Cuba 15 by Nancy Osa

lesson, which was funny, just not funny enough to laugh about for eight minutes.
    Thursday, I dropped by the Rise & Walk to see Mom after school. Somebody had donated six naked mannequins for the tax write-off, and Mom had to dress them before she could sell them; it
was
a church basement, after all, and naked doesn’t belong in church. Unfortunately, naked was probably “inappropriate” for speech team too, or that would’ve been a hoot. I was laughing so hard by the time Mom put together an ensemble for Mannequin Number Three (ski parka, fishnet stockings, wing tips, and sombrero) that I had to go home.
    Nothing was funny about Friday. From the moment I woke up, Abuela and Abuelo loaded me down with chores, preparations for the big domino party that would start at sundown. They ran the games on island time.
    “
Ay,
Violeta,
por favor
load the dish
eh
washer for me,” Abuela begged as I was trying to get out the door to the bus. She had been up long before Mark and me, starting a batch of
congrís
and stirring up pastry for the homemade éclairs. I couldn’t complain when the eats were this good.
    That afternoon, I helped Abuelo find an extension cord and move the stereo out to the porch. He pawed excitedly through a large CD case that he’d brought with him from Miami. “
Mira,
Violeta,
Fifty Years of Tito Puente
. This one is my favorite.
¿Cómo se dice
disc jockey
en inglés?
”
    “In English? It’s
disc jockey,
Abuelo.”
    “Ah, the same. ¡
Yo soy el rey de los
Disc Jockeys!”
    I kissed the top of his bald head. “You are king of the
disc jockeys,
Abuelo.” My Spanish was really improving, thanks to those cognates.

    The guests started to arrive as salmony-colored clouds arched toward sunset, netting the sky. Mom and I were standing door duty.
    “¡Hola!
Diane.
¿Qué pasa?”
    “Welcome, it’s been ages!” They volleyed hugs and kisses, shot them my way.
    “
¡Qué
linda!
Violet. How you’ve grown!” Lies, but good ones.
    “Where is Lupita? Y Teodoro?”
    Abuela was manning the kitchen, Abuelo was asleep. Yes, asleep. Guests would come and go all weekend, and somebody had to take the late hosting shift.
    We sent everyone past the buffet in the living room, where many lingered, and on out to the porch, where Dad was holding court in his domino kingdom. You could hear “The Sky Is Crying” or “Baby Please Don’t Go” blasting from the porch and Chucho barking up a fuss from behind my bedroom door, where he’d been safely stashed. The house smelled of garlicky
frijoles negros
and frying
plátanos
— green plantain chips, the kind I liked; they’d be salty-sweet and too hot to eat, but in no time they would disappear, leaving just an oil-spotted paper towel and spilled salt on the plate.
    The little kids who’d come ran through the house like their hair was on fire, and my brother, Mark, suddenly five years old again, ran after them. It was beyond me how Abuelo could nap. I cruised through the living room and over to the designated drivers’ table for one of Abuelo’s nonalcoholic concoctions, Piña No-Nada, a piña colada whose secret ingredient was a shot of cold
café
. If I started drinking these now, I’d be wide awake for driver’s ed by summer school.
    I hung a left at the hallway and proceeded toward the players’ porch. Thankfully, the smoking section—two card tables sporting ashtrays and beer mugs full of Corona y Coronas—had been moved outside.
    “¡Hola! Violeta.” A grown cousin, Marianao, grabbed me in a hug, exhaling cigar smoke in my ear. Apparently she hadn’t read the NO FUMAR signs. Marianao wore a skintight pink and green floral print dress, low in the neck and high in the skirt, and her dark hair was pinned up in an elaborate ’do. The cigar added a bizarre twist to her costume, but at least it was in character.
    “Marianao, long time no see,” I said, squeezing back. I smoothly guided her out the screen door into the tikitorched yard, where she squealed