nun compared to the women here?”
“You didn’t notice that at the church?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“No! Did you?”
He shrugged.
“Eh, don’t feel bad. I’m the only guy here without a skintight shirt and revealing chest hair.”
We both laughed.
“Wanna get a drink?” he asked.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“So?”
He pulled me toward the bar and past a line of watchful teenagers.
“¡Ay, Americana!” yelled a guy in a hot-pink button-down and hip-hugging pants.
“¡Ay, guapa!” called another.
“¡Americana! ¡Que bonita!”
“Hey, we’re half Puerto Rican. How do all these people know we’re not from the island?” I whispered to Vince. Apparently, we had our nationality stapled to our chests.
My brother laughed in a way that made me think he wasn’t laughing with me. And if I’d felt like a plain Jane misfit a few moments ago, now I was a glowing green alien from the planet Neptune.
“Vince, I don’t think I belong here.”
“It’s your cousin’s party, of course you do.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I mean,” I responded, as I watched a guy look me up and down and swipe his hand through his greasy black hair. “I think these guys are looking at me like I’m a turkey dinner.”
“That’s because you’re a tourist. They assume you’re easy.”
“What?” I yelped, my eyes wide.
“Mariana, all tourists are easy. Everyone knows that. They’re on vacation looking for a fling, a great story to tell . . .”
“So is that why you hang out on South Street?”
“Well, it’s not for the cheesesteaks.” He chuckled.
We slowly made our way to the bar. About two dozen bottles of Bacardi and Barrelito were stacked in plastic milk crates along with trash cans full of iced beer.
“What do you want?” Vince asked me.
“Nothing, water maybe.”
“Mariana!”
“I don’t like beer.”
Actually, I never understood what was so appealing about the beverage. The few times I’d tried it, I thought it tasted like dishwater. My brother told me I’d get used to the aftertaste, but I didn’t spend that much time trying to enjoy food items that were actually good for me, so I didn’t see why I should do it for beer.
“Mariana, we’re in the rum capital of the world. Try something new.”
“Fine, un Coca-Cola, por favor,” I told the bartender. “No rum.”
The man looked at me cross-eyed, then handed me the can and an empty glass.
“You suck,” Vince muttered.
Just then, the band cut the music and the conductor made a booming announcement into the microphone. The entire crowd turned toward the tent’s entrance as the curtains draped back. The band swung into a jazzy Latin beat as Lilly’s court strutted in to the music. The couples danced and shimmied as they entered, with the final girl walking in alone.
The band swiftly changed tunes and in walked Lilly, her hair pulled up in a loose, high ponytail and her tight pink dress clinging to her curves. She was arm-in-arm with the dimpled-face stranger from the church—her escort, Alex. I followed his tall frame as he led Lilly onto the floor and presented her to her father who was clutching a pair of high-heeled shoes. Her mother brought out a folding chair and Lilly gracefully sat down. Juan lifted her ballet flats from her feet and replaced them with the white strappy sandals. They were meant to be her first pair of high heels (yeah, right) and a symbol of her emergence into womanhood. (I wasn’t sure why choosing to wear painful shoes meant she was grown up, but it was touching nonetheless.)
She took her father’s hand as the band slowed to a waltz. In a frame that would have made a ballroom dance instructor proud, Lilly and her father floated to the music. Her mother’s eyes teared and my Uncle Miguel tightly gripped my aunt’s hand.
“What is this, a wedding?” Vince huffed.
“Shut up,Vince.”
“It’s a ‘father-daughter dance!’ ” he snipped.
“So?”
“So, don’t you think that’s a bit much for a birthday party?”
“No. I think it’s nice, actually. It’s better than a bunch of shallow bling.”
“Huh,” he puffed. “Seems like someone’s been out of Spring Mills too long.”
Vince and I plopped down at a table alongside Alonzo and José.
“Las flores son bonitas,” I said to José, commenting on the beauty of his centerpieces.
The yellow and white flowers looked rather striking against the pink tablecloths, though I knew Alonzo hadn’t felt that way. My cousin looked at his friend and smiled.
“Sí, son bonitas,” Alonzo agreed.
Just then, the waltz drew to a close and Juan dipped his daughter to a clatter of applause. For a girl who was anti this entire party, she certainly basked in the spotlight. All eyes were on her, especially those of her male friends. Lilly took a gracious bow and then the band ripped into a lively Latin beat. The dance floor immediately filled with dozens of twirling pairs who looked like they’d spent years on the professional ballroom circuit.
“Wow,” I mumbled.
“Seriously.” Vince paused before nodding to a group of Lilly’s girlfriends who were swiveling their hips liberally with their partners. “And the chicks are hot.”
“Is that all you think about?”
“Yes.Yes, it is.”
“You realize most of ’em are jail bait.”
“Whatever.”
The crowd suddenly parted and Lilly cut through it, her eyes sparkling as she strolled a path through the guests.
“So you guys want to dance?” Lilly asked, grabbing both our hands and bouncing with energy.
“Um, not just yet,” I stated, swallowing hard.
“Oh, come on Mariana!” Lilly cried. “You’re the one with the technical dance training.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s applicable here.”
I blinked at the swirling people in front of me.
“Oh, loosen up. I wanna introduce you to my friends,” she said, heading into the thick of the crowd.
“In a minute. I’m just gonna hang here for a bit and finish my drink.”
“By yourself?” Vince asked; clearly he was planning to follow Lilly.
“Yeah, it’s cool.You guys go. I’ll be here.”
“Okay, but don’t get too comfortable. We’re gonna come back and get you,” Lilly insisted.
I nodded, and she and Vince disappeared into the horde of Latino strangers.
Everyone looked so effortless in their movements. Even the way they walked was in time with the music. Just how they rested against the bar looked sultry. Their voices were breathy, their skin gleamed rather than sweated. And here I was: I didn’t drink, I couldn’t salsa, and I wasn’t the slightest bit sexy. To be surrounded by a bunch of people who shared my Puerto Rican blood, I felt very out of place, very American.