Flora la Fresca & the Plot to Make Millions

Chapter 1
New Year’s
Every year, for as long as Flora Violeta LeFevre could remember, she had celebrated New Year’s with her best friend, Clara. Flora sometimes thought that the termbest friend was hardly good enough to describe how she felt about Clara. Every character on TV and in books had a “best friend.” But Clara was more than that. She was la chica más divertida that Flora had ever known. Clara made every day into an adventure. Clara was the best actress and could make you laugh just by making a silly expression with her face or pantomiming something loco, like pretending the jungle gym in the park was a 100-foot-high tree in the Amazon and that she was going to set a world record for bungee jumping as soon as she vaulted off.
Clara always said it didn’t matter if they weren’t so good at skateboarding or they weren’t the best artists. “Do you think Basquiat or Picasso gave a rip what their art teachers thought of them?” Clara would say, holding up a painting that Flora had done of her abuela. Flora had glued strips of fabric to the canvas so that her grandmother’s dress would look like a traditional mola. “Escúchame, Flora la Fresca.This could be the future of modern art. We don’t know. We don’t live in the future. We just have to continue to be awesome and someday we’ll find out.” Clara had nicknames for everybody and she was the one who first called her Flora la Fresca. “You speak your mind,” Clara said. “I like that. Being fresca isn’t being rude. It’s being smart.”
Soon everyone in Flora’s family, including her parents, her uncles, and her grandmother, called her Flora la Fresca too.
Flora’s family was from Panama and Clara’s parents were from Argentina. They both lived in Westerly, which was a little town by the sea in Rhode Island. Panama and Argentina were different in many ways. For example, Panama was in Central America, and Argentina was in South America. In July, when it was summer in Panama, it was winter in Argentina. But the LeFevres and Clara’s family were both Latino, and in Westerly, that meant they had more in common than not.
Both families insisted that their daughters go to Saturday Spanish school para mejorar la gramática. And on New Year’s Eve, both families celebrated with a big party at Clara’s house. More than a hundred people would crowd the kitchen and the living room, spilling out into the yard and lounging around the solarium and the heated pool. Clara’s dad designed pools for a living, and Rhode Island was cold come the fall. So they had an indoor pool. Clara’s dad, whom Flora called Tío Joaquín, said the room with the indoor pool was a solarium because it had glass all around and solar panels that turned the sunlight into heat, even on a brrr winter’s day.
Then Clara had moved away, right after the New Year’s party in the January of fifth grade, leaving Flora to fend for herself against the loneliness of losing her most favorite friend ever and the curse of a big sister who thought turning fifteen and having a quinceañera made her reina of the world. Clara had moved to California, which was just about as far away from Westerly, Rhode Island, as one could get. Clara’s mom, or Tía Mariana, as Flora called her, was a cartographer, which was a spiffy word for someone who makes maps. It turns out that being a really good mapmaker meant a lot of people wanted to hire you. Tía Mariana was offered a big fancy job in San Francisco. And as luck would have it, people in California are always designing pools, so Clara’s dad would have no trouble finding work there too. So they moved. Clara’s parents said they were sorry that Flora and Clara were so devastated. “The good news is that technology makes it so much easier to stay in touch than when we were kids,” Tía Mariana said cheerfully.
Flora didn’t want to be fresca at the wrong moment. So she didn’t say that technology wouldn’t make it possible for her and Clara to hang out after school at Bruce Lee Boba or practice their flips on the half-pipe.
The second half of fifth grade wasn’t quite the disaster that Flora had thought it would be, even though it seemed like Clara made friends way quicker than Flora did. Flora eventually made a new friend named Zaidee who was from Lebanon but had grown up in Paris and was oooh la la chic.
Even though all the cool girls wanted her to have lunch with them,Zaidee said, “I think there are few things more boring than the so-called ‘dernier cri,’ ”or the latest trend. Zaidee wasn’t Latina. She didn’t speak Spanish. But Flora gave her props on the BFF-ometer (a rating system that she and Clara had created before she left) for speaking another language and not being shallow.
Sixth grade had started off okay. Flora and Zaidee were still hanging out. They had a new teacher, Ms. Kyle, whom everyone loved. And Saturday Spanish school was not exactly fun, but tolerable. Flora was now one of the oldest kids in the group, so she was doing an independent study, reading Sandra Cisneros’s La casa en Mango Street.
It had all been tolerable, even Christmas, but New Year’s hit hard. It was the first one without Clara. On December 30, when Flora’s mother tucked her in, she said, “Ya sé. It’s different this year, but we will start some new traditions.” Flora nodded, but what she was thinking was, Who wants new traditions?
On the morning of December 31, Flora woke to a clanging in the kitchen. She came downstairs to find her father rifling through the drawers.
“What’s going on?” she asked sleepily.
“Your mother told me that you were un poco triste because this is the first New Year’s without Clara. So I am going to make you the most spectacular breakfast ever.”
Flora sat on the bar stool at the kitchen island. She rubbed the bottom of the wooden seat. Her dad had made it ages ago. Hecho a mano. Made by hand, which was also the name of his furniture store in town.
She sighed. It was sweet of him to try to cheer her up. “What’s for breakfast?”
“I’m making banana macadamia nut waffles with brown sugar butter, fresh strawberries, and, claro, plenty of whipped cream.”
She smiled. “You had me at brown sugar butter.”
“There’s also chicken sausage, grapefruit brûlée, and fresh squeezed orange juice. I’ll confess. I didn’t squeeze the orange juice. I didn’t have time.”
“That’s okay, Papa.”
After breakfast, Flora’s father and mother cleaned the house from top to bottom. It was a Panamanian superstition that however the home was on New Year’s Eve was how it would be all year long. So they made sure that everything was sparkling and that the kitchen was stocked with good food and every bathroom had plenty of toothpaste, shower gel, shampoo, and toilet paper.
Dinner that night was going to be at Flora’s uncles’ place. Her tíos, Rogelio and Luca, lived with their toddler daughter, Delfina, in the big house across the yard from Flora’s. Before they went to dinner, Flora took a bath with rose petals, another Panamanian tradition for the new year. After her bath, her mother braided her hair into two French braids. Flora put on a new dress, another Panamanian thing. If you were able to, all your clothes should be new, even your underwear. Flora looked at herself in the mirror. She was eleven years old. In February, she’d be twelve. She’d read a story about a girl who’d gone to college at thirteen. Maybe that was what she’d do. She’d just become a genius and go to college in California. She felt silly that she still missed Clara so much.
Flora took out her cell phone. It was seven p.m. in Westerly, which meant it was four p.m. in San Francisco. She tapped out a text message.
Feliz Año Nuevo, Claracita! I miss you.
Within seconds, there was a reply.
Happy Almost New Year to you too, Flora la Fresca. Are you rocking New Year’s Eve fits? Send a pic.
Then a photo appeared. Not exactly the full Panamanian style, but I got new sneakers.
Clara’s sneakers had a cool pale blue-and-yellow wavy base and were peach-colored with peach laces on top.
Con estilo, Flora texted back.
It was just a little back and forth, but it made her feel good to remember that Clara was still Clara, even though she lived far away.

Chapter 2
Pilar Velez
The first day back to school after winter break, Flora could hardly wait until lunchtime. It was International Day, and there was going to be Szechuan dumplings, arroz con pollo, and a crepe station. But all anyone could talk about in the hallways was that Pilar Velez, arguably the most popular singer-songwriter of her generation, was moving to Westerly.
Flora could hear Palmer Gilroy saying loudly to her posse of girlfriends, “My mother was the real estate agent on the deal, so I’ve got all the details.” Since fourth grade, Flora had called Palmer and her friends “the Lucys” because they were like the mean girl who always moved the football just when Charlie Brown was about to kick it.
Some of the kids were singing their favorite Pilar Velez songs: “The Plane’s Supposed to Shudder,” “Once Upon the High Line,” and Flora’s favorite, “Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day.”
As the girls walked to the lunchroom, she took note of Zaidee’s outfit. When she first met Zaidee, she wore crisp white shirts, pleated skirts, and collared jackets every day. This year, Zaidee, who was almost as tall as Flora’s dad, had changed her uniform to crisp white shirt, either a navy or gray V-neck sweater, and jeans. “I like a uniform,” Zaidee said. “My brain likes it when I don’t have to think about what to wear.”
Flora said, “I mean, it’s cool that Pilar Velez is moving to our town, but it’s not like she’s going to start hanging out with us.”
They threw their backpacks on the lunch table and joined the massive lunch line. “I never knew a singer could cause so much commotion,” said Zaidee.
Out of nowhere, their friends Aidan and Aditya showed up. “Not just any singer, Zaidee. A singer who sold a gazillion records,” Aidan said.
“And she’s got seven Grammys,” Aditya added.
“Maybe she’ll throw a free concert in Wilcox Park,” Aidan said hopefully. “She’s so beautiful.”
“As if,” Aditya said, playfully punching Aidan in the shoulder.
When they were close enough to see the food options, Aidan said, “We’re going to the rice and chicken station. You two coming?”
“I’m going to try the crepes,” Zaidee said.
“I’ll try them with you,” Flora said. “But I may have to get a little arroz because my Panamanian ancestors will haunt me if I let a giant pot of rice go untouched.”
Ms. Powell, the cafeteria director, walked between the stations, scowling and whispering what Flora could only imagine were threats into the ears of the cafeteria workers.
“She’s frightening,” Zaidee whispered.
“Luckily, she doesn’t talk to kids,” Flora whispered back. “We’re beneath her.”
Zaidee ordered a smoked salmon crepe and Flora ordered a chicken and spinach crepe.
By the time they sat down, Aidan and Aditya had already plowed through their bowls of arroz con pollo.
“What do you think of the crepes?” Flora asked.
“C’est pas mal du tout,” Zaidee said.
Flora smiled. “I love it that we’re such good friends that you sometimes talk to me in French, but I don’t actually understand.”
Zaidee shook her head. “Sorry. I said, it’s not bad. Which is the French way of saying it’s pretty good. We like to be understated.”
Flora thought the crepe was delicious, like a quesadilla or a burrito, but even lighter.
Aidan returned with a second bowl of arroz con pollo and said, “Did you know Palmer’s mom was the real estate agent for Pilar Velez?”
Flora took a bite of her crepe and looked over at the table of Lucys. “I know. Palmer’s telling everyone.”
Aidan said, “Did you know that the house cost eighteen million dollars and that Pilar paid for it in cold, hard cash?”
Flora’s eyes widened, “Do you mean she brought eighteen million dollars to the bank? Like in a truck? With armed guards and everything?”
Aditya laughed. “No, silly. They do everything by wire transfer these days. But it does mean that she has so much money that she could literally just open an app on her phone, punch in her passcode, and like that”—he snapped his fingers—“she spent millions of dollars the way some of us tap to buy a drink at the coffee shop.”
Zaidee said, “Ouah,” which Flora had learned is what French people said when they meant “wow.”
“It must be nice to be so rich,” Zaidee continued.
Flora tried to imagine it. “What would it be like to have eighteen million dollars?”
“I mean, what must it be like to have even one million dollars?” Zaidee added.
“My mom says that there are tons of million-dollar properties all along the Rhode Island coast,” Aidan said.
“Wait,” Flora asked, “does that mean that some of our parents are rich?”
“Duh,” said Aditya. “Look around you. I mean, you can count on more than two hands the number of kids whose families have big houses and pools.”
“Does having a pool make you rich?” Zaidee asked. “That’s interesting to me. I wouldn’t say that was the case in Paris.”
“Well, it’s one good indication,” Aditya said.
“What are the other signs of being rich?” Flora asked. Clara’s old house had a pool but she insisted her family wasn’t rich, they were just “rich adjacent.” “I think if you have servants,” Zaidee offered. “That is a sign of being rich.”
“Hmm,” Flora said. “Define servants.”
“You know,” Zaidee said. “Butlers. Cooks. Maids.”
Flora wondered for a second. “A woman named Melissa comes to deep clean our house every two weeks, but my mom would never call her a servant.”
Aditya shook his head. “Nah, that’s a housecleaning service. Lots of people use those. It’s like having someone come to shovel snow in the winter or to cut your grass in the summer. A servant is more like a live-in person. Like in those shows about England mansions, like Bridgerton or Downton Abbey.”
“Speaking of mansions, I heard that Pilar’s house has twelve bedrooms and ten bathrooms,” Aidan said.
“That’s a lot of bedrooms!” Flora said, trying to imagine it. Her house had four bedrooms and her parents always said it was ginormous compared to the apartments they grew up in.
“It’s very common in Paris for there to be a maids’ quarters in the fanciest homes,” Zaidee added. “So maybe one of the bedrooms and bathrooms is for a maid to sleep in.”
As they walked back to their classroom, Zaidee asked, “Maybe we’ll see her at Bruce Lee Boba?”
“Obvs,” Flora said, smiling. “Bruce Lee Boba is the coolest spot in town.”