by Diana Lopez
“Like I said, it’s all junk,” Victoria repeats. “And instead of thinking about things to make, we should be searching for Miguel.”
The family inspects the entire tent, even the spaces behind the flaps. Mamá Imelda notices that mixed with the random items are a bowl of guitar picks, a box of sheet music, amplifiers, snapped nylon strings, and a broken metronome.
“Everything but the guitar,” she observes. “Somehow Miguel found this…this…musician”—she nearly spits the word—“and took the guitar for himself. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
At that moment, Pepita peeks in and beckons them outside. They follow her, and halfway up the alley, the magical jaguar breathes, revealing, once again, Miguel’s footprints.
“This is excellent news,” Mamá Imelda says. “His prints have not yet disappeared, which means he was here a short time ago.”
Pepita continues to breathe, revealing a path that leads them to…
“A trolley!” Miguel shouts gleefully. He’s having a great time climbing over seats, running through the aisle, and finally hanging off the back, where Héctor idly fiddles with the guitar. Dante sticks his head out a window, his tongue flapping and eyes squinting in the wind. Miguel laughs. Why do dogs love to stick their heads out of moving vehicles?
“The A string is still off,” Héctor mutters to himself as he turns the tuning peg.
“You told me you hated musicians,” Miguel says. “You never said you were one.”
“How do you think I knew your great-great-grandpa? We used to play music together. Taught him everything he knows.” Héctor shows off with a fancy riff but botches the last note.
“¡No manches! You played with Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time?”
“Ha-ha! You’re funny! Greatest eyebrows of all time maybe, but his music, eh, not so much.”
How could he say that? De la Cruz is a great musician! “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miguel says.
“Okay, Mr. Expert. What’s so great about it? I’m all ears. Well, that’s figurative, because I don’t have any—”
“Yeah, I got it,” Miguel says, anxious to defend de la Cruz. “I listen to his music and…it’s like, he gets me, you know? Even though I’ve never met him.”
“Well, I have met him,” Héctor says, “and honestly, I don’t think he’d care for you.” When Miguel gets a hurt look on his face, Héctor playfully punches him. “I’m kidding!”
Miguel tries to laugh it off, but he can’t. “What if you’re right?” he says. “What if I finally meet my great-great-grandfather, and he doesn’t like me?”
“Ay, chamaco, what’s not to like? You’re a cool kid.”
“I am?”
“Well, technically speaking, you’re a warm kid, on account of having blood and veins and…and…flesh. But you know what I mean. You’re interesting, fun, and talented. He’s going to love you. Trust me.”
“You think he’ll let me play music? You think he’ll teach me?”
“Of course. That’s what great-great-grandpas do.”
Just then, the trolley abruptly stops, making them stumble a little. As they step off, Héctor gestures to the area at which they’ve arrived. “Welcome to the Plaza de la Cruz!” he says. “Showtime, chamaco!”
The plaza lives up to its name. There’s a giant statue of de la Cruz in the center. Kiosks along the periphery sell refrigerator magnets, shot glasses, tote bags, postcards—all featuring de la Cruz. Even the tambourines bear his face. “Llévalo!” a vendor calls. “T-shirts! Bobbleheads!” Children play with de la Cruz marionettes, the wooden hands strumming guitars. A pyrotechnic bullfight ignites the air. Skeletons dance, sip aguas frescas, and wave sparklers and glow sticks in fluorescent pinks and greens. Nearly every instrument is there—guitars, drums, violins, and trumpets—bandolóns and bajo sextos—harps, lutes, and didgeridoos. One lady scrapes out rhythms on an old washboard while a man uses trash can lids for cymbals. Miguel is amazed to learn that almost anything can be made into an instrument. For a moment, he forgets his family’s ban on music as he imagines making instruments from items in the shoemaking shop.
He and Héctor make their way to an elevated stage, a crisscross of beams beneath it. On top of the stage are a microphone, a drum set, a row of multicolored floor lights, and giant speakers. A banner proclaims BATTLE OF THE BANDS!
Then the emcee steps up to the mic. Her green hair is combed into a tall updo with flowers and tiny calaveras tucked between the strands. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder gown with a high slit to show off the gleaming white bones of her legs. She’s got a necklace of flowers, and petals painted around her eye sockets. She’s the most glamorous skeleton Miguel has ever seen.
“Bienvenidos a todos!” she says. “Who’s ready for some música?” The audience whoops and cheers. Miguel joins in, loving the excitement. “It’s a battle of the bands, folks. The winner gets to play for the maestro himself, Ernesto de la Cruz, at his fiesta tonight!” More whooping. More cheering.
“That’s our ticket, muchacho,” Héctor says, and Miguel responds with a determined nod.
“Let the competition begin!” the emcee announces.
The first act is a tuba and violin duo. Miguel wants to watch, but Héctor pulls him away, telling him they need to sign up to compete. They head backstage, and as they wait in line, Miguel taps his foot and hums along as various acts perform. There’s a saxophone player, a hard-core metal band, a choir, and plenty of mariachis. There’s a guy who plays marimba on the back of a giant iguana alebrije, a DJ with an electronic keyboard, and a group of nuns playing accordions. When a dog orchestra performs, Miguel wonders if Dante has any musical talent.
Finally, he and Héctor sign in. The contest director slaps numbers on their backs, and Miguel realizes it’s time to stop acting like a member of the audience and start acting like the performer he wants to be.
“So what’s the plan?” Héctor says. “What are you gonna play?”
“Definitely ‘Remember Me.’” Miguel plucks out the beginnings of the song’s guitar solo. He knows it by heart. He’s about to sing the first verse when Héctor clamps his hand over the fretboard.
“No, not that one. No.”
“C’mon,” Miguel says. “It’s his most popular song!”
“Ehck, it’s too popular. That song has been butchered enough for a lifetime.”
Miguel’s about to protest, but then he realizes that several groups are rehearsing. He hears a tone-deaf voice drone the familiar lyrics, and an opera singer’s soprano pierces through the crowd with another rendition of the song. One guy plays water glasses to the tune, and another blows it out on a kazoo. Héctor’s got a point, so Miguel says, “Well…what about…‘Poco Loco’?”
“Epa! Now you’re talking!”
Then a stagehand calls out, “De la Cruzcito?”
“Sí?” Miguel responds.
“You’re on standby!” the stagehand says, and to another band, “Los Chachalacos, you’re up next!”
An impressive band steps onto the stage. They have everything—strings, percussion, horns. They must be a crowd favorite, because everyone starts cheering, “Chachalacos!” The band bursts into a mighty intro and the audience goes wild. They’re so polished, playing with all their heart and bone marrow. When Miguel peeks out and sees the frenzied audience waving their glow sticks in the air, he feels sick to his stomach and starts to pace, all fidgety.
The more he processes the situation, the more nervous he gets. What was he thinking? Just because he can play alone in his hideout doesn’t mean he can play in front of an audience. He sounds good to himself, but does he sound good to other people? Except for Dante and Mamá Coco, who loves him no matter what, no one’s heard him sing. Will he make a fool of himself if he goes out there?
“You always this nervous before a performance?” Héctor asks.
“I don’t know. I’ve never performed before.”
“What?!
You said you were a musician!”
“I am!” Miguel says, but then he checks himself. “I mean, I will be. Once I win.”
“That’s your plan?” Héctor’s voice cracks with exasperation. “No, no, no, no, no. You have to win, Miguel. Your life literally depends on you winning! And you’ve never done this before?” He takes off his hat, then puts it back on, then takes it off again. Héctor reaches for the guitar. “Gimme the guitar. I’ll go up there.”
Miguel recoils, refusing to hand over his instrument. “No.”
“This isn’t playtime, kid.”
“I need to do this,” Miguel says.
“Why?”
“If I can’t go out there and play one song, how can I call myself a musician?”
“What does that matter?” Héctor says, his voice more frantic as he glances at the stage.
“’Cause I don’t just want to get de la Cruz’s blessing. I need to prove that”—he hesitates—“that I’m worthy of it.”
“That’s such a sweet sentiment,” Héctor says, “at such a bad time.”
He studies Miguel, and the boy straightens up, firm in his decision to perform.
“Okay, okay,” Héctor says, softening. “You wanna perform? Then you gotta perform!”
Miguel smiles, excited and surprised that Héctor wants to help.
“First you have to loosen up,” Héctor says. “Shake off those nerves!” He does a loose-bone skeletal shimmy, and Miguel copies the move. “Now give me your best grito!”
“My best grito?”
“Come on, yell! Belt it out! Ooooooh he-he-hey! Ah, feels good! Okay, now, now…now you.”
“A…A…Ayyyyy yaaaaayyyay…” Miguel tries, sounding like a squeaky rocking chair.
Dante whimpers. Great, Miguel thinks, even my dog is unimpressed.
“Oh, c’mon, kid,” Héctor says, but Miguel can only shrug. “Okay, okay. Here’s another bit of advice. Works for me every time.”
“Another idea?” Miguel asks, hopeful.
“Oh, yeah. The secret to all the great operas, ballads, hymns, lullabies—” He’s interrupted when Los Chachalacos wraps up to raucous applause. “The secret to all the great performers throughout the world, throughout history, beyond—”
“What is it?” Miguel demands, because the audience is starting to quiet down.
“Love,” Héctor says. “When you go out there, ignore all those strangers in the audience and pretend like you’re singing to someone you love.” He gets a dreamy look in his eye.
“Who do you remember?” Miguel asks.
Héctor sighs. “She’s still in the Land of the Living. Every time I sing, I pour all my love into each note, hoping my voice will cross the Marigold Bridge and reach her, if only in her dreams.”
Before he can say more, the stagehand calls, “De la Cruzcito, you’re on now!”
Miguel’s eyes go wide, and he gulps.
Héctor takes his shoulders. “Miguel, look at me.”
“Come on, let’s go!” the stagehand says.
“Hey! Hey, look at me.” He looks directly into Miguel’s eyes. “You can do this. Sing to someone you love, grab their attention, and don’t let it go!”
Miguel hears the emcee’s voice announcing, “We got one more act tonight, folks.”
“Héctor?” he says, still seeking advice.
“Make ’em listen, chamaco! You got this!”
“¡Damas y caballeros!” the emcee says. “De la Cruzcito!”
The crowd applauds, and before Miguel can take another breath, he’s led onto the stage.
Coco sat before the mirror in her room and wondered, Where did the years go? She was an old woman now, the oldest person in the Rivera family. Her eyes couldn’t see well anymore, her hands were getting arthritic, and her whole body ached when stooped over a workbench for too long, so Coco had stopped making shoes. Besides, she had great-grandchildren now, and it made more sense to babysit while their parents worked in the shop.
Someone tapped on her bedroom door. Then she heard Elena stepping in. “Hola, Mamá. Ready?”
Coco nodded. Because of her stiff hands, she struggled to make her braids, so each morning, Elena made them for her. As her daughter brushed out the tangles and talked about current shoemaking projects, Coco remembered her days in the shop and wondered how many shoes she’d made in her lifetime. It was impossible to know. She could only remember the first pair, the last pair, and the special ones in between. For Elena’s wedding, Coco had taken tiny sequins and beads, carefully gluing them to the satin pumps to create an intricate floral design. She’d also made patent leather dress shoes for Julio. He wore them on special occasions, and when he died, Coco tenderly polished them for his funeral. Even now, it made her smile to know he was buried in shoes made with love.
“Ouch!” she cried when Elena pulled at a tangle snagged in the comb.
“I’m sorry,” Elena said. “I didn’t mean to pull your hair.”
“It’s okay. I know it was an accident.”
Elena returned to her task, this time parting the hair straight down the middle and separating it for braids. When Coco closed her eyes, Elena said, “Why do you close your eyes when I start making the braids?”
Coco laughed, a little embarrassed. “I pretend I’m a child again and that Mamá Imelda is fixing my hair.” She opened her eyes and caught Elena’s gaze in the mirror. “You have her touch.”
Elena beamed. “I do?”
“Yes, m’ija. You remind me so much of your mamá Imelda.”
Elena paused a moment. Then, as she got back to work, she said, “Isn’t it strange how I’m brushing your hair just like Mamá Imelda did when you were a child? And how someday, my daughter will probably brush my hair?”
Coco nodded. “The circle of life,” she said.
Just then the door flew open, and Abel and Rosa rushed in. Rosa immediately crawled under the bed and chanted, “Find me. Find me,” because hide-and-seek was her favorite game. Meanwhile, Abel bounced off the wall—literally. He loved to slam against walls, punch pillows, and kick rocks on the ground. He wasn’t angry or violent, just full of boisterous energy. Thank goodness he spent his days in school, because Coco could not keep up with him.
“Mucho cuidado!” Elena warned as he was about to crash into a wall again.
“There you are,” Berto said as he stepped in and marched right up to Abel. “How many times do we have to tell you? No running indoors.” At that, Abel ran out of the room. “Where are you going?” Berto called after him.
“I can’t run inside, so I’m going to run outside instead!”
Before Berto could chase him, Rosa said, “Find me. Find me.”
Berto put his hand on his chin. “Hmmm…” he said. “Where is my daughter? My beautiful Rosita? Did she run in here?”
He winked at Mamá Coco, and she played along. “Oh, no. I haven’t seen her all day.”
“I don’t think she’s here,” added Elena.
They heard giggling from beneath the bed.
“Well, maybe I should have a look, just in case.” Berto pulled back the covers, peeked behind the bedframe, looked in the closet, and peered under every piece of furniture except the bed. “I wonder where she could be.”
That was Rosa’s cue. She crawled out and victoriously announced, “I won!”
Berto tickled her, gave her a kiss, and told her to stay with Mamá Coco while he walked Abel to school. Then he left, nearly bumping into Luisa, who was stepping in, an infant cradled in her arms.
“Abel’s late for school,” Elena said to explain why he was rushing away so fast. She had just finished the second braid and was securing the end with a rubber band.
Then she and Coco went to Luisa to fuss over the infant. He was awake and his eyes flitted from person to person. Mamá Coco held out a finger, and he clasped it with his tiny hand. How Coco loved the strong grip of her new great-grandson, Miguel.
After a few more minutes, Elena said, “Well, it�
��s time to get to work.”
Luisa gave the baby to Mamá Coco. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours to feed him.”
Mamá Coco nodded as she took Miguel in her arms.
After the ladies left, Rosa ran to the corner where they kept a box of toys. She toppled it over and grabbed wooden blocks and action figures from her favorite cartoons. As she busily made a tower with the blocks, Coco settled in her rocking chair.
She began rocking Miguel, the chair’s soft creaks like the gentle beat of a lullaby. It wasn’t a dance, but the rocking chair felt just as musical. Coco glanced at her door, toward the shoemaking shop. They can scold me all they want, she thought, but no one’s going to keep me from humming to the little ones. So she hummed. Rosa was too preoccupied to notice, but Miguel seemed energized by the tune.
“You like the song?” Coco asked.
He couldn’t talk yet, but he tried to utter his first sounds—“goo, goo.” Then he moved his little arms, and even though Coco knew the moves were random, she couldn’t help comparing him to the conductor of an orchestra.
“Heh, heh,” she laughed. “You have music in your blood, don’t you?” She gently stroked his cheek. “You are just like my papá.”
As she continued to rock and hum, she remembered her conversation with Elena, and she smiled at the thought of her mother and father returning in the habits and talents of their descendants.
Miguel went “goo-goo” again, and this time she knew. This tiny boy wasn’t trying to talk—he was trying to sing.
Miguel stumbles onto the stage, guitar in hand. He squints beneath the blinding lights. He’s as quiet and motionless as the statue of de la Cruz. He’s pale and trembling, as if he’s seen a ghost. But of course! He has seen a ghost! He’s seen hundreds of ghosts today.
The crowd begins to murmur impatiently. “Bring back the singing dogs!”
Miguel looks to Héctor in the wings. His friend does the “loosen up” bone shimmy, so Miguel does it, too. Next Héctor takes a breath deep into his chest, gesturing for Miguel to do the same. Miguel turns back to the audience, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and…
