Cuba 15

What can be funny about having to stand up in front of everyone you know, in a ruffly dress the color of Pepto-Bismol, and proclaim your womanhood? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Not when you're fifteen--too young to drive, win the lottery, or vote for a president who might lower the driving and gambling ages. Nothing funny at all. At least that's what I thought in September.

My--womanhoods--hadn't even begun to grow; I wore a bra size so small they'd named it with lowercase letters: aaa. Guys avoided me like the feminine hygiene aisle at the grocery store. And I never wore dresses. Not since I'd left school uniforms behind. Not ever, no exceptions. You'd think my own grandmother would remember that.

She didn't.

"Eh, Violet, m'ija. I want buy you a gown and make you a 'keen-say' party," my grandmother said early that September morning in her customized English, shrewdly springing her idea on me at breakfast.

"Sounds good, Abuela," I said as I buttered my muffin. "Except for the dress."

Just Abuela, my little brother, Mark, and I were up; Abuelo, tired from traveling, was sleeping in, and Mom never got up until after Mark and I had left for school. Thrift store worker's hours. Mom ran the Rise & Walk Thrift Sanctuary, a used-clothing shop in the church basement that operates on donations. Their motto is "The Threads Shall Walk Again." Dad was on the early shift at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy inside the Lincolnville Food Depot, a combination grocery store/bank/hairdresser/veterinary hospital/pharmacy/service station. All they needed now was a tattoo parlor.

"What's 'keent-sy'?" Mark asked, adding, "I want one too!"

"The quince," said Abuela, "this is short for quincea-ero, the fifteenth birthday in Cuba." She pronounced it

"Coo-ba," the Spanish way. "Is a ceremony only for the girls," she added, shaking a finger at Mark, who tipped his cereal bowl toward his mouth to get the last of the sugary milk at the bottom.

He swallowed. "That's sexist, Abuela. Only for girls." He tried another pass at his cereal bowl, but it was empty. "I know, because last year in my school on Take Your Daughters to Work Day, Father Leone said sons got to go to work too. So I got out of school!"

Abuela, looking starched somehow in one of Mom's old terry cloth robes, her silver hair in a bun, raised an eyebrow and gave a wry smile. "This is equality, yes?"

She often says yes when she means no, and vice versa.

"The quincea-ero, m'ijo, this is the time when the girl becomes the woman."

Mark, who was eleven then, shied away from any discussion that even hinted at having to do with body parts or workings. He turned corpuscle red, a nice counterpoint to his royal blue Cubs baseball cap, which he wore all day every day during the pro season, except in school and church, until the end of the last game of the World Series. The fringe of his dark hair stuck out in a ragged halo around his face. He immediately lost interest in the quince party. "Nevermind, countmeout," he mumbled.

Abuela didn't notice. "The quince is the time when all the resto del mundo ass-cepts your dear sister as an adult in the eyes of God and family. And she, in turn, promises to ass-cept responsabilidad for all the wonders in the world of adults."

Responsabilidad. This sank in as deeply as the Country Crock into the nooks and crannies of my half-eaten English muffin, and raised a red flag. This quince party could be some sort of trap. "What if I don't want to--ass-cept more responsibilities?" I asked, mindlessly mimicking Abuela's pronunciation.

Mark slipped away, leaving his empty cereal bowl and milk glass on the table.

Abuela sat down with a tiny cup of sweet, black coffee. "Responsabilidades--how do you say? These come with the territory, chiquitica." She downed her coffee in one shot.