It’s funny how an old picture can pull you straight back into a moment you thought time had buried. Suddenly you’re not just looking at it—you’re there. You feel the same rush, the same ache, the same quiet hope you carried then. All those emotions and experiences, the ones that shaped who you became, come flooding back at once.
This picture did that to me.
This was my inspiration.
This picture did that to me.
This was my inspiration.
Chapter 1
I wasn’t very popular in high school. Not tragically unpopular , more like Cuban-background-noise unpopular. I was there, but no one acknowledged my existence unless they needed an extra chair or to chase the ball when it went out-of-bounds.. I hung around some popular guys, hoping popularity was contagious, like the flu or bad cologne. Nothing rubbed off. For most of 10th grade (which I hear they now call freshman, because apparently everything got renamed), I was completely invisible. At lunch I’d sit quietly, pretending to be deep in thought, while eavesdropping on the table next to me listening to stories about wild weekend parties. Mondays were torture. Everyone reliving moments… and I’m over here counting my tater tots.
I did, however, have a job , because in a Cuban household, if you’re not popular, you better at least be productive. My aunt got me work doing inventory at JM Fields a store on 57th Avenue across from Diamonds ,la tienda, aka a woman’s paradise where men were dragged against their will. Inventory meant counting the same box five times and still being wrong. Later, I graduated to stock boy at Food Value on Coral Way and 87th Avenue by Lila’s Restaurant, where the smell of Cuban food reminded me daily that I was missing lunch and social status. Still, nobody noticed me. No party invites. No “oye, what are you doing Friday?” Nothing. I could’ve disappeared into the aisle with the casquitos de Guayaba and nobody would’ve filed a report.
Then came the scheme. I begged my parents for DJ equipment and got the cheapest setup in existence. Radio Shack. Not even Olson Electronics , which, in Miami terms, was fancy. With all the cables and mismatched speakers I looked like I was running a pirate radio station from my bedroom. I started DJ’ing little house parties for $7 or $10, which made me feel like un 'magnate" with a turntable. This was my master plan: if I couldn’t be popular, I’d at least be useful. And slowly, it started to work. Popular kids began asking me, “Where you playing this weekend?” because back then, anyone from the same school could show up to any party. If you weren’t from that school? That caused a United Nations–level crisis.
Then one day .... milagro .... I’m walking to my third-period Mr. Brooks history class when, at my locker, a semi-popular girl approaches me. Not top-tier, but solid, respectable popularity. And she asks the question every invisible Cuban kid in Miami dreamed of hearing:
“Do you want to dance my quinces?”
My heart started pounding like a conga drum . My face got hot. “Yes! Yes!!” I said immediately , not knowing I had just agreed to a multi-month commitment involving rehearsals, shoes, and emotional trauma. She hands me a piece of paper with the address for the first rehearsal and casually says,
“Oh, by the way… it’s being choreographed by Diego De Armas.”
Diego who? I had no idea who that was, but panic took over, so I answered like a true Cuban professional:
“Oh wow… great. He’s my favorite.”
A lie. But said with confidence.
The planets had aligned. This wasn’t just her coming out as a woman ,this was my coming out as somebody. Surely this would put me on the map. Little did I know about the expense, the inconvenience, the headaches, the nonstop opinions from relatives, and the financial suffering I was about to cause my parents…
CHAPTER 2
In 1977, a kid working as a stockboy at the supermercado was pulling in a powerful $1.90 an hour. That meant approximately three hours of stacking Goya cans to earn $20 Meanwhile, my social future depended on numbers that kept doing the conga line inside my head as I rode the bus home from school.
Let’s break it down, Miami-style:
Tuxedo rental at Angelito’s Novias: $25.00
(Angelito himself looking at you like, “No me lo dañes, eh”)
A proper hairstyle — Un Estilo — at Hair Fantasy: $10, tip included
(Which meant Aqua Net so strong it could survive a hurricane watch)
Black dress shoes from Danerys Peletería or Illusions Shoes : $12 ( My friend Manny Machin worked there maybe he would give me a discount)
(So shiny you could see your future… or at least your reflection sweating)
All these cifras were spinning in my head like salsa at the Crossway Inn as I bounced home on the bus, I knew what awaited me: a financial summit meeting at a one-income household. This was not a request. This was a social emergency.
Naturally, I would approach my mom first.
My mother understood these things. She knew about events. About appearances. About what the neighbors might say. I could already see her reaction—hand on chin, eyes squinting, calculating like an accountant in a Bata de Casa
“Bueno Alejandrito…yo se que es importante,” she’d say slowly. “Pero tu papá…”
Ah yes. My father.
My father didn’t see tuxedos. He saw rent.
He didn’t hear “haircut.” He heard malgasto.
To him, shoes were shoes, and anything fancier than Kmart was suspicious.
I could already imagine him lowering the newspaper, staring over his glasses like a judge on Calle Ocho.
“¿Veinticinco dólares… por alquilar ropa?”
(Long pause.)
“¿Y después qué? ¿Alquilar los calzoncillos también?”
I knew this mission required strategy, timing, and possibly mowing the lawn for the rest of my life But as the bus doors hissed open and I stepped onto the sidewalk, one thing was clear:
This wasn’t just about money.
This was about survival in 1977 Miami
And I was going to need a miracle… or at least my mom on my side.
Somehow, moms always made things happen. It was like a supernatural power that activated the moment a child said, “Mami, I have a problem.” The family pooled some resources—a little from here, a little from there, probably a bill paid late somewhere—and my father, in a rare display of reluctant mercy mixed with deep sighing, approved.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just said,
“Bueno… pero es la última vez.”
(Which, in Cuban Dad language, meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.)
I had a few dollars saved myself—real money, wrinkled bills that smelled like wet dog and Goya warehouse dust. The kind of money you earned honestly, stacking cans while dreaming of being anywhere else. I proudly contributed it to the family pile like I was a silent partner in a multinational corporation called Alejandrito’s Social Life, Inc.
And just like that, the deal was done.
The Rehearsals
The Quince Rehearsals (or How I Almost Died of Vergüenza on Calle Ocho)
The quince rehearsals were held in a covered garage on 8th Street because nothing says elegance and tradition like concrete pillars, bad lighting, and the smell of motor oil mixed with Aqua Net.
My aunt dropped me off in her Monte Carlo. Not a Monte Carlo her Monte Carlo. Brown. Vinyl seats hotter than hell. One door decorated with a dent so big it had its own ZIP code. As she pulled up, every kid and every parent turned to look.
The car stopped. Silence.
I opened the door and climbed out slowly, hoping gravity might swallow me whole.
Qué pena, I thought.
This is how legends die.
Immediately, the 17-year-old senior boys started sizing me up. Back then, seniors didn’t look like kids. They looked like men who had fought in at least two wars. Full beards. Six feet tall. Hairy caveman arms. They drove Shelby Cobras and leaned against cars like they already had child support payments.
They looked me up and down like I was an unpaid bill.
The girls started giggling. Not laughing with me—laughing around me. I could tell they were silently praying to La Caridad del Cobre:
“Please, God… don’t let me get paired with him.”
Parents stood around pretending not to stare, but staring anyway. Arms crossed. Faces judging. Whispering in Spanish that was somehow louder than English.
And then—out of nowhere—
He appeared.
Like a dramatic entrance in the novela my grandmother watched on El canal 23
DIEGO. DE. ARMAS.
The choreographer.
The legend.
The man.
Tight shirt. Perfect hair. Movements so smooth he didn’t walk,he glided. This guy didn’t say “five, six, seven, eight.” He commanded it. Even the seniors straightened up. The parents nodded respectfully. The girls suddenly stood taller.
Diego scanned the group with one look and clapped his hands.
“Okay, niños… let’s see what we’re working with.”
I swallowed.
At that moment I realized this wasn’t just a rehearsal.
This was survival training.
This was boot camp ,with rhythm.
And I was about to find out if a stockboy with borrowed confidence and zero coordination could survive Diego De Armas on 8th Street without embarrassing his entire bloodline.
Spoiler alert:
I survived.
By some divine stroke of luck, and a few Cuban cigars layed of front of San Lazaro I was paired with the cousin of the birthday girl. Even better? She didn’t even live in Miami.
She lived in Orlando.
Which meant two things:
Nobody here knew her.
I had a fighting chance.
Her name was Reina.
And to Reina, I wasn’t “that kid from South Miami High.” I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t ranked socially. I was just… a boy. No reputation. No baggage. No lunch-table history.
My Reina.
My queen.
Reina Gutierrez.
Say it out loud. That name had future in it. That sounded like a wedding invitation printed in cursive. That sounded like a woman I’d play songs for over the phone, holding the receiver too close to the speaker, praying the DJ didn’t talk over the intro.
Now let’s be clear: my experience with girls was extremely limited. I had no game. No strategy. Just feelings. Big, dramatic, disco-powered feelings.
Reina had short blonde hair,Celi Bee blonde. Studio 54 blonde. Hair that bounced when she moved, which immediately caused internal problems for me.
I drifted off into fantasy.
Our kids.
Our house.
Our phone bill from long-distance calls to Orlando............
“¡NIÑO!”
Diego De Armas’ voice cut through my dream like a machete.
“¡PRESTA ATENCIÓN, CARAJO!”
Reality snapped back hard.
For the next four weeks, we trained. Not practiced,trained. Danzón. Merengue. And other dances that required coordination I did not naturally possess. Fourteen couples total,La Corte moving in unison while parents watched like Olympic judges with cafecitos.
Rumor had it the band Heaven was going to play the party.
Heaven.
This instantly raised the prestige of the event by 300%. Suddenly this wasn’t just a quince—this was a social summit. I even made a few friends. Real ones. Guys who would actually nod at me in the halls of South Miami High instead of looking through me like I was part of the wall.
At home, my father made me mow the lawn twice in one week. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t explain. Just handed me the mower like a man preparing another man for adulthood.
The date of the party at Club de las Américas was getting closer.
I counted the days.
I couldn’t wait to see my future wife
ahem
I mean Reina, who was only in Miami for the summer.
I had a plan.
I would tell her I liked her.
On the night of the party.
In a tuxedo.
Hair Fantasy Haircut
With Heaven playing.
In 1977 Miami.
What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER 3
During the breaks at rehearsal, the parents would set up a folding table of survival. Not fancy. Just enough to keep us from passing out. Ritz crackers laid out like fine hors d’oeuvres, Chek Cola, sweating in plastic cups, and on rare, blessed occasions
CAWY.
The Cuban Sprite.
The nectar of the gods. ( Well that was Libby's )
When I saw that green bottle, I knew all the yelling from Diego De Armas had been worth it. Add in Galletas María and a couple of torticas de Morón, and suddenly I was willing to be humiliated for another four weeks. Honestly, for that spread, Diego could’ve asked me to mow HIS lawn.
Now, talking to girls was not my strength. I was uncomfortable. Awkward. I stood there like a broken statue, nodding too much, hands doing absolutely nothing useful. But I had one skill:
I listened.
And Reina,Reina could talk.
She talked like she had stories backed up for years. I just stood there holding a Ritz cracker, nodding like a therapist I couldn’t afford. She told me about Orlando, about how her father had moved the family because he couldn’t find steady work in Miami. No drama. No complaint. Just facts, delivered between sips of Chek Cola.
And there I was, sixteen years old, realizing.between a tortica de Morón and a lukewarm soda.that life wasn’t all quince dresses and disco fantasies. People had lives, hardships. No matter how poor I thought we were , others were worse off.Sometimes people moved because they had to. Sometimes Miami didn’t work out.
I didn’t have advice.
I didn’t have wisdom.
I barely had a personality.
But I listened.
And for once, that was enough.
A few weeks before the final rehearsalm,after much internal debate, imaginary conversations, and pep talks in the mirror,I finally worked up the courage to ask Reina for her phone number.
This was not spontaneous.
This was a planned operation.
My heart was pounding like a timbal solo. Hands sweaty. Voice already cracking in advance. I casually walked over, pretending this was no big deal, like I asked girls for their phone numbers all the time,which was a lie so big it should’ve required paperwork.
“Um… so… do you, uh… have a phone number?”
She looked at me. Smiled. And gave it to me.
Just like that.
I almost passed out.
I gave her mine which I had someone else had written it for me fearing my handwriting was terrible.
Back then, we didn’t have to remember area codes. Life was simple. Just seven digits.
Which, for me, was already a heroic mental challenge.this is the same kid who once failed a history exam because I couldn’t remember the name of that short French general with his hand stuck in his shirt and that ridiculous haircut. You know the one. Very important historically. Absolutely forgettable to me.
So this phone number? I treated it like a hit single. On the ride home chanting it in my head like it was on heavy rotation on AM radio:
261-2223… 261-2223…
No remix. No B-side. Just vibes and panic.
To be safe, on the way home ,I outsourced part of the responsibility. I asked my aunt to remember the first three numbers, and I’d handle the last four.
Teamwork. Strategy. Delegation.
And somehow.against all odds, history, and French generals,it worked Now, understand this: I could not tell her directly how I felt. That required words. Confidence. A backbone. I had none of those. But what I did have was music. And in 1977 Miami, music was how serious emotions traveled long distance.
So I came up with a brilliant, foolproof strategy:
I would communicate in song.
I would call her, put the phone next to the record player, and say something smooth like,
“Hey… what do you think of this song?”
Subtle.
Artistic.
Emotionally evasive.
The song?
“You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine” by Lou Rawls.
Yes. That song.
Now, technically speaking, this wasn’t love yet. Not officially. Not on her side, anyway. But details were not going to stop me. I wasn’t saying this is us. I was saying hypothetically… spiritually… musically… this could be us.
In my mind, this was genius. Lou Rawls would do the talking. Lou had the voice I didn’t. Lou had the confidence I lacked. Lou had already lived a life.
I was just the kid standing by the phone, praying no one in my house picked up the extension and yelled,
“¡Cuelga! I’m using the phone!”
This was romance, Cuban style: indirect, musical, and emotionally dangerous.
And if she didn’t get the message?
BBarry Whitewas my backup!
She beat me to the punch and called me first.
The call came in on a Sunday night, two weeks before the quince. Prime time. Dangerous time. The house was quiet in that suspicious Cuban way,too quiet, which usually meant something bad was about to happen.
My mom picked up the phone.
“Oigo.
…¿Quién?
…Ahhh… Alejandrito.”
She turned slowly and pointed the phone at me like it was a weapon.
Now, this was a 1977 Western Electric rotary phone. Beige. Heavy. Indestructible. The coiled cord was about three feet long, maybe five if you stretched it like a desperate man—which I was about to do.
I grabbed the phone and immediately began testing the laws of physics, dragging the cord from the living room toward my bedroom door, where my cassette player and Mr. Lou Rawls were standing by like backup singers.
“Hi,” she said.
I panicked.
“Hi.”
Then she added, casually, like she was ordering a soda,
“Can you talk.”
Before I could respond
A voice appeared out of nowhere.
“Reina, no te demores mucho que tengo que llamar a tu papá, que no se sentía bien.”
Her mom.
From another room.
On the extension.
“Sí, mami,” Reina answered.
Then her mother spoke again.
“Dime.”
I froze.
Was she talking to Reina?
To me?
To life?
Was the mom still listening?
I waited. Sweat forming. Heart racing. Then
Click.
The extension hung up.
I think.
“Yeah… hi… how are you?” I said, my voice somewhere between DJ and altar boy.
“As you know, I’m a DJ… and I wanted your opinion on a song.”
Why did I say DJ?
I was sixteen
I played records in my room.
“Sure,” she said.
This was it.
I pressed play.
And right at that exact moment
BOOM BOOM BOOM
“ALEJANDRITO!” my father yelled, pounding on the bedroom door.
“¡SALE DE AHÍ Y LLEVA EL TELÉFONO PA’ LA SALA!”
My soul left my body.
This was not how I envisioned this moment. There was no mood. No magic. No smooth fade-in. Just panic, yelling, and Lou Rawls trapped in a cassette deck.
Lou was going to have to save me.
I pressed play harder, like that would help.
“Can you hear it?” I whispered urgently.
“Yes,” she said.
And as Lou Rawls’ voice filled the room, I stood there holding the phone, the door shaking, my father approaching, and my entire romantic future riding on a cassette tape.
This was love.
Miami -Cuban-style.
CHAPTER 4
It was just me.
A phone.
And a dream.
I held the receiver close to the speaker, like I was feeding it directly into her soul, and—because I was me—I kept interrupting the moment every seven seconds.
“Can you hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Like… good?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Lou Rawls was warming up to deliver my message of eternal devotion—my feelings, my heart, my inability to speak like a normal human—
When suddenly…
From the other side of the phone:
“Reina… ¿qué es esto? ¿Y esta música?”
Her mother.
The enemy had entered the chat.
Then
CLICK.
Silence.
Dial tone.
I stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed me. Panic mode activated. I dialed her number immediately.
Busy signal.
Hung up. Dialed again.
Busy.
Again.
Busy.
That’s when the bedroom door opened.
My father walked in, grabbed the phone out of my hand without saying a word, and walked away.
Meanwhile, Lou Rawls kept singing,
“You’ll never find…”
And suddenly the lyrics hit different.
We had one rehearsal left, two days before the party. It couldn’t come fast enough. It was all I thought about. Songs I’d heard a thousand times suddenly felt personal. Sad. Accusatory.
That’s when I learned what people meant by
“butterflies in your stomach.”
These weren’t butterflies.
These were bats.
With anxiety.
The day finally came.
I arrived early,too early. First kid there. Standing alone in the covered parking garage, sweating, rehearsing apologies in my head. One by one, the other kids arrived with their parents. The noise built up.
Then she arrived.
As Reina stepped out of the car, I rushed over like a man with unfinished business. I greeted her and her mother. The mom nodded politely,neutral, diplomatic, unreadable. Reina cracked a small smile.
A small one.
I was about to explain everything,Lou Rawls, the phone, the panic, the cultural misunderstanding
When Diego De Armas yelled from across the garage:
“¡Todo el mundo en posición!”
Everyone froze and assumed formation.
“No breaks tonight,” he announced.
No Galletas María.
No Cawy.
No miracles.
The music started.
Stopped.
Started again.
We danced. Danzón. Merengue. Corrections flew. Diego was in rare form. But something was off.
Reina wasn’t herself.
She danced. She smiled,but not at me. Her energy was different. Distant. Professional. Like I was a coworker she planned to forget after the event.
The rehearsal ended.
She turned to me and said quietly,
“I’ll see you on Saturday.”
And then she walked away quickly,with her mom,like someone leaving a bad movie before the ending.
I stood there, crushed.
Had I messed everything up with my stupid musical phone call? Had Lou Rawls ruined my life instead of saving it?
Would I dare call her again?
No.
I would wait.
Saturday.
The party.
Because if things were going to end…
They were going to end in a tuxedo.
The day of the party finally arrived.
On my bed, laid out with military precision by my mother, was the uniform: tuxedo, shoes, socks, belt, clip-on bow tie. Everything aligned like an offering to Los Santos of social survival. She even managed to “borrow”,which in Cuban means permanently redistribute,my father’s Guerlain Impérial cologne.
“But don’t use too much,” she warned.
I immediately used too much.
As I got dressed, I prayed the lighting at the club would be low enough that nobody would notice the socks. Thin. Shiny. Slightly transparent. Suspiciously similar to pantyhose. My mom had pulled them straight out of my father’s drawer like she was arming me for battle with whatever was available.
Maybe in the dark… no one would know.
One of the older kids I’d befriended at rehearsals was picking me up. When he pulled up in his brand-new AMC Matador, my mom stood at the door like a customs agent.
“Ten cuidado. Pórtate bien. Y no vengas tarde.”
I kissed her cheek. She adjusted my lapel one last time. And just like that we were off.
My friend Andrés Solano, senior at South Miami High, lived close by. We bonded over music and James Bond movies. In our minds, we were very sophisticated. We had even discussed starting a band he played guitar, I played records and drums, and between us we had zero plan.
But tonight wasn’t about the future.
Tonight was about the party.
As we drove, Andrés casually told me he was already making moves on the girl he was partnered with. His strategy hinged entirely on the hope that the chaperones would sit far away from the dance floor.
The inside of the car smelled like Jovan Musk Oil and cigarettes the official cologne of 1970s confidence. Then he lit one up and offered me a cigarette.
I held my hand up in rejection, just like I’d seen James Bond do. Cool. Subtle. Mature.
He looked at me, nodded, and immediately judged me.
Then he asked the question.
“So… what about your partner?”
I laughed nervously and deflected like a politician in a debate. Asked him about his Jensen triaxial speakers instead.
Big mistake.
That man talked about speakers like they were his children. Ohms. Bass response. Clarity. I nodded seriously while my mind replayed Lou Rawls, Reina’s smile, and the fear that tonight would either end in glory or permanent emotional scarring.
And then,we arrived.
El Club de las Américas.
Lights. Cars. Parents. Drama.
I stepped out of the AMC Matador, adjusted my bow tie, and told myself one thing:
Whatever happened next…
At least I looked expensive.
We parked and walked up to the second floor, where the tables were already set. White tablecloths stretched tight, chairs lined up like they were waiting for inspection, and huge floral arrangements on every table,flowers so big you knew old ladies would fight to the death at the end of the night to take one home.
The stage was dressed in pink curtains with glitter, dramatic and unapologetic. In the center, a large rattan chair, surrounded by palms like a throne from a tropical kingdom. Behind it, I could see the instruments set up....the band Heaven...and off to the side, the Sounds Unlimited reel-to-reels, serious, professional, humming quietly like they knew something special was coming.
This was supposed to be a magical evening.
One by one, the participants began to arrive, and it felt like I didn’t recognize anyone. Especially the girls. Makeup. Hair. Dresses. The moms had clearly made a once-in-a-lifetime exception “Ponte un poquito más, que hoy es especial.” Everyone looked older. Different. Like rehearsal had been childhood, and tonight was something else.
We had our own table " La Corte "where we would sit together the whole night. I wouldn’t have to sprint across the floor when a slow song came on. This wasn’t a crush anymore. This was a full-on date, Miami quince style.
We waited for Mr. De Armas. The guests would be arriving any minute.
Then Reina entered the hall with her mother.
Her hair was different.soft, styled, grown. Her cheeks were red with "colorete", the kind that made her look alive, glowing. She came over and sat next to me. Close. She offered to powder my nose to remove " El Brillo"
She told me that the last time we’d seen each other, she was sad because her father was sick. She didn’t elaborate. Just said it calmly, like someone used to carrying things quietly. Then she changed the subject, how pretty everything looked, how Orlando was boring compared to Miami, how she wanted to be a doctor, to help people with heart problems.
Sixteen years old. Talking about helping others.
I was speechless.
That level of maturity, I wasn’t there yet. All I could think was how much I hoped they’d play a lot of slow songs. That was the difference between us, and I didn’t even know it yet.
Then it was time to line up.
The introductions began, and we entered to Barry White’s “Love Theme.” Of course we did. A sign, I thought. A message from the universe. We danced flawlessly,turns, claps, steps,all in perfect unison. Professional. Disciplined. Like we deserved a spot on The Merv Griffin Show.
The quinceañera danced with her escort in the center. Then with her father introducing her into Miami society, into adulthood, into something new. Cameras flashed. Photographers capturing moments that would surely land in the Diario de las Américas social pages. Applause filled the room.
It was unforgettable.
And just like that,after all the rehearsals, all the yelling from De Armas, all the Cawy sodas,it was over.
I thought: Now my life with Reina begins.
We took our seats.
Then Reina’s mother motioned for her to come over. Reina stood. I stood too, I’d seen that in the movies also. She walked toward her mother, then stopped, turned back, and looked at me.
She waved.
Not a happy wave.
A sad one.
The kind of wave that says goodbye without saying the word.
Then she left.
I stood there frozen, tuxedo stiff, heart confused. For the first time in my young life, I felt it,the quiet realization that sometimes people are smiling while carrying heavy things. That not every story includes you, no matter how hard you rehearsed.
And I thought,
What did I do wrong now?
Only later would I understand:
Sometimes, you didn’t do anything wrong at all.
The world happens around you.
CHAPTER 5
I stood there for what felt like forever, watching her walk away. Her mother was clearly upset, holding her hand tightly, almost dragging her. Reina didn’t fight it. She just went.
I didn’t move.
I kept thinking maybe she would turn around. Maybe she’d look back and smile, or wave again, or say my name. I thought maybe this was all a mistake and she’d be back in a minute.
Should I follow them?
Should I say something?
I didn’t.
I stayed right where I was, frozen, because I didn’t know what the right thing was. No one had ever taught me what to do when something important suddenly leaves.
So I sat down and waited. I really believed she might come back.
The band started playing. The lights dimmed. People stood up and rushed to the dance floor like nothing had happened. Waiters came around with plates of ensalada rusa, placing them gently on tables, even though nobody was there to eat. Music filled the room, happy and loud.
And I felt like I wasn’t there at all.
I was invisible again.
The dance floor stayed full. Kids laughed. They danced. They left their food untouched—the arroz con pollo, the salad—because food didn’t matter. Being together mattered. Moving mattered. Having someone mattered.
I walked around slowly, not wanting to stand in one place too long. I was afraid someone would ask me where my partner was. I didn’t have an answer that made sense—not even to myself.
As the night went on, the room emptied a little. By around 11:30, most of the excitement had moved outside to the parking lot. That’s where everyone was now. People talked about gangs, about fights that might happen, about who had shown up." Wolfman " was there !! None of it felt important to me.
My ride was ready to go.
So was I.
We got in the car. No conversation. He turned the radio up loud and lit a cigarette. I was grateful for the noise. It meant I didn’t have to talk. I didn’t have to explain. I didn’t have to say how empty I felt.
I stared out the window as the city passed by, wondering what I had done wrong. Wondering why something that felt so important could disappear without a chance to understand it.
I went to the party one way.
And I went home another.
I got home and thanked my ride. Andrés flicked his cigarette out the window and it landed right in my yard.
Coño.
I’ll have to pick that up in the morning, I thought. Another responsibility for Future Me.
My mom opened the door like she had radar. Cuban mothers don’t sleep—they sense. I walked in and she whispered, not wanting to wake the house,
“¿Cómo la pasaste?”
“Bien,” I said.
But inside I added,
Bien mal.
Days passed. Then weeks. I didn’t dare call. Even if I wanted to, the number I had was the house where they’d been staying in Miami. By now, they were surely back in Orlando. Or somewhere else. Life had already started rearranging itself without consulting me.
At South Miami High, lunch meant choices. Cafeteria—if you were brave. Or the pizza place next to the pharmacy—if you wanted dignity. A slice and a Coke for one dollar. Living large.
One afternoon, walking back to school, I ran into the young lady who had asked me to dance at her quince. We passed each other.
“Hi,” we said politely.
Then she stopped.
“Hey!”
I turned back.
She stepped closer and said softly,
“Pobresita… Reina.”
My stomach tightened. I looked at her like I didn’t want the rest of the sentence to exist.
“Why?”
“Her dad passed away the night of my quince,” she said. “They moved to Nevada to live with her grandmother.”
Then, just like that,
“Bye. I have to go.”
And she walked away.
I stood there on the sidewalk, holding my pizza box, feeling something I didn’t have words for. I had never experienced a death in my family. I’d never been to a funeral. Never walked through a cemetery. Death—and the heavy silence it brought with it—was completely foreign to me.
Suddenly everything made sense.
The smile.
The distance.
The wave.
It wasn’t about Lou Rawls.
It wasn’t about the phone call.
It wasn’t about me at all.
That was my first real lesson. The one nobody dances you into. The one you learn standing alone with a slice of pizza cooling in your hand:
Life keeps going. People leave. And sometimes, someone else’s pain quietly takes the lead.
And all you can do is let them go…
and keep walking back to school
Reina, without ever saying it, protected me. She stood between me and death at a moment when I wasn’t ready to understand it, let alone carry it. She showed up smiling, dancing, talking about the future, not because she was untouched by grief, but because she chose to shield me from it. While death was tightening its grip around her family, she kept it away from me, allowing my world to stay innocent just a little longer. That night, I was still a boy worried about slow songs and hand-holding, unaware that she was already living in a world where goodbyes were real and permanent. Only years later did I realize the quiet grace in that choice—that sometimes love isn’t declared, or even shared, but offered as protection, a kindness so gentle you don’t feel it until long after it’s gone.
That experience stayed with me and quietly rewired the way I move through the world. It taught me that when you enter someone’s life—no matter how briefly—you are stepping into a story already in progress, one you may never fully understand. So I try, in whatever time I’m given, to leave something good behind. In nightclubs and at events, where music and light blur faces into moments, I aim to give people a memory they can carry home. In my daily work, with patients who may only share a few minutes with me, I try to offer presence, kindness, and respect—because sometimes that small interaction is all they have that day. Reina showed me that impact isn’t measured by duration, but by intention, and that even the shortest encounters can echo longer than we ever realize.
I never saw her again.
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