With his heart pounding, Miguel backed up toward the hacienda to avoid the adults, only to find his abuelita shaking out a rug behind him. He and Dante ducked into a corner.
“In the courtyard, m’ijos,” she said to Papá and Tío Berto.
“You want it down by the kitchen?” Papá asked.
“Sí. Eh…next to the other one,” she answered.
Miguel and Dante disappeared into the ofrenda room before anyone spotted them. Mamá Coco was inside, resting.
“Get under, get under!” Miguel urged Dante, quickly stashing the dog and the guitar beneath the altar table just as Miguel’s parents and Abuelita entered.
“Miguel!” Abuelita exclaimed.
“Nothing!” Miguel said, turning to face her. “Mamá, Papá, I—”
“Miguel,” said his papá. “Your abuelita had the most wonderful idea! We’ve all decided it’s time you joined us in the workshop!” He pulled out a leather apron and dropped it on Miguel’s shoulders.
“What!” exclaimed Miguel.
“No more shining shoes. You will be MAKING them! Every day after school!”
Abuelita squeezed Miguel’s cheeks. “Oh, our Miguelito carrying on the family tradition! And on Día de los Muertos! Your ancestors will be so proud!” She gestured to the shoes adorning the ofrenda. “You’ll craft huaraches, just like your Tía Victoria.”
“And wingtips like your Papá Julio,” said Miguel’s father.
Miguel stepped away from the ofrenda. “But what if I’m no good at making shoes?”
“Ah, Miguel!” Papá said. “You have your family here to guide you. You are a Rivera. And a Rivera is—”
“A shoemaker. Through and through,” Miguel finished in a monotone voice.
Papá swelled with pride. “That’s my boy! Ha, ha! Berto, break out the good stuff; I wanna make a toast!”
Abuelita smothered Miguel with kisses as the adults exited. Miguel stole a look at the ofrenda, where Dante and his guitar were hidden. Miguel was shocked to see Dante eating the ofrenda offerings!
“No, Dante—stop!”
As Miguel pulled the dog away from the ofrenda, the table shook, and the frame holding Mamá Imelda’s old photo swayed back and forth. Miguel watched in horror as the frame toppled over and hit the floor with a sickening crack. Miguel rushed to pick it up, but it fell apart, leaving him holding only the photo of Mamá Imelda and Coco. “No, no, no!” he moaned.
Miguel studied the photo and noticed that another part of it had been folded back and hidden. He unfolded it and saw the body of a man who could only be his great-great-grandfather, standing next to Mamá Imelda, holding a skull guitar. The man’s face had been torn from the photo. Miguel couldn’t believe the coincidence. The guitar was just like Ernesto de la Cruz’s!
Miguel gasped. “Ernesto’s guitar?”
Just then, Mamá Coco stirred awake. “Papá?” she said. Mamá Coco pointed a crooked finger at the picture in his hand. “Papá?”
Miguel’s eyes widened. He stepped closer to her. “Mamá Coco, is your papá Ernesto de la Cruz?”
“Papá! Papá!” she called louder now.
Miguel rushed to his rooftop hideout. He grabbed Ernesto de la Cruz’s album from his ofrenda. He examined the guitar on the album cover and compared it to the guitar in Mamá Imelda’s photo. It was an exact match! Could it be true?
“Ha, ha!” Miguel exclaimed. He ran to the edge of the roof and proudly hoisted the picture and album cover. “Papá! Papá!” Miguel yelled to his dad in the courtyard below. His parents looked up at him. “It’s him! I know who my great-great-grandfather was!”
Miguel’s mom gave him a stern look. “Miguel! Get down from there!”
“Mamá Coco’s father was Ernesto de la Cruz!”
“What are you talking about?” Miguel’s father asked.
Miguel whipped off his shoemaker’s apron and struck a pose. “I’m gonna be a musician!”
Miguel gathered his guitar and all the Ernesto de la Cruz albums he could carry and raced down from the rooftop. His family surrounded him when he reached the courtyard.
Abuelita’s eyes darted from the guitar to the albums. “What is all this?” she said. “You keep secrets from your own family?”
“It’s all that time he spends in the plaza,” Tío Berto said.
“Fills his head with crazy fantasies,” Tía Gloria added.
“It’s not a fantasy!” Miguel protested. He handed his father the old photograph of Mamá Imelda, Coco, and the unidentified man and pointed to the guitar. “That man was Ernesto de la Cruz! The greatest musician of all time!”
“We’ve never known anything about this man. But whoever he was, he still abandoned his family,” Miguel’s father said. “This is no future for my son.”
“But, Papá, you told me to look to the ofrenda. You said my family would guide me! Well, Ernesto de la Cruz IS my family! I’m supposed to play music!”
“Never! That man’s music was a curse! I will not allow it!” Abuelita said, raising her voice.
“You will listen to your family. No more music,” added Miguel’s father.
“Just listen to me play—”
“End of argument,” Papá said.
Miguel thought they’d change their minds if they heard him play. He lifted his guitar and prepared to strum, but Abuelita snatched it from his hands. She pointed to the photo. “You want to end up like that man? Forgotten? Left off your family’s ofrenda?”
“I don’t care if I’m on some stupid ofrenda!” The words burst out before Miguel could stop them. He couldn’t take them back, even though he wanted to.
The family gasped. Abuelita’s brow hardened. She raised the guitar in the air.
“No!” Miguel cried.
“Mamá,” Miguel’s dad said just as Abuelita smashed the guitar against the ground.
“There! No guitar, no music,” she said.
The entire family was silent as Miguel stared at his guitar, shattered into a hundred pieces on the ground. Miguel couldn’t move—he felt like someone had smashed him to pieces.
“Oh, come,” Abuelita said to Miguel. “You’ll feel better after you eat with your family.”
“I don’t wanna be in this family!” Miguel yelled. He grabbed the photo from his father and bolted out of the courtyard, alone.
Miguel raced into the streets of Santa Cecilia. Dante, who was nose-deep in an overturned trash can, heard Miguel’s quick feet and ran into Mariachi Plaza after him. Miguel rushed up to a woman in a gazebo.
“I wanna play in the plaza. Like Ernesto de la Cruz! Can I still sign up for the talent show?”
“You got an instrument?” the woman asked.
“No. But—but if I can borrow a guitar—” Miguel stammered.
“Musicians gotta bring their own instruments,” she said, and turned to walk away. “You find a guitar, kid, and I’ll put you on the list.”
Miguel frowned. He needed a guitar. His eyes darted around the plaza. There were tons of musicians roaming around, readying themselves for a busy Day of the Dead. He approached every mariachi, hoping for a lucky break, but no one would help him.
Disheartened, Miguel found himself in front of the Ernesto de la Cruz statue. “Great-Great-Grandfather,” he said softly. “What am I supposed to do?” His gaze fell on a plaque at the base of the statue that read SEIZE YOUR MOMENT. Miguel looked at the photo in his hand. He moved his thumb to reveal the skull guitar. At that moment, fireworks exploded overhead, illuminating the statue.
Miguel had an idea.
The cemetery in Santa Cecilia was covered in a sea of candles and flowers. Families gathered at their loved ones’ graves to leave treats and decorate their tombs. No tomb was more decorated than the large mausoleum in the center: it belonged to Ernesto de la Cruz.
Miguel arrived at Ernesto’s mausoleum and slunk around the side. Dante started barking. “No, no, Dante, stop! Cállate! Shhh!” Miguel looked around and saw baskets of food and treats
left on several tombs for the dead to enjoy. He spotted a plate of food on a nearby grave. He grabbed a chicken leg and chucked it. Dante bounded after it.
Miguel peered through the window of Ernesto de la Cruz’s mausoleum. Inside, he saw what he had come for: Ernesto’s famous guitar, mounted on the wall above the tomb. Fireworks continued to explode over the cemetery, and bursts of light glinted off the instrument, as if beckoning Miguel forward. His heart pounded. He knew what he had to do. Timing it with the booming fireworks, Miguel slammed his shoulder against a pane of glass, and opened the window. He crept inside the mausoleum and stepped toward the famous skull guitar. Then he climbed onto the stone tomb to reach it. Now he was face to face with the very instrument that Ernesto de la Cruz had strummed.
“Señor De la Cruz? Please don’t be mad. I’m Miguel, your great-great-grandson,” Miguel said, glancing up at a painting of Ernesto that hung above the guitar. “I need to borrow this.” Miguel lifted the instrument from its mount. Unbeknownst to him, some marigold petals in the mausoleum began to sparkle. “Our family thinks music is a curse. They don’t understand, but I know you would’ve told me to follow my heart. To seize the moment!”
Miguel climbed back down with the guitar clutched protectively under his arm. “So if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna play in the plaza, just like you did.”
Holding Ernesto’s guitar filled Miguel with confidence. He strummed it. With each strum, the air around him vibrated. As he played, all the petals inside the crypt began to glow. Miguel noticed the shimmering petals and froze. What was happening?
Suddenly, a flashlight appeared in the window of the mausoleum. Miguel heard voices outside raising an alarm.
“The guitar! It’s gone! Somebody stole Ernesto de la Cruz’s guitar!” said one man. “Look! The window’s broken.”
Miguel froze as keys jingled and the mausoleum door was opened. A groundskeeper entered with a flashlight.
Miguel dropped the guitar. “I’m—I’m sorry!” he stammered. “It’s not what it looks like! Ernesto is my—”
The groundskeeper ignored him. Miguel watched as the man approached—then walked straight through him as if he weren’t there! Miguel stood there, shocked. How was that man able to pass through him like he was a ghost?
The groundskeeper picked up Ernesto’s guitar. “There’s nobody here!” he yelled to the others.
Miguel was scared and confused. He examined his hands, touched his face. Everything was there. Why couldn’t the man see him?
Miguel panicked and sprinted across the cemetery. As he weaved around the crowds, more people passed through him as if he were made of air. Finally, he heard his mother calling him.
“Miguel!” she shouted. Miguel followed her voice.
“Mamá!” Miguel yelled, and reached for her, but she went straight through him, just like the others. They couldn’t see or hear him. Miguel tripped and fell into an open grave.
“Dios mío!” a woman shrieked. “Little boy, are you okay?” She reached into the grave. “Here, let me help you.”
Miguel took her hand. Finally, someone could see him! She pulled him out of the hole he’d fallen into.
“Thanks, I—” Miguel said, and then stopped. He looked at his rescuer. She was a skeleton! Miguel screamed. The skeleton woman screamed, too! Miguel stumbled and scooted backward, trying to get as far away from the woman as he could. He bumped into another skeleton—whose head fell off. Plop! It landed in Miguel’s hands. He yelped.
“Do you mind?” said the headless skeleton.
Miguel turned the skull around in his hands to see its face.
“Ahhhh!” screamed the bodyless skull.
“Ahhhh!” Miguel shrieked back. He flung the skeleton head away. Then he looked around to see that the whole cemetery was teeming with skeletons. And they could see him! Miguel’s eyes widened as the skeletons stared back at him.
Miguel raced off and crouched behind a grave. From a safe distance, he watched as the skeletons danced and enjoyed the food that had been left for them on the gravestones. Miguel couldn’t believe it! Somehow he could see walking, talking skeletons!
A skeleton abuela gazed at her living toddler grandchild. “Look how big she’s getting!” she said proudly. Like the other living people, the toddler’s family was there to pay respects to their ancestors.
“It’s a dream. I’m just dreaming,” Miguel muttered. Suddenly, Dante appeared. The silly dog surprised Miguel with a long lick on the cheek.
“Dante? You can see me? W-wait, what’s going on?” Miguel stuttered. Dante barked, then darted through the crowd. “Dante!” He chased the dog until—BAM! He ran into a mustached skeleton and knocked him to the ground. The skeleton’s bones separated and scattered everywhere.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Miguel said as he scrambled to pick up the bones.
The skeleton spoke. “Miguel?”
“Miguel?” another skeleton said.
Miguel looked up. Was he supposed to know these skeletons?
“You’re here! HERE!” the first skeleton exclaimed as his bones magically pulled themselves back together. “And you can see us!”
Miguel stood and tried to concentrate on their skeletal faces.
A skeleton woman charged through the group, sending bones scattering everywhere again. She grabbed Miguel by the arms. “Our Miguelito!” she said, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Remind me how I know you?” Miguel managed to ask, certain he’d never seen them before.
“We’re your family, m’ijo!” she answered him.
Tía Rosita’s ofrenda photo flashed in his mind. “Tía Rosita?” he said, still unsure. He looked over at the skeleton man whose head was still turned the wrong way. Tía Victoria straightened it. “Papá Julio? Tía Victoria?”
“He doesn’t seem entirely dead,” said Tía Victoria, pinching Miguel’s cheek. She could tell he wasn’t a skeleton like them.
“He’s not quite alive, either,” added Tía Rosita. Miguel’s ancestors looked around, confused.
“We need Mamá Imelda,” said Papá Julio. “She’ll know how to fix this.”
Suddenly, two skeletons came running up. Miguel recognized them as Tío Óscar and Tío Felipe.
“Oy!” shouted Tío Felipe.
“It’s Mamá Imelda—” said Tío Óscar.
The twins continued to explain:
“She couldn’t cross over—”
“She’s stuck—”
“—on the other side.”
Tía Victoria narrowed her eyes at Miguel. “I have a feeling this has something to do with you.”
“If Mamá Imelda can’t come to us—” began Tía Rosita.
“Then WE are going to HER!” exclaimed Papá Julio. “Vámonos!”
Miguel followed his deceased family as they weaved through the graves in the cemetery and rounded a corner toward a glowing bridge.
“Whoa,” Miguel said, slowing down to take in the view of the shimmering structure. It was made from glowing marigolds and extended into a smoky mist.
“Come on, Miguel. It’s okay,” Papá Julio said as they joined a stream of skeletons ambling across the bridge. With each step Miguel took, the marigold petals glowed beneath his feet. He bent to scoop a bunch of petals into his hands. Suddenly, Dante rushed past him.
“Dante! Dante!” Miguel yelled after him. “Dante, wait up!” He finally caught up with his dog at the crest of the bridge. Dante rolled around in the petals and sneezed into Miguel’s face. “You gotta stay with me, boy. We don’t know where…” Miguel stopped, gazing at the sparkling cityscape of an unreal world before him. The night sky twinkled gold, purple, and yellow. Houses and large buildings were brightly lit and connected by intricate arching bridges. It was the Land of the Dead, but it was very much alive.
“This isn’t a dream, then,” Miguel said as his family finally reached him. “You’re all really out there.”
“You thought we weren’t?” said Tía Victoria,
sounding a bit hurt.
“Well, I don’t know. I thought it might’ve been one of those made-up things that adults tell kids…like vitamins.”
“Miguel, vitamins are a real thing,” Tía Victoria replied.
“Well, now I’m thinking maybe they could be…,” Miguel said, moving along with his family. As skeletons passed in the opposite direction, many of them gave Miguel strange looks.
“He looks funny, Mamá,” a little skeleton girl said, pointing at Miguel.
“M’ija, it’s not nice to stare at—” The little girl’s mother stopped in shock when she caught a glimpse of Miguel. “Ay! Santa Maria!” The woman went wide-eyed, her head turning backward to keep staring at Miguel as she walked in the opposite direction. Miguel pulled up his hood to hide the fact that he was still a living, breathing boy.
Soon they reached a large building on the far side of the bridge. Miguel noticed colorful, fantastical creatures crawling, flying, and making nests in the architecture. He pointed up at them. “Are those alebrijes?” They looked just like the wooden figurines in Santa Cecilia. “But those are—”
“REAL alebrijes,” said Tío Óscar. “Spirit creatures.”
“They guide souls on their journey to the Land of the Dead,” said Tía Rosita.
“Watch your step,” Tío Felipe added. “They make caquitas everywhere.”
Miguel slowed, keeping an eye out for alebrije droppings.
Inside the station, a greeting boomed from the speakers above them. “Welcome back to the Land of the Dead. Please have all offerings ready for reentry. We hope you enjoyed your holiday.”
Miguel’s eyes darted around the station. He was fascinated by the bustling throngs of dead families and couples lined up under a sign that read REENTRY.
“Welcome back! Anything to declare?” an arrivals agent asked a skeleton.
Coco Junior Novel Page 2
