When the White Boy went to the Quiceñera
"If you stop fidgeting, the gel might hold"
"I’m not fidgeting"
"Mentiras, I’ve been handling this stray of hair for the past five minutes, why are you so nervous? It’s a quiceñera."
"Yeah, a quiceñera with your parents, I’m pretty sure our relationship is forbidden."
"Yeah to your parents, I’m the immigrant that lured their son into my Mexican traps." I chuckled as her arms wrapped around my shoulders. "My parents love you, probably more than they love their own son. They only met you for a split second at homecoming and they were already talking to me about grandkids."
"And it’s going to be the same way with my family. Just because you’re a blanquito doesn’t mean they’ll hate you. They might be a little hard headed at first, but soon they’ll love you like I do. There, I’m done."
She spun my chair to reveal my flamboyant hairdo. My dark blond hair was encrusted in a heavy layer of gel, emulating the style of 1950’s greaser.
"I look like Elvis." i shook my head to see none of my hair strands moving.
"Elvis wore grease in his hair, this is long wear gel." She scrubbed her hands of the stuff and walked over to my tuxedo. "Oh my God, is this Armani?" her face was astounded.
"Yeah, it was my dad’s I wanted to look nice for your cousin’s party. What?" The suit was an elegant navy color, with padding in the shoulders to masquerade my wimpy physique when I’d stand next to Ely’s cousins.
"This suit smells like money Alex. It shows off the fact that you have more money than everyone there. You can keep the pants and the jacket, but the shirt and vest have to go."
"It’s an old suit; it doesn’t smell like money, it smells like lint."
"Cambia tu ropa I’ll be doing my hair at my parents’ house, meet me there in an hour, ok?" she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, "See you soon blanquito."
"Hey, Son! Where’s your vest?" yelled my father from his downward dog. I stopped at the front door, reluctantly walking back to the living room where my father was doing his daily yoga.
"Oh, uh, Ely said that I would have a hard time fitting in with one on. Besides Dad, who even wears vests anymore? I’m not going for a wedding."
"Ok Mr. Fashion Police, sorry if my classy suit is too much for you. That suit-" he was in cobra position now, "-in its day was a real lady magnet, without it, you wouldn’t have been conceived my boy."