Coco Junior Novel

by Disney Book Group

  Copyright © 2017 Disney Enterprises, Inc., and Pixar. All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-368-00154-0

  Visit disneybooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Images from the Film

  Sometimes Miguel Rivera thought he was cursed.

  If he was, it wasn’t his fault. It was because of something that happened before he was even born.

  Long ago, in the town of Santa Cecilia, there was a family with a mamá, a papá, and a little girl. Their house was always full of joy—and music. The papá played guitar. The mamá and the girl danced. And everyone sang.

  But the music in the happy house wasn’t enough for the papá. His dream was to play for the world. So one day, he left with his guitar and never returned.

  Miguel didn’t know what happened after that for the musician. But he sure knew what the mamá had done. The story of Mamá Imelda had been handed down in the Rivera family for generations.

  Imelda didn’t waste one tear on that walk-away musician! She banished all music from her life, throwing away instruments and records, and found a job. Was it making candy? Fireworks? Sparkly underwear for wrestlers? No!

  Mamá Imelda made shoes. And so did her daughter. And then her son-in-law. And her grandkids. The Rivera business and the family grew in sync. While music tore the family apart, shoes held them together.

  Miguel heard this story each year on Día de los Muertos: the Day of the Dead. He used to hear it from his Mamá Coco, but she didn’t remember much anymore. This year, she sat in a wicker wheelchair, vacantly staring at the ofrenda, that special place in their house where Miguel’s family placed remembrances of and gifts for their ancestors to honor them.

  Miguel kissed her cheek. “Hola, Mamá Coco.”

  “How are you, Julio?”

  Miguel sighed. Sometimes Mamá Coco had trouble remembering things, like his name. But that made her the best secret-keeper! He told her pretty much everything—things he couldn’t tell his abuelita, who ran their household with an iron fist.

  If Abuelita said he needed to eat more tamales, then Miguel ate more tamales.

  If Abuelita wanted a kiss on her cheek, then Miguel kissed her cheek.

  And if Abuelita caught Miguel blowing a tune over the top of a soda bottle—“No music!”—then Miguel would stop.

  Abuelita even yelled at passersby. “No music!” to the truck driver blaring his radio. “No music!” to the gentlemen singing while they strolled down the street. Her ban on music had affected all the aunts, uncles, and cousins, too.

  Miguel was pretty sure they were the only family in Mexico that hated music. The worst part was that no one in his family seemed to care.

  No one, that is, but him.

  Leaving the family home behind, Miguel breathed the crisp air of another sunny morning in Santa Cecilia. As he headed into town with his shoeshine box, he passed a woman sweeping a stoop. She waved.

  “Hola, Miguel!”

  “Hola.” Miguel waved back. Closer to town, Miguel smiled at a lone guitar player plucking away at a song. The farther in Miguel went, the more music filled the air. Church bells chimed in harmony. A band played an upbeat tune. A radio blared a swift cumbia rhythm. Miguel soaked it all in. He couldn’t help tapping out a beat on a table covered with brightly colored wooden animal figurines.

  As Miguel rushed past another stand with pastries for sale, he grabbed a pan dulce and tossed the vendor a coin.

  Smelling the sweet bread, Miguel’s canine sidekick, Dante, sidled up to him. Miguel tore off a piece of the bread and Dante chomped it down.

  Everywhere Miguel looked, people were preparing for their loved ones to return from the Land of the Dead by hanging colorful papel picado and laying marigold petals at their doorways.

  As usual, Mariachi Plaza was full of musicians strolling around, waiting for their chance to serenade a couple or a family with a love song or a classic corrido. Soon a tour group gathered around a large statue of a mariachi player in the center of the plaza.

  “And right here, in this very plaza, the young Ernesto de la Cruz took his first steps toward becoming the most beloved singer in Mexican history,” said the guide.

  Everyone in the group nodded, familiar with the legendary musician and singer. Along with the tourists, Miguel gazed up at the statue. He’d seen it a hundred times, but it always inspired him.

  After a moment, Miguel found a spot in the plaza and pulled out his shoeshine box. A mariachi plopped down for a shine.

  Miguel knew the mariachi would enjoy this story. After all, everyone loved Ernesto.

  “He started out a total nobody from Santa Cecilia, like me,” said Miguel. “But when he played music, he made people fall in love with him. He starred in movies. He had the coolest guitar. He could fly!” Miguel had seen that special effect in some old film clips. “And he wrote the best songs! But my all-time favorite? It’s—” Miguel gestured to some musicians nearby, who were playing “Remember Me,” Ernesto’s biggest hit. “He lived the kind of life you dream about. Until 1942, when he was crushed by a giant bell.”

  The mariachi looked pointedly at his shoes, which Miguel was only halfheartedly shining.

  Ignoring the musician, Miguel shrugged off Ernesto’s unfortunate death. “I wanna be just like him. Sometimes I look at Ernesto and I get this feeling, like we’re connected somehow. Like if he could play music, maybe someday I can, too.” Miguel sighed. “If it wasn’t for my family.”

  “Ay-yi-yi, muchacho,” said the mariachi, snapping Miguel out of his story.

  “Huh?” said Miguel.

  “I asked for a shoeshine, not your life story,” replied the mariachi.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Miguel lowered his head and polished the man’s shoe. As he worked, the mariachi casually plucked at his guitar strings. “I just can’t really talk about any of this at home, so—”

  “Look, if I were you? I’d march right up to my family and say, ‘Hey! I’m a musician. Deal with it.’”

  “I could never say that.”

  “You ARE a musician, no?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I only really play for myself—”

  “Ahh!” the mariachi howled. “Did Ernesto de la Cruz become the world’s best musician by hiding his sweet, sweet skills? No! He walked out onto that plaza and he played out loud!” The mariachi pointed to the gazebo, where a giant canvas that read TALENT SHOW was being unfurled. “Ah! Mira, mira! They’re setting up for tonight. The music competition for Día de los Muertos. You wanna be like your hero? You should sign up!”

  “Uh-uh—my family would freak,” Miguel
said.

  “Look, if you’re too scared, then, well, have fun making shoes.” The mariachi shrugged. “C’mon, what did Ernesto de la Cruz always say?”

  “‘Seize your moment’?” Miguel said.

  The mariachi looked Miguel over and then offered him his guitar. “Show me what you got, muchacho. I’ll be your first audience.”

  Miguel’s eyebrows rose. The mariachi really wanted to hear him play? He glanced down the street to make sure the coast was clear of any family members. He reached for the guitar. Once it was cradled in his arms, Miguel spread his fingers across the strings, anticipating his chord, and—

  “Miguel!” a familiar voice yelled.

  Miguel gasped and threw the guitar back into the mariachi’s lap. Abuelita marched toward him. Tío Berto and Prima Rosa followed close behind with supplies from the market.

  “Abuelita!” Miguel exclaimed.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Um…uh…,” Miguel stammered as he quickly packed away his shine rag and polishes. Abuelita didn’t wait for Miguel’s answer. She barreled up to the mariachi and struck him with her shoe. “You leave my grandson alone!”

  “Doña, please—I was just getting a shine!”

  “I know your tricks, mariachi!” She glared at Miguel. “What did he say to you?”

  “He was just showing me his guitar,” Miguel said sheepishly. His family gasped.

  “Shame on you!” Tío Berto barked at the mariachi. Abuelita’s shoe was aimed directly at the area between the musician’s eyes.

  “My grandson is a sweet little angelito querido cielito—he wants no part of your music, mariachi! You keep away from him!” she threatened. Miguel wasn’t so sure he was the sweet little angel from heaven she’d described, but he wasn’t going to argue when she was gripping her shoe like that.

  The mariachi scampered away, pulling on his hat before leaving. Miguel watched apologetically over his abuelita’s shoulder.

  “Ay, pobrecito!” Abuelita pulled her grandson protectively to her bosom. “Estás bien, m’ijo?” Miguel gasped for air. “You know better than to be here in this place! You will come home. Now!” she ordered, and turned away from the plaza.

  Miguel sighed and gathered his shine box. He spotted a plaza talent-show flyer on the ground. Behind his abuelita’s back, he snatched it up and put it in his pocket.

  Miguel trudged home behind his family, carrying an armful of marigolds.

  “How many times have we told you—that plaza is crawling with mariachis!” Tío Berto said.

  “Yes, Tío Berto,” Miguel answered.

  A few minutes later, Miguel had dropped off his marigolds and was ushered into the Rivera family’s shoe workshop, where he plopped onto a stool. Surrounded by the rhythm of hammering, Miguel braced himself for a stern round of lecturing from the whole family.

  “I found your son in Mariachi Plaza!” Abuelita said. Miguel’s parents looked up from their work.

  “Miguel,” Papá said, disappointment in his voice.

  “You know how Abuelita feels about the plaza,” said Miguel’s mother, a hand on her pregnant belly.

  “I was just shining shoes!” Miguel replied.

  “A musician’s shoes!” added Tío Berto, prompting gasps from every corner of the shop. Primo Abel was so shocked that the shoe he was working on zipped away from the polisher and shot up into the ceiling’s rafters.

  “But the plaza’s where all the foot traffic is!” Miguel tried to explain.

  “If Abuelita says no more plaza, then no more plaza,” said his father.

  “What about tonight?” Miguel blurted.

  “What’s tonight?” his grandpa asked.

  “It’s Día de los Muertos,” Miguel said hesitantly. “The whole town’s gonna be there, and…well, they’re having this talent show—”

  “Talent show?” Abuelita said with a tone of suspicion. Miguel squirmed on the stool, unsure whether he should continue.

  “And I thought I might…,” Miguel stopped. His mamá gave him a curious gaze.

  “Sign up?” she asked.

  “Well, maybe?” Miguel finished.

  Prima Rosa laughed. “You have to have talent to be in a talent show.”

  “What are you gonna do, shine shoes?” teased Primo Abel.

  “It’s Día de los Muertos,” Abuelita said. “No one’s going anywhere. Tonight is about family.” She dropped marigolds into Miguel’s arms. “Ofrenda room. Vámonos!”

  Miguel followed his abuelita to the ofrenda room with the pile of golden blooms. The room was bright and open, dominated by a wall lined with tables and shelves covered with pictures, candles, flowers, and food offerings to the ancestors. Mamá Coco was already there. Miguel pouted as Abuelita arranged the flowers on the shrines.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Abuelita said to Miguel. “It’s the one night of the year when our ancestors can visit us. We put their photos on the ofrenda so their spirits can cross over. If we don’t put them up, they can’t come! We made all this food, m’ijo, and set out the things they loved in life. All this work to bring the family together. I don’t want you sneaking off to who knows where.” She looked up from the altar just in time to catch Miguel slipping out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” she huffed.

  “I thought we were done,” Miguel said, turning around.

  “Ay, Dios mío,” she muttered. “Being part of this family means being HERE for this family. I don’t want to see you end up like…” She gazed up at the photo of Mamá Imelda.

  “Like Mamá Coco’s papá?”

  “Never mention that man!” Abuelita snapped, sliding a sideways glance toward Mamá Coco. “He’s better off forgotten.”

  “But you’re the one who—”

  “Ta, ta, ta—tch!”

  “Papá?” Mamá Coco said suddenly. Abuelita and Miguel turned toward Mamá Coco. She was anxiously looking around the room. “Papá is home?”

  “Mamá, cálmese, cálmese,” Abuelita said, rushing to comfort her mom.

  “Papá is coming home?” Mamá Coco asked again.

  “No, Mamá. It’s okay, I’m here,” Abuelita said. Mamá Coco looked up with a blank stare.

  “Who are you?” Mamá Coco asked.

  Abuelita’s face dropped, but she recovered with a gentle smile. “Rest, Mamá,” she said. She returned to the altar and continued her lecture. “I’m hard on you because I care, Miguel.” She stopped and looked around the room. “Miguel? Miguel?” She let out a long sigh when she realized that he’d slipped out. “What are we going to do with that boy?”

  A little later, Dante wriggled into Miguel’s attic hideout. Miguel was huddled over a makeshift guitar patched together from an old soundboard and other random items.

  Dante squirmed, making noise. Miguel shushed him. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he said. “Someone could hear me!”

  Dante peered around Miguel’s shoulders as Miguel took a china marker and colored in a gold tooth on his own version of a skull guitar. Now it looked just like Ernesto de la Cruz’s famous instrument. “I wish someone wanted to hear me,” Miguel said, tuning the guitar. “Other than you.” Dante responded with a sloppy lick to his face. Miguel lifted his guitar and strummed it. “Perfecto!”

  Miguel crawled to the far side of the attic, where he kept his ofrenda to Ernesto de la Cruz. On the altar, he had set up posters, candles, and songbooks. He lit some candles beside an album of Ernesto’s. On the cover, the famous crooner smiled and held his equally famous guitar. Miguel quickly compared the head of his guitar to Ernesto’s. It was a good match. Then he imitated Ernesto’s dramatic pose and wide smile.

  He switched on an old, beat-up TV and slid a Best of Ernesto de la Cruz videotape into a machine attached to it. The machine hummed as a black-and-white film clip played. A young Ernesto was speaking.

  “I have to sing. I have to play. The music, it’s…it’s not just in me. It is me,” he said.

/>   Miguel plucked his homemade guitar as another clip played.

  “When life gets me down, I play my guitar,” Ernesto cooed.

  Another clip showed Ernesto speaking to a beautiful woman. “The rest of the world may follow the rules, but I must follow my heart!” He kissed her, and Miguel winced.

  Another clip cut in.

  “You know that feeling?” the singer asked. “Like there’s a song in the air and it’s playing just for you?” Ernesto began to sing and strum his guitar. Miguel watched closely, copying his hand positions.

  Miguel continued to play as clip after clip flashed on the screen, letting his chords intertwine with the music from the films.

  “Never underestimate the power of music,” Ernesto said.

  In the next segment was another beautiful woman who pined for Ernesto. “But my father, he will never give his permission,” she said sweetly.

  “I am done asking permission!” Ernesto exclaimed. “When you see your moment, you mustn’t let it pass you by. You must seize it!”

  Miguel’s heart beat faster. He wanted to seize his moment, just like Ernesto.

  “Señor De la Cruz, what did it take for you to seize your moment?” asked a reporter in a new clip.

  “I had to have faith in my dream,” Ernesto answered. “No one was going to hand it to me. It was up to me to reach for that dream, grab it tight, and make it come true.”

  “…and make it come true,” Miguel said along with Ernesto. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the talent-show flyer. “No more hiding, Dante. I gotta seize my moment!” Dante panted happily and wagged his tail. “I’m gonna play in Mariachi Plaza if it kills me.”

  “Día de Los Muertos has begun!” Abuelita announced, opening the gates to the family’s home and courtyard. Toddlers scattered marigold petals along the ground.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Miguel’s mother said to the children. “We have to make a clear path. These petals guide our ancestors home. We don’t want them to get lost. We want them to come and enjoy all the food and drinks on the ofrenda, sí?”

  The children nodded. As she helped them create a path of marigold petals from the ofrenda room to the front gate, Miguel and Dante scurried across the roof and dropped to the sidewalk outside the family home. Miguel clutched his homemade guitar. In just a few more steps, he wouldn’t have to hide! Suddenly, Tío Berto and Miguel’s father rounded the corner, carrying a small table.