The bass shook the floorboards of the apartment, rattling the empty bottles on the counter, and Amina swayed in rhythm with the music that pulsed through the cramped living room. The neon lights of the city filtered in through the half-open balcony door, splashing streaks of pink and gold across the peeling white walls. She could feel the warm Cuban air on her skin, mixing with the scent of sweat, perfume, and cheap rum. Around her, laughter exploded, merging with the sharp click of heels on tiles and the metallic ping of a bottle being opened.
"Careful with that one!" someone yelled as a friend nearly dropped a beer. Amina just laughed, brushing her hair back and leaning against the wall, letting the warmth of the alcohol spread through her veins. She wasn't usually one to drink this much-her parents hated it-but tonight was different. Tonight was freedom. Tonight was Havana, chaotic, loud, messy, and intoxicating, and she was soaking it all in like it was the last time she'd ever feel it.
She grabbed a cup from the counter and raised it to her lips, the bitter taste of rum sliding down her throat. She could hear her mother's voice echoing somewhere in the back of her mind, sharp and accusing: "Amina, stop! You're too young, you're irresponsible, you're… yourself." But the voice was distant now, like it belonged to someone else. The music was louder than her conscience, louder than the nagging guilt she carried from weeks of sneaking out, skipping school, ignoring prayers she used to say without thinking.
The apartment was a mess. Shoes were kicked off in corners, backpacks and jackets lay like discarded promises, and someone had written "VIVA LA NOCHE" in smudged lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Amina's friends-too many to count-danced and joked, leaning close enough to share secrets whispered in bursts of laughter and mischief. She felt the rush of being included, being known, being alive in a way that her family, with their endless rules and suffocating expectations, had never allowed her to feel.
Her phone buzzed In her pocket. She ignored it. Then buzzed again. And again. By the fourth time, she fished it out. Her mother. And then her father. She rolled her eyes and slipped it back into her pocket. They didn't understand. They never did. If they tried calling now, she would just pretend she didn't see it. Maybe she'd even let it go to voicemail.
She took another sip of rum and laughed when she stumbled into the couch, catching herself just in time. Someone handed her a cigarette. She took it, knowing she shouldn't, knowing it would be the first of many reckless choices tonight, but it felt like fuel for her rebellion. The smoke curled in the warm, humid air, and she inhaled it like a promise that the world didn't belong to her parents, didn't belong to St. Celeste's, didn't belong to anyone who tried to cage her.
Hours passed-or maybe it was minutes-she didn't know anymore. The world was a blur of neon lights, thumping music, and laughter that rang too loud in her head. At one point, she found herself on the balcony, looking out at the glittering streets of Havana, the lights reflecting in the water of the harbour, the boats bobbing lazily. She felt weightless, as if the city itself was holding her up, keeping her from falling into all the rules and expectations waiting for her at home.
But then reality hit her like a splash of cold water. The apartment felt empty without her parents' disapproving eyes, yes, but suddenly it also felt fragile, temporary. She remembered the messages she had ignored, the missed calls, the anxious texts piling up on her phone. A twinge of guilt passed through her chest, quickly drowned out by another sip of rum. She could deal with that later. Tonight was hers.
By the time the party started thinning out-people stumbling toward cabs, scooters, or the warmth of someone else's apartment-Amina was drunk, dizzy, exhilarated. She laughed at things that weren't funny, kissed someone she barely knew on the cheek, and shouted into the humid Havana night, "This is my life!"
Eventually, she found herself stumbling into a taxi, her phone forgotten, her purse hanging loosely from her shoulder, and the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red. She imagined she could stay like this forever, running from her parents, from rules, from expectations. But deep down, she knew it was temporary. Everything was temporary in Havana, wasn't it?
The taxi screeched to a halt outside her family's apartment building. She barely registered the driver's grumble as she tumbled out, laughing, tripping over her own feet. The doorman gave her a disapproving look. She ignored it and fumbled with the keys, the apartment door swinging open before she could even think.
And then the reality hit. The living room was quiet, too quiet. The smell of dinner lingered, uneaten. The faint scent of her mother's perfume hung in the air. And her parents were standing there, arms crossed, faces hard, eyes sharp.
"Amina," her father said, his voice low and tense. "We need to talk."
Her heart skipped. She tried to laugh it off, brushing it with a careless grin. "Relax, it's just me coming home late. I'm fine."
"You're not fine," her mother snapped, stepping forward, hands on hips. "You've been unreachable all night. Your phone off. Do you have any idea what we felt?"
Amina blinked, trying to remember the last time she'd even looked at her missed calls. The guilt was there now, sharp, burning. But before she could answer, her father's voice cut in again, colder this time.
"You're leaving in the morning."
Her stomach dropped. "What… what do you mean?"
"You're leaving for Mexico," he said, his eyes meeting hers with a finality that stole her breath. "We've arranged for you to be enrolled at St. Celeste's Academy. A strict Catholic school. Starting tomorrow."
Her mind spun. "Mexico? St. Celeste's? What are you talking about? I-"
"You're not debating this, Amina," her mother interrupted, her voice sharp as broken glass. "This is for your own good. You've been… reckless. You need guidance, structure. And we're giving it to you."
Amina felt the room tilt. The alcohol that had made her feel invincible moments ago now made her queasy and dizzy with fear. "I… I can't just leave tomorrow. I have my life here. My friends… my school… everything!"
Her father stepped closer, lowering his voice but keeping the authority intact. "Everything you have here will still exist when you're older. But right now, you need discipline. You need to learn responsibility. St. Celeste's will give you that. And yes, it's strict. Yes, it will be hard. But it's the only way you're going to find your way back to… the right path."
Amina shook her head, stumbling back onto the couch. Her pulse hammered in her ears. "But I… I'm not… I don't… I can't…"
Her mother softened slightly, but the steel behind her eyes remained. "You're sixteen. And this is what's best for you. We won't argue anymore. Pack your things tonight. You leave with the first flight in the morning."
The words echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the walls, dissolving into the shadows of the empty bottles, the spilled drinks, the party's remnants. Amina felt like she was being yanked from one life and dropped into another she didn't want, didn't understand, and wasn't ready for.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to fight. But her body was heavy, drunk, trembling with exhaustion and fear. All she could do was sink into the couch cushions and stare at the ceiling, at the neon stains from the streetlights, at the remnants of the party she had just lived as if it were her last.
Tomorrow, she realized, everything would change. Tomorrow, Havana would end. And St. Celeste's-the walls, the rules, the rituals-would begin. And she, Amina Elias, would be forced to navigate a world she didn't choose, a world that demanded obedience, purity, and faith she didn't know she had anymore.
For now, all she could do was lie there, the alcohol blurring her thoughts, the weight of inevitability pressing down, and wonder if she could survive the life her parents had chosen for her-or if, in the process, she would forget herself entirely.