When I entered high school, there was always the certainty of graduating, which meant the bustling corridors, cluttered classrooms and lockers slamming before the first period would cease to haunt me.

But after all that time, it wasn't until I was standing on a platform, in the middle of Preston Academy's baseball field, in front of thirty-one students in their black and white caps and gowns, that I finally understood what graduating meant: Accomplishment.

So, the pressure I feel while standing on the podium to read my valedictorian speech is daunting because I don't want to get this moment wrong.

To ease my anxiety, I inwardly pray to Naná Burukú for strength and then begin:

"I remember, Mrs Jennings, saying on the first day of Freshman year, to cherish the days leading up to graduation, to take risks, to say what needs to be said, and for the love of God, don't TP the Headmaster's car on Senior Prank Day. Although I should regret being a part of the water balloon escapade on prank day, I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy every moment. I'm sorry, Mr Stevenson, for the balloon pieces left in your windshield."

The audience laughs, and in return, I get a not-so-pleased look from him.

I continue, "there were many precious moments out of all four years, and I can't help but feel that prank day was most likely the topping on the cake for all of us. I believe in the back of our minds; we knew it would be the last day we ever would be together like that as a senior class. We are guilty of counting down the days to graduation because we know it would be the end of an era, where we would wonder what the first day of college or the first day of our new life would be. I know I can't wait for the new memories and the unique experiences after being handed my diploma."

I glimpse Damìan in the crowd, whose intently listening to my speech; he catches my gaze and gives me a thumbs up.

"Mrs Jennings was right that first day of Freshman year, that we should take risks and say what needs to be said, and if we all hadn't done anything that she said that day, then we should at least try and adhere to those words when this day is over, and the next begins. Teachers, parents and students, even though this is goodbye, it's not the end, it's a new beginning, and I can't wait for what's on the other side. Thank you."

After a brief silence, to my surprise, everyone begins to applaud. I smile and nod at the recognition as I head away from the podium and back to my seat.

Carmen squeals, hugging me as soon as I sit down, "you were great up there, Lulu. I said you'd kill it, and you did."

Lulu. You'd think Luena wouldn't need a nickname, but it's my fault I got stuck with it.

For a time when I was younger, I was diagnosed with a childhood-onset fluency disorder, so instead of saying Luena, I'd stutter and say lu...lu...ena, and everyone adapted to calling me Lulu.

The only person who doesn't use my nickname is my mother; she named me after my maternal grandmother's homeland, Luena, Angola—a city in central Africa.

I exhale, "I thought I was going to die up there."

"You had nothing to worry about. I especially loved the part about taking risks and saying what needs to be said," she chuckles. "Does that mean you intend to tell mi idiota primo (my idiot cousin) how you feel?"

I snap my head in her direction, hoping no one heard her words.

"Carmen, someone could hear." I half-whispered under my breath.

She rolls her eyes, "bitch, it's graduation day. No one cares about your love life."

I shake my head, "it may have had an influence, but you already know why I can't go there."

I glance over the crowd and spot the reason in question tying her strawberry blonde hair in a low ponytail.

Carmen follows my eyes, "Livia? You and I both know you're the better woman."

Carmen Maitea Orrala-Duprey has been my best friend since I was three years old. But if I'm being honest, we have always felt more like sisters. So, just like me, she is not a fan of Livia McAdams or her relationship with Damìan.

It's already hard enough not having the courage to tell your best friend you're in love with him, but it's increasingly complicated when they begin dating a trollop the last two years.

I've had the pleasure of sitting in the front row of their nonsensical love story. The urge to stab myself with a fork to ease the stomach-churning nightmare comes to mind; what makes Livia so intriguing to Damìan? I'll never know.

I smile at her words, touching my heart with the palm of my hand, "it's nice to know I have a cheerleader in my corner."

Cringing, she releases my arm, "never call me that again. I worked too hard on being a gymnast."

I cheekily stick out my tongue and manage to catch Mr Stevenson hosting diploma collections.

Damìan and I come from two hardworking households.

In the late fifties, Damìan's grandparents were a borinquén couple that settled in California to expand their hotel, El Atlántica (The Atlantic), from San Juan. They established a chain across the US: Malibu, Las Vegas, Miami, New York, and originally Puerto Rico.

They've long since retired and left the affairs of the hotels to Damìan's parents and have spent the last three years travelling the world; last I heard, they were in Barcelona.

Because of the family's borinquén roots, I've had the honour of being thrust into the traditions of the Spanish-speaking household.

Years later, I pride myself on being multilingual in Italian, Portuguese, Spanish and English. Regardless of range, I prefer to speak a mix of Italian and Spanish because I'm closer to my father and Damìan's family.

As for my parents.

My Mother, Ayana Ferreira Knightley, who's British-Angolan, is co-owner of Deusa Mãe (pronounced de-oh-za-myn); the translation is Portuguese for Mother Goddess.

It's a beautiful skincare and haircare company created for the BIPOC community. She loves to call it our family's maternal heirloom because she and her mother started the company in the nineties and successfully branched in London and New York (previously LA).

My Father, Lucien Dean Martinelli, an Italian, owns an architectural firm called Martinelli Architettura, stationed in New York and Los Angeles. He also comes from a family that has cultivated a winery and vineyard in Tuscany called Tinelli Chianti, where he spent his childhood.

As for their new partners, Averie Claude, married to my Father and Erzulie Sanjaray, partnered with my Mother, both run successful businesses.

Averie is a science-romance author working on a film adaptation of her book, The Erratica's, in Hollywood; it's about a love epidemic that turns humans into aliens when they have sex with each other and a lot more interesting than it sounds.

Erzulie (or Zulie) owns an Art Gallery and Indo-Haitian restaurant in New York. I'm looking forward to her Exhibit this summer that she has spent months working on; it's supposed to be abstract expressionism shown alongside other artists she's been working with.

I, too, love art, and I'm still deciding which major I'll pursue because I have a passion for it, but I also want to be realistic. Art isn't an easy field to become successful in.

Currently, Carmen and I have just arrived at the Moreno-Jones Hotel.

The beach resort, El Atlántica, is a Spanish colonial-style sits directly among the sands of Carbon Beach and is the first hotel the family established in the states.

I enjoy Malibu's Meditteranean climate, especially during the summer, and I'm pretty sure the guest of the hotel do as well. Despite popular belief, the hotel doesn't receive that many celebrities, but primarily ordinary people with money to spend looking to have a good time and relax—if you call rich clientele ordinary people.

The hotel does well for itself; I even heard from Carmen that it would be featured in the Forbes Travel Guide for star-rated hotels in a few weeks.

Success is guaranteed when you work hard.

Boleros instrumentals play quietly overhead when we enter the Grand Lobby. I love the Grand Lobby for its interior; it isn't called that just because; bright white walls adorned in Old San Juan paintings show the multi-coloured beach city, the terra-cotta floors are Spanish mission red, and there's a mix of dark rattan and antique furniture and various tropical plants scattered throughout the lobby, but the most eye-catching part of the Grand Lobby is the dark wood cathedral style ceilings; the high rise is what gives the lobby its name.

We're greeted almost immediately at reception by the hotel's manager, Helena Vasquez, which has been with them for sixteen years.

She smiles sweetly at both of us, "¡Feliz graduación (happy graduation)!" she excites, hugging us both.

"Gracias, tía Lena (thank you, aunt Lena)," Carmen replies.

"I remember when you both were little, running up and down the halls and now look at you beautiful girls," she says, misty-eyed.

"We've come a long way. From the searching for treasure on the beach as kids to having our senior prom dinner here, it's been one hell of a ride. We also apologise for all the trouble we caused. The running up and down, of course, and the many times we got sand in the lobby when it was being cleaned; please forgive us," I laugh.

"Speak for yourself," Carmen muses. "I have no qualms about that; I was a kid."

Helena laughs.

"We're actually here for our graduation dinner. Have our parents arrived yet?" Carmen asked.

"Yes, they have. They're waiting for you in the penthouse suit."

Helena proceeds to lead us around the corner to board a private elevator to the penthouse on the thirteenth floor.

In building the hotel, Damian's grandfather, Alonso Moreno Martínez, had a sense of humour; usually, a hotel would skip the thirteenth floor because of its superstition, but he solely reserved the penthouse for his son, Leónidas Moreno García, and the family on the thirteenth floor. Damìan's father hasn't changed it because he doesn't believe in superstitions either.

I, for one, love supersititions. I'll go into haunted houses if you dared me to, open my umbrella inside, and walk under a ladder just for fun. I even own a black cat, her name is Shadow and she's an american shorthair I adopted a year ago.

I love the stories behind superstitions because they aren't as ominous as people believe.

Finally arriving at the penthouse, we're cheered by our parents: Dahlìa Jones-Duprey, Damiána Jones Gonzalez and my father (or Babbo). Señor Moreno and my mother are the only ones not present.

The patio is decorated with a string of vintage lights, a banner across the balcony that reads "You Graduated", and the antique dining table in the center is set with an array of food and drinks.

Gazing out, the sun has left the evening sky, but it's still the daylight hours.

Babbo envelops me in a bear hug and lightly kisses my cheeks. "I'm so proud of you, Lulu. You graduated high school, and you're going to NYU in the fall. Principessa, stai crescendo così in fretta (princess, you're growing so fast)."

"Tell me about it. My girl is leaving me soon," Aunt Dahlìa says, hugging her tight.

"Má, no puedo respirator (mom, I can't breathe)," Carmen laughs.

"Let her go, hermana. I'm sure our girls are hungry," Aunt Ána replies. "Let's eat!"

"Ella es mi niña (she is my little girl). I'll hug her as long as I want," Aunt Dahlìa says, still holding onto Carmen.

"Your baby girl won't be alive for very long if you keep squeezing the life out of her," Carmen muses.

Aunt Dahlìa finally releases her and sits down.

I sit next to Aunt Ána, who immediately gives me a side hug and lightly kisses my temple. "I'm so proud of you, mi amor (my love)," she whispers. I smile at the compliment.

Damìan is the splitting image of his mother; warm beige skin, high cheekbones, thick long black hair, big brown eyes, and a beautifully inviting pink-lipped smile. The same goes for Carmen's mother; they look like twins even though their half-siblings.

Both women are my family—not literally, but they might as well be. They basically raised me and treated me as their flesh and blood. I met Aunt Dahlìa when I was five; she had just moved to California with Carmen after her husband, Edmund, died in a car accident.

Carmen didn't speak English when we met, but that didn't stop us from becoming fast friends. Honestly, it's through her I learned Spanish so well; when she was learning English, I was learning Spanish, and we taught one another.

I appreciate those times because understanding their home tongue makes me feel connected to their borinquén roots somehow.

I've heard that many Boricuas haven't affirmed their blackness and have a sort of prejudice towards others of the same race, but that has never been the case with our families. I never experienced discrimination, racism or colourism between us. Born from a European Italian father and African mother, people have been interested in where I come from or who I am, but within my family, I'm just me.

We love each other, and that's all that matters.

"Can you pour us all some wine, Helena? It's a special occasion," Aunt Ána asked.

Helena, standing off to the side, directly goes into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of Chianti Classico wine, which I recognised to be from Babbo's vineyard.

"You really came prepared, Babbo," I muse. He pats my hand and then places a wine glass from his side of the table in front of me.

"Where's Damìan tonight?" Babbo asks as he hands me a basket of fritters.

I clear the folded towel off my plate and take a few out—the fried cod fritters are called Bacalaítos. It's my favourite snack that Aunt Ána makes (it's not on the hotel menu, so I assume the latter).

Actually, observing the food spread, I notice almost all of it are a mix of what Damìan, Carmen, and I love. I even spot an uncut chocolate panettone in plastic wrap at the end of the table that Babbo knows I enjoy.

Carmen eyes me knowingly, "he's out with his friends tonight, celebrating," I lie.

In truth, Damìan is at a classmate's house fifteen minutes away from the hotel, preparing a party for our graduating class. "We're gonna meet up with him after dinner."

Babbo nods, placing a scoop of yellow rice and shrimp on his plate.

"Well, girls. What plans do you have for the summer?" Aunt Ána inquires.

"Jackie and I plan to spend more time together...." Carmen answered. She gazes at me curiously and hesitates before responding, "and we decided to go to Thailand for the summer...to meet her family."

"What!" I cough. Swallowing my fritters wrongly, Babbo slid me a glass of water he shortly poured.

Never tell me news when I'm swallowing, drinking or handling anything delicate—I'm too clumsy.

"Lo siento, amor mío (I'm sorry, my love), I didn't know how to tell you."

I can't believe she is travelling halfway across the world without me.

"Well, it makes sense...you'll be off to Harvard in the fall, and they're going to Stanford. You should be happy for them, Lulu."

"I never said I wasn't happy for them, Aunt Dahlìa...I'm just surprised."

"I know you wanted more time together before I'm off, but—"

I address her thoughtfully, "say less...you deserve a wonderful summer. Who am I to come in-between that? We're sisters, so we have all the time in the world." She smiles graciously.

"Since we're sharing, I should mention that Damiána and I are vacationing in Bora Bora for a month. So the sister love is floating all around," Aunt Dahlìa laughs.

If there isn't a moment I'm gracious for, it's this one.

Raising my wine glass, I address everyone at the table, "I love you all so much. Thank you for the food and the good wishes. So, I raise a glass...to family...and many more moments like this one."

They cheer and clink their glasses with mine.