ALICIA CRUZ, one of the founding members of Amigas Incorporated, giggled nervously as she boarded a boat moored to one of the more exclusive docks in Miami. Following close behind were her two best friends, Carmen Ramirez-Ruben and Jamie Sosa. They quickly mimicked her unusually high-pitched laugh. Shooting them a disapproving look, Alicia tried to regain her composure. After all, this wasn’t just an ordinary hanging-out-with-her-friends kind of Saturday; they had a business to run.

The previous summer, Alicia, Carmen, Jamie, and Alicia’s boyfriend, Gaz, had started a business planning quinceañeras, or Sweet Fifteen parties. And even though the friends were only teenagers themselves, they’d quickly become the hottest game in town.

They knew how to make a celebration that was modern but respectful of tradition; innovative; and, most importantly, not corny. A quince was like a wedding, debutante ball, and graduation all rolled into one, and Amigas Inc. had perfected the art of making their quinces rock. Still, no matter how many they planned, there were bound to be surprises. And certainly, when they had woken up that morning, none of them had imagined that they’d be taking a private ferry to the Mortimer family estate.

Growing up in Miami pretty much provided assurance that by the time you reached high school you’d have been on or around every type of boat, pontoon, and Jet Ski there was. What made the Mortimers’ boat, the Santa Maria (the name was scrawled across the side), different was that literally everything on it smelled of money, from the polished oak floors to the shiny brass flagpole to the gold-stitched, monogrammed life jackets. Coral Gables had its share of rich kids, including Alicia Cruz. But Binky Mortimer and her golf-champ brother, Dash, were on a whole other level. And everything about the family ferry, which in any other part of the world would have been called a yacht, confirmed the fact that this was not the kind of wealth you encountered every day. Nor, Alicia suspected, was their destination the kind you encountered every day.

Miami was surrounded by dozens of small islands. The most famous of these was Fisher Island where Oprah Winfrey had a house. But even Oprah lived on an island with other people. The Mortimers, as far as the girls knew, were the only family in Miami to live on their own island.

Considering all that (from living in Miami and reading the daily gossip blogs), it was not a stretch to say that Alicia had been surprised—no, make that floored—when she received an e-mail from the Binky Mortimer early in the morning saying that she wanted to hire the Amigas for her quinceañera. It had read:

Yo-delay-lihoo. I’m having a quince, and it’s going to be hotter than the three-pepper special at Taco Bell. I hear Amigas Inc. is the only gig in town that can pull this throwdown off. So, as Donald Trump would say, “You’re hired.” Come to my island at 3 p.m. for a meeting. XO, XO, Binky.

Alicia knew that saying no was out of the question. She had quickly told the rest of the group and asked if they were up for a meeting after school. Their reactions had varied. Carmen had flipped at the idea. Jamie had rolled her eyes and said something about “another snobby sitch in the making.” And Gaz? Well, he had just asked, “Who?” Apparently, he did not read the Miami social pages, and perhaps, Alicia had joked, he lived under a rock.

Now, standing on the deck of the Mortimers’ private ferry, the conversation returned to the most popular topic since they had agreed to meet Binky. Alicia and her girls were of decidedly different minds about whether a non-Latin girl could or should have a quince. Carmen, who’d just thrown a “Hola, Shalom!” quince that celebrated her Latin heritage and Jewish religion, was all for it.

“Being Latin is all about being inclusive,” Carmen said. “Our people represent practically every skin color and dozens of nationalities. We’re a global culture.”

Carmen was nearly six feet tall and had flawless café con leche–colored skin. Her dark hair fell in waves down her shoulders. She looked like a model, but designing clothes was her passion. She was dressed for the Mortimer meeting in a Carmen original, a hot pink one-shouldered blouse with a pair of wide-legged khaki pants.

Alicia nodded in agreement. But her mind was more on the money than on the culture. “Do you know how much money we could make planning a Mortimer party? Money is no object for Binky Mortimer, people. This will take Amigas Incorporated to the next level.”

Her eyes sparkled as the headlines and gossip-blog postings flashed through her mind. Alicia’s drive for success was hereditary. She was the daughter of Marisol and Enrique Cruz, who made up one of Miami’s power couples. Her mom was a judge, and her dad was the deputy mayor. Alicia had an engaging smile, cascading mahogany curls, and a flair for vintage style, aided by the fact that her mom had one of those huge walk-in closets like Carrie Bradshaw’s in Sex and the City. Today she was dressed in an original DVF leopard-print wrap dress and a pair of Forever 21 pumps. Her goal? To look like the head chica in charge.

Though Carmen and Alicia had been pals since elementary school, Jamie had only joined the posse in junior high. Her skin was naturally bronze, with a tan that was the envy of South Beach, and she had dark, stick-straight hair. Jamie had the graceful build of a dancer and the “don’t-mess-with-me” attitude of a prizefighter. It was an unusual combination, but on Jamie, it worked. She was from the Bronx, and while her attempts to “keep it real” could sometimes be a real pain in the butt, Jamie, as Alicia and Carmen knew, succeeded at them. She was the third Musketeer. Without her, they would just have been your run-of-the-mill “besties.”

The sole male member of Amigas Inc. was Gaz (short for Gaspar) Colón. Gaz was a promising musician and an all-around great guy. Gaz’s father had died when he was young. To help supplement the modest income his mother made as a cleaning woman, Gaz worked part-time, after school and on weekends, as a salesman at the Gap. This added responsibility made the amount of time he could spend with Amigas Inc. somewhat limited. But he did what he could.

He and Alicia had met in the sixth grade, when Alicia had enlisted him to play in her newly formed ska band. The band was short-lived, but their friendship was not. After many years of being buddies, followed by a brief “flirtationship,” they finally admitted that their feelings had blossomed into something greater, more akin to love. Now they were officially together, and Alicia felt a familiar fluttery feeling as she thought about him. She just wished he could be there now, and not at the Gap, so that he could experience all of this with her and the rest of the group.

Suddenly a crew member in a crisp white shirt and black bow tie approached, cutting into Alicia’s thoughts and interrupting the quince-or-not-to-quince debate. In a faint British accent, he offered them “a refreshment,” and held up a silver tray with three sodas, three glasses of ice, a dish of lemon wedges, and a small silver bowl of bananas.

“Wow, thanks,” Alicia said, taking the glass that was handed to her and resisting the urge to call the man Jeeves.

“This is nuts,” Carmen whispered. “It’s a fifteen-minute boat ride and they offer snacks.” Jamie either was unimpressed or didn’t care about the serious fabulosity of their boat ride. She had resumed her monologue outlining her issues with the idea of Binky’s quince. “You let white guys rap and you end up with more Vanilla Ices than Eminems. You let gringas have quinces and next thing you know, Miley Cyrus will be recording in Spanish and winning all the Latin Grammys. Unas cosas deben ser solo nuestras. Some things should be just for us.”

Alicia and Carmen stifled giggles. They had been hearing this nonstop since they’d made their decision to meet with the client. But they were now on the boat, and nothing could be done to avoid the meeting. “Let’s hold off on the judging till we actually meet Binky, ’kay, Jamie?” Alicia said, a teasing tone in her voice.

Jamie shrugged. “Fine, whatever. I’m just saying.”

“We know, we know. Just for us. Got it,” Carmen said, laughing.

The waves parted as the ferry slowed on its approach to the Mortimers’ home. The girls stopped debating for a moment to take in the turquoise blue waters, the lush green landscape of palm trees that shimmered before them, and . . . the two cute boys in kayaks who paddled past them.

“Hola, beautiful ladies!” one guy called out, causing the girls to blush. His T-shirt said university of miami. Even though Carmen and Alicia had boyfriends, they both smiled and waved.

“Which one of you lovely ladies is single?” the second boy in the kayak called out. He had curly blond hair and he, too, was wearing a U. of Miami T-shirt.

“She is!” Alicia and Carmen called out in unison, pointing to Jamie and cracking up.

“What’s your phone number, single girl?” the boy called out. “I’ve got a photographic memory.”

“It doesn’t take a photographic memory to memorize a seven-digit number,” Jamie called back. “You’re not smart enough to date me.”

The boy looked wounded and mimed being shot in the heart. His friend said something they couldn’t hear, and then the boys paddled away.

“He was cute,” Carmen said, as the girls flopped down on the comfortable seats that lined the deck. “You should have given him your number. . . .”

To be continued . . .