by Diana Lopez
Miguel sighs, and as he picks up his shoeshine box, he notices a sheet of paper. It’s a flyer for the talent show—the one the mariachi told him about! Quickly, before Abuelita turns around, he pockets the flyer.
As they walk through the plaza, Abuelita can’t stop commenting on everyone’s shoes. When she sees Señor Maldonado, she says, “Now there is an admirable man. See how the patent leather of his loafers gleams in the sun?” When she sees Señora Diaz, she says, “I dyed those satin pumps myself, and look how they’re fading.” And to the señora, she calls out, “Don’t store your shoes by the window! They’re supposed to be red but now they’re turning pink from all that sun.” Señora Diaz gives her a thumbs-up and hurries away.
And then Rosa spots a small boy and points at him. “Look, Abuelita!”
Abuelita gasps. “His shoelaces!” Sure enough, the laces on the boy’s tennis shoes are frayed and too short to be tied into a proper knot.
“Not his shoes,” Rosa says. “He’s crying!”
“Of course he’s crying. I would cry, too, if my shoelaces looked like that.” Abuelita stoops down to examine them. “What happened here?” she asks the boy, but instead of explaining what happened to his shoes, he says, “I’m lost.”
Abuelita snaps to get Tío Berto’s attention. “Go find his parents,” she orders.
“Yes, yes, right away,” Tío Berto says as he obediently rushes off.
“We’ll find your parents,” Abuelita tells the boy. “In the meantime, you can’t go around with frayed laces. Lucky for you, I have extras in my purse.” She pulls out three pairs of shoelaces, and the boy’s eyes widen with delight. “Which color do you want?” she asks, and he studies them as if choosing the right color is the most important decision of his life.
While Abuelita is busy with the boy, Miguel spots a paper airplane. It’s crumpled from being stepped on. Thinking he can smooth out the crumpled parts and give it to the boy, Miguel picks it up, but he only half-heartedly unfolds it because he can’t stop thinking about music. He really wants to perform. Except for Dante and Mamá Coco, no one’s ever heard him sing. They don’t want to hear him sing, because it’s against the family rules. But what if he won the talent show? Maybe…just maybe they would accept him as a real musician.
He sighs, heavyhearted. Then he refolds the paper, making it a plane again, and throws it into the air. As it glides away, he thinks about his dreams. Will they glide away, too?
He’s about to return to Abuelita when he hears clacking from around the corner. He sneaks over to investigate, Rosa following. When they reach the sound, they find a group of ballet folklórico dancers.
“They’re so pretty,” Rosa says, admiring the full skirts with colorful petticoats and the hairstyles with ribbons and braids. The dancers are warming up for a performance, their toes and heels clacking on the sidewalk. “And they have the prettiest shoes,” Rosa adds wistfully.
It’s true. The shoes are very pretty, but Miguel is most interested in the metal plates on the heels and toes, because that is what makes the pleasant sound. He lifts a foot, examines the soles of his boots, and wonders if he could add his own metal plates. He’s not allowed to play instruments, but maybe he could tap out rhythms with his feet.
“What are you doing?” Abuelita says, hands on hips.
Miguel lowers his foot. “We’re just listening…I mean, looking at the dancers’ beautiful shoes.”
Abuelita has a skeptical expression on her face, but she lets it go. As they walk away, Miguel asks, “Abuelita, why don’t we make those kinds of shoes, for the ballet folklórico dancers?”
When she doesn’t answer, he asks again—and again.
“We just don’t!” she says, and he knows better than to keep asking why.
Many years ago, fifteen-year-old Coco hurried to the family’s workshop with instructions from her mother to pick up five pairs of shoes and deliver them to the dancers in town. When she entered the shop, she found her uncles, Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, side by side at their stations. They were identical twins, both wearing fedoras, long aprons, and striped shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Coco marveled at how their movements were perfectly matched as they pulled on needles with long lengths of thread.
“Hola, Coco,” they said.
“What are you working on?” she asked.
“We’re sewing tongues,” Tío Oscar replied, and when he saw her surprise, he said, “Tongues for shoes, not the tongues you speak with.”
“Or lick with,” Tío Felipe added.
“Or whistle with.”
“Or stick out when you’re mad at your mamá Imelda.”
Coco laughed. That was how her uncles talked, one after the other, and Coco had to pivot her head back and forth as she tried to keep up.
“Ay, tíos,” she cried. “You’re going to give me a headache!”
“Perdóname,” both uncles said, and they immediately got back to sewing, pulling their needles in unison again. Coco hated to interrupt them, but she needed to pick up the shoes.
“Are the dancing shoes ready? Mamá said you made five pairs.”
“Of course,” Tío Felipe said. “One of us made three pairs—”
“And the other made two,” finished Tío Oscar.
Coco followed them to the far corner of the shop, where they brought down two boxes from a shelf. As they pulled out shoes, they counted. “One, two…” said Tío Oscar. “Three, four…” said Tío Felipe. And together, they said, “Five.”
They left the shoes in a pile and returned to their workstations. Coco wrapped each pair in tissue paper and carefully placed them in a basket so she could carry them to town. Meanwhile, her uncles were stroking their pencil-thin mustaches as they tried to solve a riddle.
“Which needle is mine?” Tío Felipe said.
“And which is mine?” asked Tío Oscar.
“Well, I was using black thread.”
“So was I. Perhaps we should measure.”
They grabbed a measuring tape. “Same length!” they exclaimed.
“Mira, hermano,” Tío Oscar said, “no offense, but I prefer to use my own needle.”
“As do I.”
Coco knew this discussion would last all day, so she marched over, picked up the needles, and handed them out.
“This one is yours and this one is yours,” she said.
“How can you tell?” they asked.
“Because they’re clearly different.”
The uncles examined the needles, doubtful expressions on their faces. “They are?”
“Yes!” Coco said, and pointing to each of her uncles, she continued, “As different as you and you!”
“Well, that makes perfect sense,” Tío Oscar replied.
“It most certainly does,” agreed Tío Felipe.
“We’re as different as boots and sandals.”
“As buckles and laces.”
“As heels and flats.”
“As…”
Coco grabbed her basket of shoes and rushed out before she got another headache. She loved her uncles, but they sure knew how to confuse her sometimes.
Coco enjoyed the bright sunshine as she headed to the dance studio. It was a quiet walk, and she heard only her steps and the rustle of her skirt. But once she reached the center of town, more sounds layered in—children laughing on the playground, vendors calling out their wares, and dogs barking for treats.
She crossed the plaza, turned a corner, and found the studio. “Anybody here?” she called, because it was empty when she stepped in.
“We’re in the back,” someone answered.
She followed the voice to a dressing room, where a seamstress was taking measurements of the girls. When they saw Coco, they clapped in delight, because her family had already earned a reputation for making excellent shoes.
As soon as she set down the basket, the girls rushed to it, unwrapped the shoes, and tried them on. Then one of the girls ran to the studio and started skipping around, a
simple version of the polka. Soon all five girls joined her, their footsteps rhythmically clacking and echoing one another. There wasn’t a single instrument in the room, yet it seemed filled with music.
Watching them reminded Coco of a time when she used to dance, too. She had been very young when her father left, so she couldn’t remember his face very well, but she could remember his voice and the joy she had felt as she’d danced with her mother whenever he’d played the guitar and sung.
“Look!” the dance teacher said, disrupting Coco’s memory. “Here’s an extra pair of shoes.”
Coco peeked into the basket and realized her uncles’ mistake. Each had made three pairs, so instead of five, there were six pairs of shoes. Coco laughed to herself. Leave it to them to copy each other exactly.
For a moment, she thought about giving the extra
shoes to the dancers in case another girl joined their group, but then she had a better idea. She would keep them for herself!
She finished the transaction, rushed home, and went behind the family compound to try the shoes. They fit perfectly! She did a little hop, then another and another. On the hard-packed dirt, her steps landed with a soft thud. She tiptoed to the paved patio, stepped onto the bricks, and heard the pleasant clicking of her shoes. She did a toe tap, cautiously, as if testing the temperature of a pool before jumping in. Then she glanced about. No one was around, so she decided it was safe to dance. Her first steps were a bit awkward because she hadn’t danced in such a long time, but she was a natural. She felt rhythm in her blood. She didn’t need musicians to sing, because she had the memory of her father’s voice. She closed her eyes and the dancing took her back to the happiest memories of her early childhood. Soon she was flicking her feet, striking the ground with her toes and heels, and twirling her skirt. Her steps were getting faster, more rhythmic, and louder. Her footsteps echoed off the walls, and Coco imagined a dozen dancers celebrating beside her!
Then she heard someone’s voice: “Ahem!”
Coco froze and opened her eyes. There stood Mamá Imelda, clearing her throat to get Coco’s attention. She cradled a kitten and absently scratched behind its ears, making the little cat purr. Coco wondered how her mother’s arms could be so tender when her eyes could be so stern.
“Um…uh…hola, Mamá.”
“I thought I told you to deliver those shoes.”
“I did,” Coco said, “but there was an extra pair, so I thought…well, I wanted…and…”
Her mother raised an eyebrow, questioning, and Coco hung her head, ashamed. Then Mamá Imelda set down the kitten, approached her daughter, and lifted Coco’s chin. This time her eyes were as gentle as her hands.
“M’ija,” she said, “look around.” Mamá Imelda stood back and looked at the hacienda with appreciation. “We have a comfortable home, delicious food, and warm clothes, but more importantly, we have each other, and all because we know the difference between good, honest work and…careless indulgences.”
Coco nodded. “I understand, but—”
“It’s very simple,” Mamá Imelda interrupted. “Music tore our family apart, but shoes have kept us together.” She straightened Coco’s braids. “From now on,” she said, “the dancers can order from someone else. These shoes bring too many sad memories, and some things are better to forget.” Then she headed to the workshop, the kitten following close behind.
Disheartened, Coco headed to her room to take off the shoes. They still clicked as she stepped on the pavement, but instead of music, the clicks sounded like someone hammering shut her joy.
Miguel trudges along with his family. He’s carrying his shoeshine box and an armful of marigolds. He’s still getting lectured, even though they’re halfway home now.
“How many times have we told you?” Tío Berto says. “That place is crawling with mariachis!”
“Yes, Tío Berto.”
Prima Rosa gives him a sympathetic look, but she doesn’t jump to his defense. Miguel can’t blame her. If she takes his side, she’ll get in trouble, too.
Then Dante ambles up, sniffs the bags Miguel’s relatives are carrying, and whines for treats.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Miguel says to the hairless dog, because he knows what’s going to happen next—and sure enough, it does.
“Go away, you! Go!” Abuelita says, throwing the chancla at Dante. It works. The frightened dog runs off.
“It’s just Dante,” Miguel explains.
“Never name a street dog,” Abuelita warns. “It’ll follow you forever. Now, go get my shoe!”
Miguel stoops to pick it up. It’s tricky since he’s holding so many things, but he manages to grab the shoe and secure it under his arm. His family has finally stopped scolding him, but Miguel knows it won’t last. Lectures usually aren’t over until everyone has chimed in, and with a family as big as his, that’s a lot of people.
Then he spots another talent show flyer, this one nailed to a post. His family is walking ahead, their backs to him. He can hear their voices talking about Día de los Muertos, and from the opposite direction, he can hear the faint sounds of music. He leans toward it. The music calls him. He feels torn between his devotion to family and his desire for music. There has to be a way to get the best of both worlds. What if he…yes! He pats the flyer in his pocket, making sure it’s still there. He will enter the contest, but he’ll keep it a secret. That way, he can be a musician and keep his family happy.
As soon as they get to the family compound, Abuelita marches them to the shoemaking shop. Everyone is busy at work, including his teenaged primo, Abel, who’s guiding shoes through an automated polisher. Miguel knows the drill. He sets down his supplies, plops on a stool, and braces himself for more lecturing.
Abuelita grabs two wooden shoe stretchers, using them as clappers to get everyone’s attention. “I found your son in Mariachi Plaza!” she tells Miguel’s parents.
“Miguel…” Papá says, disappointed, and Mamá says, “You know how Abuelita feels about the plaza.”
“I was just shining shoes!”
“A musician’s shoes!” Tío Berto reveals.
Everyone gasps, including Abel, causing his shoe to zip away from the polisher and fly up to the roof. A few seconds later, it falls and bops him on the head.
“But the plaza’s where all the foot traffic is,” Miguel explains.
“If Abuelita says no more plaza,” Papá says, “then no more plaza.”
“But what about tonight?” Miguel asks.
“What’s tonight?” Papá Franco wants to know.
Miguel hesitates before speaking, but he can’t help spilling his secret. “It’s Día de los Muertos. The whole town’s gonna be there and…well…they’re having this talent show.”
Abuelita narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. “Talent show?”
Miguel gulps and squirms in his seat. “And I thought I might…”
“Sign up?” Mamá guesses.
“Well, maybe?”
Prima Rosa laughs. “You have to have talent to be in a talent show.”
“Yeah,” Abel adds. “What are you going to do, shine shoes?”
Miguel hates it when his primos tease him. Why can’t they take his side once in a while?
“I do have a talent,” Miguel insists, “but…it’s…” He spots the quizzical expressions on his parents’ faces. “Well, it’s…it’s a surprise.”
“Absolutely not!” Abuelita says. “It’s Día de los Muertos, and no one’s going anywhere. Tonight is about family.” She grabs the marigolds that Miguel set down and the ones Rosa had carried, and she gives them to him. There are so many petals that Miguel nearly inhales a few and has to spit them out. “Ofrenda room,” Abuelita orders. “¡Vámonos!”
Miguel follows Abuelita to the ofrenda room, and when they enter, they see that Mamá Coco is already there. Miguel smiles at her, but before he can say hello, Abuelita orders him to hold the flowers while she arranges them on the altar. He wishes he could be alone with
Mamá Coco and tell her about the talent show. She would understand, unlike… He glances at his grandmother.
“Don’t give me that look,” Abuelita says. “It’s the one night of the year our ancestors can come visit us.” She takes a moment to adjust the flower arrangement. “We’ve put their photos on the ofrenda so their spirits can cross over. We made all this food, and set out the things they loved in life, m’ijo.”
Every year, Abuelita stresses this important tradition. Only the spirits with pictures on an ofrenda can enjoy the offerings left in the home and at the gravesites. The pictures are like boarding passes, and without them, the spirits remain stuck on the other side.
While she’s preoccupied with the flowers, Miguel takes a few steps toward the door. He needs to practice. The talent show is only a few hours away.
“All this work to bring the family together,” Abuelita says, “so I don’t want you sneaking off to who-knows-where.”
She reaches for a flower, but Miguel’s not there. He’s halfway to the door.
“Where are you going?” she demands.
“I thought we were done.”
“Ay, Dios mío,” she sighs, exasperated. “Being part of this family means being here for this family. I don’t want to see you end up like—” She glances at the photo of young Mamá Coco, her mother, Imelda, and the faceless musician.
“Like Mamá Coco’s papá?”
“Never mention that man!” Abuelita says. “He’s better off forgotten.”
“But you’re the one who—”
“Ta, ta, ta-tch!” Abuelita will not let him speak.
Miguel’s about to push the issue, but then they hear Mamá Coco’s gravelly voice. “Papá? Papá is home?”
Abuelita rushes to her. “Mamá, cálmese, cálmese.”
“Papá is coming home?” Mamá Coco asks again.
“No, Mamá. But it’s okay. I’m here.”
With Abuelita preoccupied, Miguel sneaks away. He doesn’t hear Mamá Coco ask his abuelita, “Who are you?” He doesn’t see the sadness on his grandmother’s face as she tells Mamá Coco to rest while she gently pats the old lady’s hands. He doesn’t hear Abuelita try to tell him, “I’m hard on you because I care,” and he also fails to hear her sigh when she realizes that he’s gone.
