Amor and Summer Secrets

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

Genres: YA Romance

Synopsis

For fifteen-year-old Mariana Ruiz, it's not so much an unexpected vacation as a literal "guilt trip"--her father's way of atoning for ignoring his Puerto Rican roots. But freedom from her parents is little compensation for being forced to spend two months with complete strangers rather than with her best friends in Philadelphia. Once on "vacation," her worst fears come true. The heat is merciless, the food is spicy, and her great aunt and uncle's mountain house teems with relatives, only one of whom--her distant cousin Lilly--speaks English. Bored, and hoping to make up for missing her best friend's star-studded Sweet 16, Mariana offers to help in the planning of Lilly's Quinceañera. Soon, despite herself, Mariana clicks with new friends who open doors to romance and long-hidden secrets. Suddenly the summer she dreaded is ending way too quickly. It might turn out that the last place she ever wanted to go is the one place she truly finds herself.

Release date: April 19, 2010

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 305

Sample

An argument was about to erupt between Vince and my father. I could already sense it. I hated being around when they fought—like just my presence made things worse. It wasn’t that I didn’t get along with Vince; it was more that I got along with our parents, which irritated him to no end. I hung up my dish rag and walked to the door. The last thing he needed was to see his fifteen-year-old sister drying the pots and pans like a good little girl.

Vince tossed his dinner plate into the sink with a thud so hard it was obviously intentional. I knew he was looking for a reaction. And my father was not one to disappoint.

“Vincent Ruíz! Do you not have any respect for your family’s things?” my father yelled from his seat at the kitchen table.

For a man who lost his Spanish accent as soon as he got off the plane from Puerto Rico, Lorenzo Ruíz surprisingly had the “Latin temper-thing” down. It seemed his voice had only one setting—loud—and if you really provoked him you could make the vein in his forehead turn purple and pulse. Not that I ever set him off, that was purely my brother’s territory.

“Oh, please! ‘Our family’s things,’ ”Vince mimicked. “That’s all you care about. ‘Don’t break the china!’ ‘Don’t scratch the convertible!’You don’t buy that stuff for us.You buy it to impress the neighbors.”

He ran his chewed nails through his greasy black hair and let it fall back on his forehead. His dark eyes narrowed and his mouth curled to the left, a face I knew would only tick off Dad more.

“Oh, you think you know so much? Well, what would you do if we took this ‘stuff ’ away? I’m sure there are other teenagers who would be much more appreciative of a new BMW. Maybe I should go ask ‘these neighbors’ of yours if they’d like your car, if that’s who I’m really buying it for. I guess you wouldn’t mind?” My father cocked his head to the side, smoothed his ebony mustache, and returned his gaze to the magazine he was reading.

At this point I didn’t know who was being more immature, my forty-five-year-old father or my eighteen-year-old brother. I leaned my shoulder against the oak doorjamb to our gourmet kitchen, yanked my white T shirt over the top of my cargos and remained silent. Sometimes their arguments fizzled out on their own, and I was desperately hoping this was one of those times.

Vince grabbed another plate from the granite-top island and slammed it into the sink. Any harder and it would have shattered, but I knew he wasn’t trying to break it. He just wanted our father to realize that he could.

“Fine. But you know what? You aren’t going to be able to run my life forever! I’m eighteen! I’m an adult!” he yelled.

“Yeah, well, adults pay their own bills. So unless you want to pay your tuition to Cornell next year, I suggest you close your mouth.”

“God, you just love being able to hang that over my head, don’t you?”

“Do you have any idea how good you have it? I had to work full-time to pay my way through school. And you are so ungrateful!” shouted my father, smacking his hand against the glass-topped kitchen table.

My grandparents had moved their entire family—which included my dad, aged ten, and his two older brothers, my uncles Roberto and Diego—to the U.S. from Puerto Rico decades ago in the hope of finding better opportunities. They settled in a housing project in Camden, New Jersey, where my grandfather worked as a short-order cook and my grandmother raised their three sons in a city titled, “The Most Dangerous in the Nation.” None of them spoke English, and my father still tells stories of running home from school during recess frustrated that he couldn’t understand a word his classmates were saying.

By sixteen he had completely lost his accent, by eighteen he had graduated third in his class, and by twenty-six he had paid his way through Temple’s undergraduate program (took him eight years of night classes while working full-time as the manager at a department store—a fact he never let us forget). Five years after that, and two children later, he successfully completed Temple’s MBA program (also at night). He got a job in the marketing department of a start-up corporation manufacturing light fixtures. When their art-deco lighting treatments were featured on a popular television show three years later, the company quadrupled in size, my father was named partner and my entire family moved to the Main Line—an affluent collection of picturesque suburbs outside of Philadelphia. I was five at the time. I don’t remember being poor, but my brother (who was seven when we moved) still talks about eating generic cereal brands like it was a tragic hardship worthy of a movie of the week.

“I’m not ungrateful! I’m just sick of you telling me what to do. All of my friends are going to Europe this summer. All of them! I can’t believe you won’t let me! I’m the only one who’s gonna be stuck here.”

Vince slammed his hands on the counter to answer any lingering questions about where, exactly, he did not want to be stuck.

I groaned and tilted my head toward the ceiling. I should’ve realized that was what they were really fighting about.Vince had been harping about this backpacking-through-Europe subject for weeks now. Even I was sick of hearing about it, so I knew my dad was about to launch the atomic bomb in his direction once the sentence left my brother’s lips.

“Enough! We have been over this!” he hollered, rising from his chair, screeching its legs across the recently refinished oak floors. “I don’t care how many of your ‘friends’ are going to Europe. You are not! And that is the end of it. Maybe if you were more responsible, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Oh, God! Not this again! It was one arrest two years ago!”

“One arrest, no big deal, huh? You were sixteen years old caught drunk at an unchaperoned party that the police had to break up. Do you have any idea how much that could have ruined your life?”

I grabbed my auburn hair in my fists and debated whether or not to break up the argument before it got any worse. My mom was working at the art gallery and it was typically her responsibility to cool the tempers of the men in the household. My father and my brother were so alike—a fact they both vehemently denied—that when the two of them were in the same room for more than an hour, the energy in the house escalated. Strangers couldn’t sense it; it was like our private Ruíz-family dog whistle. When Vince and my dad were about to go at it, the muscles in my neck would tense from two floors away.

My mother, Irina, who had a level of patience that could’ve made Ghandi look impulsive, could defuse it just by breezing into the room, her wavy blond locks swishing and her blue eyes smiling. She’d place her palm gently on my father’s shoulder, make a cheerful joke, and immediately everyone would relax. I liked to think that I take after her, that my Polish side won out against my Puerto Rican side in the gene pool, but I knew she possessed a level of grace that I could never match.

“You always have to bring that up, don’t you?” Vince yelled, taking a few steps toward our father to close the gap between them.

“Well, if I hadn’t gotten it expunged from your record, you could’ve kissed Cornell good-bye.”

“Yeah, because that’s the only reason I got into Cornell. It has nothing to do with the grades I’ve been busting my butt for. But you always seem to forget that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I forget. And that car you drive is just a symbol of my ignorance.”

By this point,Vince and my dad were standing within two feet of each other.The tension was gripping my lungs.

“All right, that’s it!” I shouted, stepping from the doorway and charging into the kitchen. “Break it up! Separate corners you two, now!”

I stepped in between them, put a manicured hand on each of their chests, and shoved them in opposite directions.

“Great, get involved now, Mariana,” my brother huffed.

“Look, I am not taking sides here,” I defended, shooting my brother a snotty scrunch-nosed look I’d perfected over the past fifteen years. “I just don’t want you guys to kill each other before Mom comes home. Plus, she’ll be pissed if you get blood on her newly refinished hardwood floors. And I’m so not explaining that.”

My brother rolled his eyes and my dad half chuckled. But the result was what I wanted.The mood was lightened.At least for now.

Lying on my white, shabby chic four-poster bed, I grabbed the buzzing cell phone beside me and glanced at the screen. “Madison,” it read. Not that I was surprised, she called at least twice a day.

“Hey,” I said, as I flipped the phone to my ear.

“What up, girrl?” she asked, in a hardcore rap voice.

Madison Fox was platinum blonde with ice-blue eyes and about as white and Protestant as they come. Her only exposure to rap was the runway show for Sean John.

I rolled my eyes and giggled.

“Well,” I answered, “Vince and my father had another blowout. He’s still harping about this whole Europe thing.”

I lifted my hand to eye level and inspected the fuchsia polish on my nails. It was already chipping.

“Whatever, it sucks he can’t go. But it’s not the end of the world.There’s gonna be plenty to do here this summer, like my party.”

“Sure, you wanna come over and explain that to Vince? ’Cause, seriously, I’m about ready to shove him in a suitcase and ship him off to Europe myself,” I stated as I flopped onto the throw pillows covering my bed.

“So Gayle called again today,” Madison said, revolving the conversation back to her party once again. “Can you believe she can’t find a single baker who will make a six-tier cake in the shape of Louis Vuitton purses? They’re all worried about some copyright crap. Like, whatever.”

Madison’s Sweet Sixteen was only a few weeks away. For the past six months she’d done nothing but obsess over details with Gayle, an event planner to the stars (or at least to the Philadelphia elite). Madison would be the first in our entire grade to turn sixteen, so she felt it her obligation to kick the monumental year off with a bang worthy of the cover of Philadelphia magazine. Her parents had reserved the ballroom at the Rittenhouse Hotel, a posh hotel in Center City so glamorous and expensive it would make any bride choke with envy. She even bought a silver Vera Wang gown with matching Manolo Blahniks to catch the glint in the room’s chandeliers.

“Well, Mad, maybe the cake can just be purses. Do they have to have the LV logo?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s the whole point. What, do I want a bunch of knockoffs at my party?”

“It’s a cake!”

“So? My parents are paying this woman a truckload! She should be able to find a baker who will do what I want. Heck, can’t she just call Louis Vuitton’s people and get permission?”

“I’m sure it’s not that easy.” I sighed.

“Anyway,” Madison said, “I can’t wait for my party to get here. It’s the only thing happening this summer. We’re gonna have, like, nothing to do afterward.”

“Well, sort of. I was actually thinking of getting a job. Maybe as a camp counselor at the elementary school,” I stated, as I stared at the skylight on my ceiling.

“Oh, my God! You’re getting a job? Why? You’re fifteen!”

“So? Most of the counselors are fifteen.”

“Yeah, and they’re losers.”

“Madison, my dad’s always up my brother’s butt because he’s such a mooch. At least if I have my own money I can prevent ever having the same arguments they’re having right now.”

“So, what? You’re gonna save your money so when you graduate from high school you can pay your own way through a drunken European vacation?”

“I don’t know, maybe. But at least I’ll have the option. And my own bank account.”

“You’re such a freak.”

“Am not! Anyway, I gotta go. My mom’ll be home soon.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll see you in Spanish class tomorrow, señorita!” Madison teased.

“Whatever, chica. Only two weeks of school left!”

“You know it!”

I hung up my cell phone, rolled off the bed and walked toward my bedroom door, which held a full-length mirror. I thought once I got into high school, I’d be different. But my reflection still had the same pasty skin, wavy red hair and geeky freckles that I always had. I pressed on my nonexistent chest. I was barely a B-cup (I had too much pride to ever buy an A cup), but at least I could finally see a hint of cleavage through the top of my scoop neck tee—meaning I could see it if I squished my boobs together with my triceps as hard as I could. My legs still looked too long for my body, which while an asset in ballet class, were not really an asset amongst my peers. Even my best friends made fun of the giraffe legs that consumed my entire appearance and forced me to avoid skirts of any kind.

Truthfully, I didn’t look like a single member of my entire family. My mom is stereotypical Polish—round face, blond curls, pale eyes, full figure. My dad and brother could practically pass for twins—another fact my brother refused to admit— with dark, almost black, hair, light skin and a five-o’clock shadow that grew two hours after they shaved (my brother had a mustache before most boys his age could tie their shoes). If it weren’t for our shared brown eyes, we wouldn’t have a single physical feature in common.

But at least Vince’s appearance hinted at the ethnicity that fit with the name “Ruíz.” I, on the other hand, was often mistaken for being Irish, which really didn’t bother me. Because usually when people find out I’m a “Puerto Rican Polack” they either laugh or don’t believe me. Personally, I preferred disbelief, mostly because I also doubted I was a genetic member of this family. Seriously, sometimes I felt this close to ordering a blood test.

When the top of the convertible was down, I felt like I got an entirely new perspective on the world. From the passenger seat in my brother’s BMW convertible, our high school looked like a castle in a fairy tale. Tall stone buildings nestled on perfectly landscaped fields surrounded by every species of tree found in the Northeast. Spring Mills was the most affluent public school district in Pennsylvania, and nicer than most of the local college campuses.

“Dude, the parking here sucks,” Vince complained as he pulled out of the gated lot and drove to the back of the administration building to look for an available space. We were running late, as usual.

“Hey, a few more days and you’ll never have to park here again,” I reminded him, as I stared at my classmates rushing off to first period.

“Thank God. I can’t get out of here fast enough.”

“You know, it’s really not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say. Mom and Dad practically bow down and worship you.”

“That’s because I don’t get arrested.”

“Don’t start, Mariana,” he droned, pulling the parking brake on the car and pressing the button to raise the convertible top back into place.

“I’m just saying. It’s your own fault Dad’s always on your case.You shouldn’t have gotten caught.”

I unclicked my seat belt and applied a fresh layer of Chapstick while I waited for the top of the car to secure before opening my door.

“Well, it’s easy not to get caught when you don’t go out in the first place,” Vince snapped as he slammed his door shut and hiked up his dark designer jeans, which were professionally ripped at the knees.

“I go out!”

“Dance recitals don’t count.”

“Vince, I have friends.”

“What? The ballet crew? A bunch of wild and crazy anorexics.”

“I am not anorexic!”

“No, but your friends are. Madison doesn’t put more than a lettuce leaf in her mouth in a given day.”

That was partly true. Madison did have a few issues with her weight. She was the only one of my friends who, after twelve years of practice, had never scored a solo in a dance performance and she was convinced it was because of her weight. She was a size six when we’d entered high school and now, two years later, she claimed she wore a size two but I was pretty certain there were more zeros floating in her closet than anything else.

But her lack of recognition in ballet really had nothing to do with her weight. Sadly, the girl just wasn’t talented, but no one had the heart to tell her. Her father was a vice president at the Campbell Soup Company and Madam Colbert, our instructor, was not about to tell him that his daughter was a sucky dancer (Madam Colbert’s husband was a Campbell’s product manager). So my friends and I were left with the responsibility of trying to convince Madison that she could afford to put a little more dressing on her salad—actually, a lot more dressing.

“She eats. She just doesn’t like to eat in public,” I mumbled, feeling a flush of embarrassment for my friend.

“And what’s your excuse? It’s not like anyone can tell what you look like in those clothes.”Vince looked me up and down and smirked.

“What? What’s wrong with my clothes?” I shrieked, looking down at my faded boy-cut jeans and solid green T shirt layered over a yellow tank.

“Nothing, I’m sure there’s an actual girl under there somewhere.”

“Just because I don’t wear micro-stretch hoochie-momma jeans like the girls you go out with doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the way I dress.”

“Whatever, forget it,” he said, turning his head away from me to end our conversation.

“Yeah, you really think you can brush me off that easily? Nice try.” I pushed his shoulder, which was covered in an intentionally wrinkled button-down shirt. “Seriously, you need to let this whole Europe thing go. It’s not gonna happen and the fights with Dad are getting a little ridiculous.”

We walked through the stone columned entrance into the school.

“Well, if he would just freakin’ let me go . . .”

“Give it up! You are not going. Move on. Plan a different vacation, or here’s a thought: get a job.”

“Mariana, I am eighteen years old. I’ve got the rest of my stinkin’ life to get a job. If you want to spend your summer wiping snotty noses with a bunch of losers, fine. But that is not my idea of a good time.”

“Yeah, well, Dad’s not gonna pay your way forever,” I stated as we walked down the hallway to our lockers.

“You’re right, . . .