Fifteen

Saturday night was Diana's quinceanera. It was a 9.5-hour party that ended with me, barefoot and wrapped in a white tuxedo jacket, walking to my car.

That night, I sat by a fire that was too hot. I listened to the sounds of the mariachi band. I danced with several boys. It kept me warm. I wanted to steal some wine, but Mama pulled me away, said, "You're driving."

Throughout the ceremonies, I couldn't help but compare this family with mine. This, I thought, looking at the three-tiered cake Lucero had made for her daughter, how she had decorated their backyard to compensate for 100 guests...this is family. Love is not selfish. Then Lucero came up to me before I left, kissed my cheek, and said, "You are my family."

It was cold, but I linked arms with a boy who shares my name. The ground was wet beneath my bare feet but I didn't care.