don't wanna rush | oscar diaz

a las niñas por bonitas

Vero turns fifteen in September. Tía Alejandra has been saving up for her party since her thirteenth birthday, so she rents a little event hall and decks it out real classy. Vero greets everyone as they walk in, wearing a blush-colored, off-the-shoulder dress that Claudia fawns over when the three of them arrive.

"You look so pretty," Claudia says, smiling sweetly, and Vero—who's ornery as a general rule—looks pleased.

"Thank you," she says, "you, too. Not sure why you're still with Oscar's ugly ass."

"Hey," Oscar says, finally loosening his grip on Cesar, who's been squirming since they got out of the car. He already warned the kid not to tug off his tie, but knowing how these parties usually go, Oscar will be lucky if he comes back to him with both shoes on. "C, say hi to Vero."

"Hi," he says, petulant, and allows Vero to squeeze him for maybe two seconds before bolting. "Bye now!"

Vero looks more like herself now, says, dry, "So much love for his sitter."

"He likes me better," Oscar says, because he can, and Claudia presses her knuckles to his sternum.

"Oscar," she says at the same time as Vero, and Oscar isn't sure how to feel about the look they share.

"Where we sitting?" he asks, and Vero shrugs.

"Wherever," she says, "my mom's at the one near the dance floor, though."

"Which?"

"The one with the red handbag," she says, and gets swept up in greeting guests again.

Claudia tugs him towards the right table, and he takes the chance to admire the way she looks in the silvery dress she's wearing, a strapless number she picked up at the mall the month before, having dragged him with her. He remembers trying to convince her to have some fun in the dressing room while she tried it on, which she wasn't game for, but she looks good in it.

He tells her so as they reach the table and she rolls her eyes again, but he gets a kiss anyway. He keeps his arm around her even after they sit.

"Is it food and then the waltz?" Claudia asks him, and he shrugs.

"Pretty sure."

"Hombre," she says, and he makes a face at her, grins when it makes her laugh. "Shouldn't you know?"

"I didn't plan this," he says, rubbing her shoulder absentmindedly, "didn't all your homegirls have a quince? Thought you'd be a pro by now."

"Araceli's was down in Mexico," she says, pouting a little bit, "no one else had one."

"Did you want to?"

She takes a minute to respond, mulling the question over. She says, fingers curling over her chin—nails painted a shimmery blue, nails grown out from the last time she chewed them down—"Not really? I never saw the point."

He tilts her head. "Who'd you have asked? Like, pa' los chambelanes and shit."

She raises her eyebrows. He scoots his chair closer to hers, and she bites her lip to stop from smiling. She says, "Araceli woulda been my dama, probably."

"You can't have just one. You need two, at least."

"Oh, so you an expert now, huh?"

"Yup," he says, and kisses her face, trying not to get glitter all over himself in the process.

"Dundo," she says, fond, "you just want me to say I'd've asked you to be my chambelán."

"I dunno what you're talking about," he says, eyes falling away from her for a moment to watch Cesar duck under a table with some girl in bright pink, the two of them popping out the other side with sweets cradled to their chests. He looks at Claudia again. "But. Would you've?"