By Alberto Rosas
A few months ago my cousin Ilene asked if I wanted to be a godfather at her quinceañera. This meant I was getting old. Less than a decade earlier, girls had asked me to be their chambelán or chambelán de honor. At twenty-five, I still considered myself a good candidate for chambelán de honor. Ilene disagreed. Although I knew my answer to Ilene would be no, not wanting to hurt her feelings, I told her I would get back to her. Being in a quinceañera again went against my unwritten rule. I had called it quits after Yvette's party in 1997.
After Ilene left my apartment, I studied my aging reflection. Hair: black, full, healthy, and gray-free. Wrinkles: none, with the exception of a few character creases on my forehead. Still young. Still chambelán material.
My reflection stared at me as I washed my face. The cold water felt fresh against my skin. The water dripped from my face onto the sink. Droplets of champagne dripped from Yvette's hair as we danced. Small pieces of flan stuck to her face and neck. The melody of the waltz blared through the speakers as our bodies moved across the dance floor.
I couldn't shake the memories. Images from that quince played in my mind like a movie. I saw her face, how sweet she looked in her flowing white gown. Those innocent green eyes stared out from a ghostly white face. Her mother's face appeared: seductive green eyes contrasting beautifully with naturally tanned skin. Then the flan came to mind. It was imported from Tijuana, the padrino said, and it was the best flan I had ever tasted.
Yvette stood in her backyard and barked orders at the group of damas and chambelanes. The majority of the group arrived late, and none of them knew the steps to the waltz.
"You all need to do it good," Yvette ordered.
"Maybe if we danced to hip-hop," a dama said.
"This is gay," a chambelán said.
We turned to look at the gay waltz coordinator, Esteban, who waved one hand in the air and mouthed "Whatever." We also looked at Yvette's lesbian mother, Ingrid, who just shook her head and said nothing.
Yvette took my hand. Esteban pressed a button on the oversized boom box and Chayanne's "Tiempo de Vals" began to play. Chayanne's waltz was a smooth mixture of romantic pop song with a waltz's repetitive three-count bass. This seemed to be a popular song for quinceañeras; it was the third time I had danced to it.
The couples danced around the crowded backyard, minimizing their moves to accommodate the small space. Yvette stared at her feet as she danced.
"Look at me," I said.
This was my eighth or ninth time as a chambelán, my fourth as the chambelán de honor. By seventeen, I was a waltz aficionado.
At my first quinceañera, when I was eleven years old, I couldn't decide whether I had two left or two right feet. The mariachi ballads and banda polkas were too complicated for my coordination. Besides, I hated that mariachi and banda shit. It wasn't until a few years later, when I was introduced to salsa and merengue, that I had discovered my hidden dancing abilities.
"You're a pretty good dancer," Yvette said.
"I'm the Latino John Travolta."
Though Yvette had been a dama in various quinces, the added stress of being the quinceañera turned her into a virgin on the dance floor. Plus, waltzing wasn't her thing; it was just something that she had to do. The waltz was interconnected with the quince and it was impossible to have one without the other. It would be like having beans without rice, a carne asada barbecue without beer, or a...
