THE NEXT Sunday, all of Amigas Inc.—including Gaz—met at Carmen’s house for dinner. Abuela Ruben had arrived and was making a pre-quinceañera feast.

“Where is everybody going to sit, niña?” Alicia whispered. “Your family alone is eight, nine with Abuela Ruben, eleven with your dad and his wife. You’ve got room for all of us?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Carmen said. “My mom always says, once you’re feeding eight, you’re dealing in high-volume cooking, so the more the merrier. We’re just going to lay out blankets and eat, picnic style, on the front lawn. By the way, Gaz is out front. I think you should go check on him.”

Alicia rolled her eyes. But, it was her friend’s house, so she headed outside.

“I really need to talk to you, Lici,” Gaz said when he saw her.

Alicia looked unconvinced. “Can we do this another time?”

But Gaz took hold of her hands and gestured for her to sit down.

“Hear me out,” he said.

“Fine. I’m listening,” Alicia growled.

“High school romances are like milk,” Gaz began.

“I know Carmen’s studying Hebrew,” Alicia said, “but that’s no excuse for you to start talking in tongues.”

“I mean, high school romances are like milk because they have very short expiration dates.”

“Says who?”

“Says anybody with half a brain,” Gaz replied, in a serious tone. “Couples break up. They go to different colleges, they break up. They go to the same college, become different people, and break up.”

“So, what’s your point, Gaz?” Alicia asked. He was clearly making an effort to express himself, but still, she was confused about what he was trying to say.

“We’ve got to stay in the friendship zone until we’re old enough not to break up,” Gaz asserted.

Alicia was incredulous. “And when would that be?”

“I figure when we’re about twenty-five,” he said. His voice sounded like the voice of a hopeful little boy.

“Gaz!” Alicia squealed. “That’s, like, ten years from now.”

“I can wait,” Gaz said.

“But it doesn’t even make sense,” Alicia said. “Twenty-five-year-olds break up too.” She could feel herself fighting back tears.

“I just want to protect us,” Gaz said. “I want to make this last.”

Alicia sighed. For as long as she could remember, she and Carmen had been in the habit of renting DVDs and dreaming about the day when a boy would look at them like this, say things like this. Now that it was happening, she wished some big-time director would yell, “Cut!,” so she could catch her breath and figure out the perfect thing to say and do.

“Gaz, there’s nothing to protect if you hold me at arm’s length,” Alicia said. “I think if we both want it, we can make it last. But how can we if we don’t hang out and you won’t even kiss me?”

Gaz smiled playfully. “You still want me to kiss you?”

She nodded.

“If I kiss you, there’s no going back to a flirtationship you know,” Gaz said, leaning closer. “We could get hurt. Or break up . . .”

Alicia didn’t trust herself to speak.

And then he wasn’t talking anymore. He was kissing her. And it wasn’t the short peck he’d given her before their “flirtationship” began. It was a serious, heavy-duty kiss that made it clear that they had just become much, much more than friends who flirted.

When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see that her dream had sort of come true—just not in the way she imagined—Sharon and her camera crew had filmed the whole thing.

“Wait a second!” Alicia cried, reaching out to cover the camera lens with her hand.

“You’re not supposed to be taping this!” Gaz cried, offended.

“You signed the press release,” Sharon Kim said with a cheery, TV-anchorwoman smile. Then she turned to the camera and said, “The Catholic church has already denounced quinceañeras for being hotbeds of teenage passion.”

“This has nothing to do with Carmen’s quince!” Alicia cried, gesturing wildly behind Sharon.

“Forget it,” Gaz said, reaching out for her hand. “They’re going to show what they want to. We know what’s real and what’s created just for TV.”

•  •  •

When Gaz and Alicia walked into the kitchen at Carmen’s, the smells alone were nearly enough to fill them up.

“Oh, my,” said Gaz. “What is going on in here?”

Abuela Ruben, all five feet of her, presided over the six-burner stove like a queen with a wooden spoon. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. The silk blouse she wore underneath her apron did not have a single wrinkle or stain. Her pencil skirt was conservative, but fashionable.

“Hello, Gaz; hello Alicia,” she said in greeting. “Dame besitos.”

Alicia and Gaz complied. Gaz put his arm around the older woman and asked, in Spanish, “What are you cooking that smells so amazing?”

Carmen’s grandmother smiled. Older people always did when Gaz broke out his flawless Spanish. He was the only one of the group who was completamente fluent. And he used it to his advantage whenever he could, especially if food was involved.

“I’m just making a few little things,” Abuela Ruben said modestly. “Chorizo Argentino and salchicha parrillera, grilled chicken, grilled steak, papas fritas—what you call french fries—with garlic and parsley, grilled corn on the cob, zucchini, fennel, and asparagus. It’s a picnic, you know. So I’m keeping it simple.”

Carmen hooked arms with Alicia and said, “The crazy thing is that she honestly thinks that’s a simple meal. Come outside with me for a few.”

The two girls walked into the herb garden and sat down on the two little wrought-iron chairs that stayed outside almost all year-round. They were painted white, with heart-shaped ironwork at the back. Carmen loved the chairs almost as much as she loved all the fresh smells—parsley, basil, radishes—in the garden.

“So, you and Gaz are good?” Carmen asked.

“Better than good,” Alicia said, nodding. “Excellent.”

“Yeah!” Carmen squealed. “I knew it would all work out, and when I saw your smile when the two of you walked in . . .” Her face grew serious. “But that’s not why I dragged you out here. I asked Domingo about Raymunda. He’s never heard of her. But he’s got a cousin who works in the school office who’s going to try to pull her records.”

“Sneaky,” Alicia said. “I like it.”

“Carmen, your camera crew wants to come inside,” Abuela Ruben called out in the singsong voice of someone who knew she was being recorded for television.

“I’m so sick of all this taping,” Alicia said. “They snuck up on me and Gaz—midkiss!”

“Keep your eyes on the prize, darling. With cash money, we all get to go to New York with Jamie for Freestyle,” Carmen said diplomatically as they walked back into the small house.

Sharon swooped in, blowing air-kisses at the girls. “Look, honey buns, we’ve already taped B-roll of Carmen’s grandma doing the tango. It’s sweet; it’s going to edit into the piece nicely. Now all that’s left is for you to really bring it at the ceremonies. That will be the moment of truth that will decide which team will be the winner. Thank you very much, to all of you. We’re out of here.”

Sharon sailed out of the room.

“What do you think? Do we even have a chance?” Carmen asked when she was gone.

“Well,” Alicia said, “it’s like what Barack Obama said in New Hampshire: ‘while we breathe, we hope.’”

At the picnic dinner, Carmen and her novio, Domingo, shared a blanket with Alicia, Gaz, and Abuela Ruben. Jamie begged off dinner because she was on a roll spray-painting the gift bags, and wanted to get home.

As they balanced plates on their laps, Carmen said, “I really hope you like the way that I’m incorporating Jewish elements into my quinceañera, mi abuela. I never want you to be disappointed in me.”

Abuela Ruben reached over and put a hand on her granddaughter’s knee. “Was I disappointed that you didn’t have a bat mitzvah? Yes,” she said. “But that was in the past. I’m an old woman. I don’t have time to hold grudges. I just thank God that He gave me the long life to dance at my granddaughter’s quinceañera. You will have Latin music there?”

“Yes,” Carmen answered. “Gaz’s band is wonderful.”

Abuela Ruben looked Gaz over with a haughty, slightly disparaging air. “And what kind of wonderful music do you play, young man?”

Gaz, who could hold his own with anyone, even a “snooty” abuela, said proudly, “Reggaeton, salsa, cumbia, merengue.”

“What about tango?” Abuela Ruben asked. “Somos argentinos.”

“We’re working up some tango tunes, too,” Gaz said. “Don’t you worry.”

Abuela Ruben laughed. “Me, worry? Worry about yourself when I get you on the dance floor.”

She got up and began to teach him how to do the tango. Sitting on the blanket, Alicia grinned broadly. This night was turning out to be pretty darned perfect.

•  •  •

The next day after school, Carmen visited her dad, who was filming a scene from his latest telenovela, when she saw Simone and her flunky, Ellen, who was wearing white makeup like a geisha’s and a traditional Japanese outfit.

“Why is Ellen dressed up?” Carmen asked, moving closer to investigate.

Simone looked surprised to see Carmen. She tried to affect a calm look. “This isn’t Ellen, it’s Raymunda Itoi.”

Carmen couldn’t believe it! No wonder Domingo had never heard of a girl named Raymunda at Hialeah High. She didn’t exist! Simone must have hired someone to play her (who then canceled), and now, somehow, Ellen was supposed to take over. Curious about how Simone was going to try to pull this stunt off, Carmen decided to play along.

“You remember me telling you about Raymunda,” Simone continued. “She’s Brazilian Japanese. From Hialeah.”

“So nice to meet you,” Carmen said.

Ellen just bowed. As. If. She. Were. A. Genuine. Geisha.

It was all Carmen could do to keep herself from screaming, You’ve got to be kidding me! She knew that Simone had guts, if not a whole lot of morals. She just hadn’t known until now just how much in the way of guts and morals she really had.

“Since Raymunda’s theme is Memoirs of a Quince, we’re transforming the Biscayne Bay ballroom of my father’s hotel into the red-light district of old Japan,” Simone went on.

“That’s pretty cool,” Carmen told Simone insincerely. Then she turned to Ellen/Raymunda. “I gotta run. But it was nice meeting you, Raymunda. Have a great quince.”

The minute she had gotten a safe distance down the hallway, Carmen texted the group: S.O.S. Everyone meet at the Whip ’N’ Dip. ASAP.

Over bowls of fro yo, Carmen told Alicia, Gaz, and Jamie all about how Simone was putting together a fake quinceañera for a nonexistent girl.

“What do we do?” she asked when she had finished. “If we rat her out, she’ll be disqualified and we won’t win fair. If we don’t, she could win. And Jamie won’t get to show her sneakers at the Freestyle show in New York.”

“This sucks,” Alicia groaned. “I hate to be the one to say it, but Simone’s got to be put in her place.”

Jamie nodded. “Call the producer. We can’t risk our New York trip on this crap.”

Gaz shook his head. “No, let’s not stoop to her level. Let’s give Simone a chance to come clean. It’s better if she confesses what she’s done.”

Reluctantly, everyone agreed. But one thing was certain: if Simone refused to speak up, they’d speak up for her.

After school the next day, Carmen and Alicia waited for Simone by her locker.

“What do you want?” Simone asked, walking up. She was very good at giving attitude, but Alicia could tell that her voice held just the faintest tremor of fear.

“Look, we know that Raymunda is really Ellen,” Alicia said. “And we want to give you the chance to drop out of the competition before you get caught.”

“Or what?” Simone asked, haughtily.

“Or we’ll tell Sharon and Mary the truth,” Carmen said.

Simone reached into her bag and took out a big manila envelope of receipts: for caterers, DJs, fabric stores, dry cleaners, party-supply shops. They were all receipts signed and paid by Amigas Inc. She waved them in the air.

“What’s this?” Carmen asked, trying to grab the papers out of Simone’s hand.

“Seems to me you spent well over the thousand-dollar limit, chica,” Simone said.

Carmen was floored. “But these are all receipts from other quinces we planned.”

“Not after I was done with my Wite-Out pen and my father’s photocopier,” Simone said. “One look at these and Sharon will have you disqualified from Project Quince.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Carmen asked, hardly able to believe that Simone would really resort to blackmail.

“Don’t start none, won’t be none,” Simone chortled, a big, fat, smug smirk on her face.