ON THE morning of Carmen’s quinceañera, the Project Quince television crew arrived early at her house at 117 Millington Lane. They planned to capture Carmen’s every move. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize until 7:30 a.m., when the entire household woke up, how chaotic it would be to try to film a show in a small four-bedroom house with eight residents and twelve visiting guests, including a saucy grandmother from Argentina who let them know in no uncertain terms, “If you even point that camera in my direction when I have no makeup on and I am not dressed, voy a matarte!”

The twins, when not running between the crew’s legs, made faces at the camera and jumped in Carmen’s lap nonstop. Her brother, Tino, who was never far from his soccer ball, flubbed a pass that almost shattered an expensive light the crew had set up in the kitchen. Carmen’s uncle Rogelio, who was slightly suspicious, refused to sign the press release until his lawyer had reviewed it—which he informed Sharon and her crew would take between forty-eight and seventy-two hours. At the same time, he would not vacate the kitchen, where Carmen’s entire extended family was having breakfast, so the camera crew had to shoot around him, which was no easy feat, as he was six feet four and well over two hundred pounds.

“You know what?” Sharon Kim said to Carmen after about forty minutes. “We’ve got everything we need now. We’ll see you at four, when the party starts!”

“Sounds good. And the deal is, you only stay at the party for the first hour,” Carmen reminded Sharon. “I want everyone to be able to relax and have a good time, not feel self-conscious because the cameras are on them.”

“That’s what we agreed to,” Sharon said. “We’ll keep up our end of the deal.”

Carmen was relieved to hear it, because she was still putting the finishing touches on her dress. She locked herself in her room, while the familia enjoyed a long brunch and the amigas set up the tent. She finished sewing at one. Her makeup was on by two. She was ready to go by three.

She kept poking her head out to look at the tent where Gaz was arranging palm trees, Jamie was still tagging gift bags, and Alicia was walking around with her clipboard, looking stressed.

“Let me help,” said Carmen, coming outside in a robe. She knew better than to put her dress on until the last possible second.

“Go back inside,” Alicia insisted. “You’re the quince today, not the hired help.”

So Carmen went inside, where her mother had assembled a slide show of photos dating from the time Carmen was a baby until the present. Carmen groaned and went back out to the tent.

“Don’t make me go in there,” she begged. “My mom is showing the most embarrassing baby pictures.”

“Well, you don’t have to go back inside, but you can’t stay here,” said Alicia, who was now helping Michelle set up the food stations, including a table for the cake.

“Why don’t you go for a boat ride?” Alicia suggested.

“Mind if I go with you?” someone said.

Carmen spun around. Domingo was there, and early. She wanted to pinch herself. He looked unbelievably hot in his tux.

“You’re not supposed to see me until the quince starts!” she said, giggling nervously.

“I think that only applies to weddings,” Domingo said sweetly. “Let’s go for a boat ride.”

“In my robe?”

“I think that’s best,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with boats. I’d hate to have you fall in in your quince dress on my watch.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nudging ahead of him. “It took over two hours to hook up my hair and makeup. I’ll row.”

“No problem,” Domingo said.

At 3:45, Sharon Kim and her crew returned and began to film the guests as they arrived. It was a beautiful day—and scene, with the canal on one side and all of the houses on the left. At four o’clock, Alicia, who had changed into a simple red tank dress and a pair of Jamie’s custom-made yellow and green sneakers, began to let guests into the tent.

There were audible oohs and aahs, as the guests walked around and read the words that Jamie had emblazoned, graffiti style, on the walls of the tent:

The potted palm trees that lined the perimeter of the tent, along with the high-topped bar tables covered in simple white linen, provided an elegant counterpoint to the words of graffiti:

There were seventy-five guests in total, and the tent felt full, but not crowded. Capacity control was a huge thing with quinceañeras because both friends and family members tended to invite their friends to crash. It was always, “Yeah, come to my friend’s/niece’s/cousin’s quince. There’ll be free food, cute girls/guys. It’ll be fun.”

“Nobody ever thinks about how much planning goes into a quince,” Alicia muttered, “or how the head count, even with a buffet, is a very serious thing.”

Gaz popped out of the tent. “Talking to yourself, chica?” He came over and kissed her on the cheek, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Alicia was surprised at how much she liked it.

“Just going over all the details,” she said.

“Well, stop worrying, and come to the backstage of the runway. Carmen’s ready for you to do your part,” Gaz said.

The quinceañera was to begin with a fashion show. But first, Carmen wanted to speak. The guests watched in admiration as she sashayed down the runway, which placed her smack-dab in the middle of the tent. She was resplendent in her red, green, and gold dress, and in a nod to her Mexican-Argentinean heritage, her hair was braided Oaxacan style, with gold, red, and green ribbons carefully stranded through. Her lips were ruby red, and her smile was as wide as the canal that faced the house. She held a stack of index cards in her hands, and those who looked closely could see that her hands were trembling even though her voice was strong.

“As most of you know, typically, quinces begin in a church,” she said, reading from the cards into a microphone she held in her other hand. “There are traditional steps that you all know, so I won’t go into detail. But I wanted a quinceañera that honored both my Latin culture and my Jewish religion, so I created this as a place where all of my roots could live. Bienvenidos a mi Tropical Synagogue.

“I wanted to point out that I am not wearing either the flats of the pre-quince or the heels of a girl who’s gone through a church ceremony. I’m barefoot, with a rather cute pedicure, if I do say so myself, to symbolize my humility for the long roads my people—all of my people—have walked in this world and in this life.

“I wanted to tell you something about this dress. All of you who know me know that I have dreamed my whole life of being a fashion designer. My abuela Ruben taught me how to sew. When I was a little girl, I used to go down to Buenos Aires every summer, and she taught me a little more each time. First, how to hand-stitch without sticking myself, then how to use the machine, then how to make and cut patterns. I made all the dresses you’ll see on the runway tonight. But I couldn’t have done any of it if it hadn’t been for her.”

She paused to catch her breath and went on. “I have been studying Hebrew, and I want to read a poem by the contemporary Israeli poet Amir Or that symbolizes to me how you connect the past to the future.”

Carmen read a stanza in Hebrew. Then she read the English translation.

This poem will be a poem of another century, not different from this one.

This poem will be securely concealed under heaps of words, until, between the last sand grains of the hourglass, like a ship inside a bottle, it will be seen,  this poem.

She finished by saying, “There’s one more thing. In a traditional quince, there are damas and there are chambelanes, because the girl whose quince it is is supposed to be like a princess in a court. But I wanted to change it up today, and instead of presenting a court to you, I wanted to introduce you to, and say a formal thank-you to, my Latina-Jewish tribe. All the girls are wearing Viva Carmen, and I do custom orders! Thank you very much!”

She jumped offstage, Gaz cued the music, and the show began.

Abuela Ruben was the first to go. She wore a red dress and a brocaded gold jacket and did a dramatic tango down the runway with her new dancing partner, Gaz. When she got to the end of the runway, she stopped. In the wings, Carmen was puzzled. This wasn’t part of the plan. The music grew softer as Abuela Ruben spoke. “Everybody knows me as the Jewish grandmother from Buenos Aires. I’m very proud of my granddaughter, Carmen, today, on her quinceañera. In Judaism, we have a tradition called the bat mitzvah. But quinces and bat mitzvahs share a common theme. This is when we welcome our girls into womanhood.”

Abuela Ruben threw open her arms. “Carmen, where are you? Ven acá, niña.”

Carmen ran onstage and gave her abuela a huge hug. Gaz went back to the turntable, and Carmen and her grandmother held hands and did a tango move back down the runway.

Then Carmen and Domingo did a sexy salsa dance down the runway. When he reached the mike, the ultrasuave, ultrahandsome Domingo also surprised Carmen by saying, “Tonight is all about my girl, Carmen. She’s got brains, she’s got beauty, and she’s got that Jewish Argentinean swagger. Feliz cumpleaños, preciosa.” He twirled Carmen around, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

Sharon and the camera crew came running forward. “Do the twirl again!” Sharon shouted breathlessly. “We didn’t capture it on camera.”

“Sorry, guys,” Domingo said. “You’ve got to move like the paparazzi to catch a star on film.”

Then he and Carmen danced back down the runway.

Carmen was in for more sweet blessings. Next up were Carmen’s mom and stepdad. Sophia, dressed in a classic green shift with a rhinestone neckline, danced onto the runway with Christian to the tune of the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love.” Microphone in hand, she said, “This celebration is such a reflection of my daughter, Carmen. She is a person who doesn’t seek to define cultures, but lives it. Feliz cumpleaños!”

Javier and Natalia, who insisted on wearing her own hot pink Versace dress, came dancing out to the tune of Fergie’s “Glamorous.”

At the microphone, Javier said, “I produce telenovelas for a living, and that business is pure—”

“—Drama!” Natalia chimed in, throwing her arms up in the air in a diva pose.

“But this quince is above and beyond anything I could produce,” Javier said. “To my daughter—and to Amigas Incorporated!”

Una, wearing a green and gold military jacket with a gold lion of Judah on the back, a gold cami, and a puffy black miniskirt, sashayed out to the tune of Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.”

“Everybody knows that Carmen is my little sister,” she said, beginning her toast. “She follows in my foot-steps in everything. Lately, she’s been taking Jewish-studies classes, and I wanted to point to a certain lesson that is very important for all young women, especially a girl celebrating her quince. In the Jewish religion, women are believed to have a greater binah—meaning, ‘deeper intelligence, intuition, and understanding’ . . .”

The guys in the crowd began to call out playfully, “Boo!” and “No way.”

Una shrugged. “I didn’t write the Bible. Check it out: Genesis, chapter two, verse twenty-two. Women are built, not formed. I won’t go so far as to say we’re superior beings. But I will say that my sister Carmen has already shown great binah. Trust yourself, little sis, because you rock.”

Carmen stood in front of the runway, her face covered in tears. It had been wonderful to watch all of her family strutting their stuff on the runway, to hear them welcome her into adulthood. But her sister’s words sent her over the edge.

Domingo squeezed her hand. “You okay?” he whispered.

Carmen nodded. “I could use some air, though. Want to go for another ride?”

Domingo laughed, “What? In the middle of your quince?”

Carmen nodded. “We’ll come right back.”

They went out to the canal and got into the rowboat. Even though she was wearing a formal dress, Carmen steered the boat expertly along the calm water toward the footbridge.

“Your sister’s speech really got to you, huh?” Domingo said.

“It’s just been so crazy the past few weeks, trying to figure out how to do a quince with lots of Jewish flavor, wanting my abuela Ruben to be proud of me, having those crazy Project Quince cameras following me around. Then, when Una spoke, it was like all the dust cleared. When I was a kid and my abuela would come and make Passover dinner, there was a moment when the youngest kid in the room had to say, ‘How is this night different from any other night?’ Well, for five years, from the time when I was five until I was about ten, that was my line. So tonight, seeing Una, having you in my life, being here, with my family and my girls, I realized I’ve spent my whole childhood preparing for this moment. Why is this night different than any other night? Because this is the night when my grown-up life begins.”

There was silence. Then Domingo waggled his eyebrows. “That’s deep,” he said.

Carmen stuck a paddle in the water and splashed him.

“Whoa! Watch the tux! I was being serious! Promise!” he cried, splashing her back, lightly.

“We should go back to the party,” Carmen said, forgiving him.

“Is it okay if I kiss you first?” Domingo asked.

“What an excellent idea,” she replied, leaning forward to meet Domingo’s lips.

“I thought you would approve,” he said, kissing her again and again.

It was a rollicking, casual, mixed-up quince—perfectly suited to Carmen’s multiculti, laid-back style—and the Project Quince cameras captured everything.

But an hour into it on the dot, Carmen went over to the camera crew and said, “Okay, guys, you don’t have to go home, but you do have to turn off the cameras.”

Sharon smiled. “Excellent, because I really want to dance down that runway!”

And Arnie, who never spoke, said very quietly, “Do you think your grandmother would teach me to tango?”

Carmen laughed. “Absolutely! I’ll introduce you.”

After introducing Arnie to Abuela Ruben, Carmen unhooked her microphone and said to Alicia, “You know, we might not beat Simone’s party. Fake quince or not.”

Unhooking her own microphone, Alicia shrugged. “I know. But are you having a good time?”

“Are you kidding? Best night of my life. And you know what the best part is? There isn’t a matzo piñata in sight.”

“Then my friend, that’s all that matters.”