So, this thing has been sitting on my laptop since forever because my Grammar Goddess didn't have time for beta-ing. And she still doesn't, but I couldn't hold back any longer. (Shame on me.)

So you get the non-grammar-checked version for now. My first venture into the world of Coco, and probably not the last one!

I'm not Mexican, so I hope I won't offend anyone. Unfortunately, there's only so much cultural stuff the local library can teach me, and I'm afraid I don't have the resources to hop a plane and fly halfway around the globe to take a look firsthand.

Shoot me a message if you find something undesirable!


Marigolds And a White Guitar


I hate people who run through train aisles. They're loud and bother me when I'm engrossed in my books.

"Good door, good door! Noooo, bad door!"

I'm a girl running through train aisles, book in hand. I didn't even have time to put the shoulder strap of my satchel where it belongs, and now it's slapping freely against my thigh. That's what you get for not paying attention to where you are!

I barely manage to jump onto the platform of Santa Cecilia before the door closes. With a sigh of relief, I watch the train leave without me, then take the time to sort my stuff. Hook my novel into the strap of my satchel, slip it over my shoulder, drop the satchel, dig for bookmark.

"¡Dios mío! I'm gonna miss my station for real someday!"

A group of white tourists walks up to me. I can tell they're tourists because the whites around these parts know better than to get themselves burned to a crisp by the winter sun.

I recognize them - they rode the same train. A family, I guess. Two adults, a teen and a preteen. The teen apparently took Spanish lessons, because her asking for directions doesn't sound too horrible. She wants to know how to get to Mariachi Plaza, but I don't think she actually understands my reply. Briefly, I toy with the idea of switching to English, but chances are it won't help the conversation much. My English skills are less than stellar.

I end up talking slower and slower, and eventually get to a point where I offer to guide the four. They seem very relieved by the idea.

It's not far to Mariachi Plaza, and I love wandering through Santa Cecilia. In fact, if I had to name my favorite place for a walk, it would be right this one. Santa Cecilia is lively, dusty and colorful. The cobbled streets are packed with vendors and musicians instead of cars, and with townspeople exchanging the latest gossip in the sun. It invites to sing and dance along with the Mariachi musicians, to hum and skip and flow through the songs in passing. The tourist family oohs and aahs at every corner, and I can't help grinning at their excitement. One always gains a new appreciation for everyday things when seeing the wonder on other's faces.


Before I know it, we've reached our destination. Mariachi Plaza is bursting with people, as usual. Everyone comes here for the music, Santa Cecilia is famous for it after all. And for being the birthplace of Ernesto de la Cruz, of course.

I quickly lose my tourist following in the crowd, and to be perfectly honest, I don't really mind. I came here with a purpose, and I should get down to it.

I'm about to leave for a quieter place when an awfully high-pitched grito rings all across the plaza. More out of reflex than anything, I turn my head, searching for the source.

The sight greeting me catapults itself right up my Top Three List of Daily Weirdness – a gangly boy balancing precariously on the parapet of the gazebo, carrying a white guitar easily his own size. Wow, haven't seen him in a while. Roughly one and a half years now. What's his name again? Diego? No, something with an M.

Ay, cielos... I hope he doesn't insist on planting his nose firmly into the concrete below him.

The kid starts strumming the chords of Cuento de Hadas, and I tear my eyes away. Cuento de Hadas is a somewhat obscure Ernesto de la Cruz song, a cutesy ditty about a dorky musician trying to upstage his wife in telling stories to their child. It's one of my favorites, and I'm not about to listen to a preteen fanboy butchering it. For what else would he be, showing off a replica of Ernesto de la Cruz's famous guitar like this?

Anyway, I better be going. I order my legs to move and walk down one of the many alleys leading away from Mariachi Plaza. There's a flower stall I need to visit.

As soon as I'm within earshot, I call, "¡Hola, señor Martinez!" and the vendor looks up from sorting his flowers.

He smiles warmly. "¡Hola, muchacha! Coming alone this year?"

"Sí. My hermanito fell sick, so I'm afraid I'm on my own today."

"Aren't you grown up! Tell Danilo I wish him a quick recovery!"

"I will!" I pick a bouquet of marigolds from a water-filled bucket and add two yellow chrysanthemums. I know I'm seriously late for Día de los Muertos, but since the main branch of my family lives in a different village, we hold our vigil at the local cemetery. Plus, it's kind of a secret that we have a relative originating from here.

I pay for the flowers and skip off, heading straight towards the Pantéon Santa Cecilia. There are still some stray petals of marigold lying around, left over from the celebrations nine days ago, but no living soul in sight.

Glad to remain undisturbed, I weave between the graves until I reach the biggest of them all – Ernesto de la Cruz's mausoleum. The shadow it casts is unexpectedly cool, causing goosebumps to run up my arms. I should have known better. I should have listened to mamá and dressed in something warmer than bib shorts and a T-shirt... Better bring a jacket next time.

I place the bouquet on a ledge protruding from the right side of the tomb's entrance and step back, catching myself staring at the mausoleum's top. It's modeled after a church steeple, and waaaay high. Sometimes, I wonder if it was build with the intention of making the onlooker feel like they can't measure up.

Because I certainly feel that way. There's a million things I want to say, but none of them seems worthy of being spoken. It's a silly notion, I know. I'm fourteen years old, I shouldn't be intimidated by such things. But I can't shake the uneasiness. Who am I, compared to Ernesto de la Cruz? A mere dancer-in-training who can't even hold a guitar without getting cramps.

I shake my head and force a smile. Fake it till you make it. What's there to be scared of? We're family! Of course I can talk to him!

I draw a deep breath. "I wish you could give me a sign. Some proof that you know I'm existing. That you have a great-great-granddaughter." Wow. Best opening line ever. Not awkward at all! "I don't believe my mamá Esperanza would ever tell you, even in the Land of the Dead. Even if her dream came true, and she could dance for you again. Getting pregnant without marriage, even if the child is from a star... Her family really didn't like it." I stuff my hands into my pockets, the rough feeling of the jeans a slight comfort. "Not that I condemn her for it. I'm glad to be me! And, you know, since last year, I've started wondering if I have primas or primos somewhere in Mexico whom I don't know about. Other dancers, maybe. Or musicians. By the way, I'm still working hard on my dancing! It would be so great if I could become like mamá Esperanza and dance for a famous musician! Not planning to get knocked up by one, though..." I laugh uneasily, not entirely sure what drove me to crack that sort of joke. It's not even funny. "Of course, I'm not telling you this for the first time. But I honestly don't know what else to say. Not even papá Fabio knew anything about you outside your fame, and he was your son. But you were a musician, so..."

I reach into the front pocket of my satchel and pull out a harmonica. If there's one thing I understand about my strange, unclaimed great-great-grandfather, it's his passion for music. After all, the fact that I couldn't play a guitar to save my life never kept me from following the same passion.

Not that I'm particularly talented. I play the notes as they come to me, without rhyme or reason. Plus, I've dropped the harmonica into a sandbox once, and its sound's been somewhat grainy ever since. I don't mind. This is about conveying my feelings, not holding a concert. I don't need a fancy melody.

I don't regret being the great-great-granddaughter of Ernesto de la Cruz. I don't mind keeping my lineage a secret, either, though I suppose it wouldn't have been as much of a problem if my great-great-great-grandparents wouldn't have come from overseas. I sure wish to learn more about that missing part of my familia... What my papá Ernesto was like as a person, when he was off the stage. What he was like when no camera was directed at him for once.

I'm sure he was wonderful.

I feel a lot less awkward when I store my harmonica back in my satchel. Music really is a great way to vent my confusion!

Putting on a grin, I make my way over to the nearest window, finally ready to face my papá Ernesto himself.

"Good thing no one is around to hear me. The people of Santa Cecilia do love themselves some good music! They'd probably be scandalized if they had to listen to my shrieking like a mangy stray cat in a blend–"

I can't finish my sentence. Something isn't right... The inside of the mausoleum is too dark to see clearly, and I automatically lean in to get a closer look. "Whoa!"

I jerk backwards, panting with shock. The window gives in! I poke at it warily, and yes, the bolt locking the window has been snapped clean off. And not only that – the guitar is gone! Somebody broke into the tomb and stole it!

My thoughts fly back to the parapet-boy in Mariachi Plaza, and the guitar he played. Come to think about it, I've never heard a replica sounding that much like the original. The people in this area can't afford such high quality copies, much less a child.

Anger flares. Before I know it, I'm racing back the way I came, hugging my satchel to keep it from swinging. All the music around me is suddenly meaningless, drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears.

The run to Mariachi Plaza is two minutes at max, but when I reach it, I finally find back to reality. Panting and all the mad energy burned away, I start wondering if I was jumping to conclusions. The boy is still here, and he found a bench to perform on. Much steadier than a parapet.

Which means I finally get a better look at him. He's basking in the attention of the crowd, his broad smile all sunshine and rainbows. And with a colossal start of surprise, I recognize that face!

Miguel Rivera.

The kid's the anti-music clan's angelito! Two years younger than me, a shoe shining pro with a distinctly allergic reaction to shoes. Cousin to Rosa Rivera, one year younger. I suppose he's in his final year of elementary now?

I know him as something of an outsider. The Rivera family acquired a certain renown for refusing music lessons and singing the national anthem, though Rosa was actually pretty popular. Back when she enrolled, I resolved to steer clear of her. Her older brother, Abel, was a classmate of my own brother, and Danilo warned me about the clan's hate for music. Being a dancer, I knew we wouldn't get along. But as if it wasn't peculiar enough for the Riveras to be Santa Cecilian music-haters, Miguel stuck out as extra peculiar. You wouldn't believe he could possibly be related to Rosa and Abel.

Miguel actually suffered.

I know, because one morning, I spotted him hammering away at fence posts with a stick. It confused me for about two seconds, then I realized he was improvising a melody. It was unrefined, but catchy nonetheless. At some point, he snapped the stick atop his knee and continued to use the halves as claves. He managed to make the noise of splintering wood sound harmonious, and I caught myself improvising some dance moves on my own.

However, it's a stretch to call it the start of a friendship – for one because the very moment he noticed that someone stood next to him, he dissolved into stuttering. (He actually sounded vaguely unstable back then.) Another reason would be that I never felt like we moved past the 'casual acquaintance' stage. It's kind of telling that I forgot his name. We'd have lunch together every now and again, and sing and obsess over Ernesto de la Cruz in nerdy harmony. I believe it made Miguel really happy, but he only dropped by every other month. He was deathly afraid of his cousin finding out.

Yup, seeing him again dug up some fond memories of the clumsy little dreamer who couldn't seem to get his own two feet sorted, ginormous as they are. I can't imagine Miguel being dumb enough to steal an easily recognized guitar, from a grave no less, and proceed to play it in the plaza. He'd be caught within five seconds.

In fact, I can't imagine him stealing anything. And what's he doing playing in the plaza, anyway? I mean, seriously! With that background, it's no wonder he wasn't the first one to spring to mind. He sorta dropped right off the radar.

Puzzling... The direct approach it is, then.

I make a dash for the closest person and wave. "¡Disculpe, señora! Somebody broke into Ernesto de la Cruz's tomb and took the guitar!"

My heart sinks. It's not shock that I see spreading on her face – it's discomfort. "Ay, muchacha. You're not from Santa Cecilia, are you?"

"I'm from Mazavillo, but... What does that have to do with anything?"

"We don't talk about that fraud anymore."

"Fraud?!" I can't believe my ears. Did she just call him a fraud? My papá Ernesto?!

"Sí. That man stole both the guitar and the songs from Héctor Rivera."

"What?! That's not true!" Alright, that does it! Apparently, I was wrong about my ex-schoolmate!

Disappointment quickly turns into rage. If anger took the form of laser beams, the kid on the bench would have a lot of burn holes right now! "Is that why nobody cares which guitar he is holding?! Because you believe it's his?!"

I don't even wait for an answer. I activate my elbows and dive into the crowd, ranting under my breath: "Stupid Miguel, stupid Rivera! Starting rumors like this about my papá Ernesto, just so he can get his grabby fanboy paws on his guitar! Who does that little shoemaking upstart think he is, anyway?!"

I don't care that I'm about to ruin the party for a lot of people. I don't care that I'm about to violate great music, that the shoemaking upstart in question actually knows his notes. Nobody insults my family and gets away with it! Not even Miguel!

"RIVERA!"

A professional would have kept playing, but Miguel is no professional. His fingers halt in mid-pick, and more gazes turn my way than I care to count. I press forward, I'll get to that bench no matter what! And soon enough, the kid spots me, too. His brows furrow with concentration, and after a second or two, he blinks, a gleam of recognition changing his suspicion to bafflement.

"Tavi? What...?"

"That's Octavia to you, little thief! I can't believe you'd go this far!"

He knows very well what I'm talking about, the bad conscience is written all over his face. Even the guitar betrays him with a terrible discord as his grip around its fretboard tightens. Finally, he pulls himself together, eyes hard and posture stiff. He lays the guitar down on the bench and hops off.

"I'm not a thief! The guitar belonged to my great-great-grandfather!"

"Sure," I scoff and cross my arms. Taking this toothpick serious is hard enough as it is. He barely reaches my chin, and I'll eat my ponytail if there's any real strength in those twigs he calls his arms. His blatant lies are almost cute. Almost. "Care to explain where that guitar comes from, then? And why the window of Ernesto de la Cruz's tomb is broken?"

Miguel winces, and that's all the answer I need. "Thought so. How about we put this back to where it belongs, hmm?"

I try to sidestep the kid and get the guitar, but he wouldn't have it. He definitely took some levels in gracefulness during those past years, and he's back to barring my way in a flash. "Stop it!"

It's only a minor inconvenience, really. I've been training to become a dancer ever since I started walking. I could outmaneuver him at any time I choose, yet I can't hope to get anywhere so long as he doesn't give up his claim on the guitar. Whatever he did to keep it, it stuck. And the people around me are on his side. (I figure that those who aren't would boycott him, anyway.)

"¡Niños, please!" Speaking of which... Looks like someone got over his surprise and is trying to step in. I don't bother replying, but it's becoming increasingly obvious that I need a different approach. So I take a deep breath and at least try not to think about how Miguel broke into my great-great-grandfather's tomb. And took his guitar. And claimed that both the songs and the guitar were stolen from this Héctor character.

Gah! No way in the world am I going to calm down!

"Don't make this harder than it is, Miguel! We both know you're a grave robber, and you don't even have the decency to be ashamed! Oh no, you're even justifying it! By claiming that Ernesto de la Cruz stole the guitar from your family, no less! You're not worthy of it, even if you didn't take it from a tomb, you liar!"

"It's not a lie! And I'm plenty more worthy of this guitar than de la Cruz ever was!"

"Tsk, why? Because you think you make good music? Sorry to break it to you, but those people only love you because you're cute and play what they like. You're still a thief who copies famous songs. And your grito sounds like someone stepped on a puppy!"

"At least I didn't murder anyone!" Miguel roars, and I know I pushed him over the edge.

Which is not a good thing. He's literally getting in my face, teeth bared, and I catch myself flinching away. It only adds anger at myself to the anger at him. Then his words sink in, and I completely lose myself to my temper.

"How dare you?! How dare you accuse Ernesto de la Cruz of murder?!" Now it's his turn to flinch, but I'm not going to let him off that easily! I'll make him see how furious I am! First he's robbing my great-great-grandfather's grave, then he's calling him a fraud, and now a murderer?! Isn't he satisfied with trampling all over his body?! Does he need to trample all over his legacy, too?!

I grab his collar and lift him to my eye level, but I don't get to actually start yelling. Something really weird happens before I can open my mouth.

Miguel wails.

The sheer terror bursting from his small frame snaps me out of my rage. I drop Miguel – the kid, you idiot! – and stumble backwards to give him some space. He lands on his knees, his breathing ragged, but whatever it was that came over him just now, whatever I caused to happen in a surge of emotion... It seems to be gone. I hope it's gone.

I take an uncertain step. The situation has taken a turn for the seriously awkward, and I have absolutely no idea how to continue from here. "Miguel?"

"I'm fine!" he snarls and wastes no more time to climb to his feet. If looks could kill, I would have died ten times over.

Can I blame him? Yes, I'm pretty sure I can. To a certain degree. But it doesn't change the fact that I overreacted.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Ahórrate la saliva. What else could you have meant to do?"

He's got me there. Of course I meant to intimidate him at the time, even if I want to loathe the fact out of existence now.

"Thought so," Miguel huffs, echoing my earlier comment.

I suffer the burn quietly.

He's halfway into saying something else when the sound of barking distracts us both, and a man in a leather apron pops up from the left. He's accompanied by what looks like a churro but is actually a Xolo dog.

"Miguel!" the man calls out, and the boy brightens up like the sun.

"¡Papá!"

He runs off to jump into his father's embrace, leaving me behind like a broken umbrella. Me, and my great-great-grandfather's guitar. I consider picking it up, but discard the idea as soon as it came. It's no use, really, so I stick to watching the two Riveras.

The papá unlatches his son from his waist and sighs. "Can you go one day without getting into trouble, Miguel? Only one day?"

"It's not my fault!" the boy protests. "She came out of nowhere and demanded I give up papá Héctor's guitar!"

Should I say something? And if yes, what exactly?

I don't get to think about it too much. The dog bursts into barks again and comes speeding towards me, tongue lolling and tail wagging. Okay, what's happening here?

Miguel, for his part, isn't too pleased by this turn of events. "Dante! Come back here, Dante! Stay away from her!"

Dante? Go figure. Dante is the name of a horse in an Ernesto de la Cruz movie. Of course, a fan like Miguel would name his pet after the sidekick of his idol.

Which brings me back to the problem at hand. The Miguel I knew was all starry-eyed about my great-great-grandfather. I can't imagine him doing anything remotely damaging to his reputation. To alienate a fan like Miguel, something deadly serious would have to happen.

Something deadly serious... like a murder?

It's a lie, right? It must be a lie. My papá... Ernesto de la Cruz... He didn't... He wouldn't! "It's a lie!" I yell at the dog. Kind of. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but Dante barks happily and jumps, trying to spread his slobber all over my face. I go down on one knee and pet him. I like dogs, and I can use someone who cheers me up.

While I'm busy entertaining Dante, I reserve half an ear for Miguel's interrogation.

"Who's the girl?"

"That drama queen?" Hey! "That's Octavia Aguayo. I know her from school, but she finished about one and a half years ago."

"And you two fought, because?"

"Well, I dunno! Because she's loco and refuses to accept that de la Cruz is no real musician! She called me a liar, and a thief!"

"Ay, mijo... That's exactly why we told you to wait a little before playing in the plaza. The news take a while to spread to the surrounding villages."

A sigh on Miguel's part. "Yes, papá..." He doesn't sound mad anymore. I guess he's starting to understand my viewpoint. I wonder...

I get up and make my way towards the Riveras. Dante seems a little disappointed, but he's quick to follow. It's super awkward to stand in front of Miguel's father, I can't even look him in the eye. But I gotta do this! "Hola... I'm really sorry for attacking your son. He's right, it's my fault, and I promise it won't happen again. I wasn't myself at that moment." Way to ruin the first impression... "I'll make it up to you if I can, it's just..." I take a deep breath. Better get this over with. "Can you prove it? That Ernesto de la Cruz... did all those things?"

"Not everything," Miguel replies. I jump at the excuse to turn away from his father and face him instead. Better the devil you know, and Miguel apparently calmed down. "We can prove that the guitar and the songs were stolen. What do you care, anyway?"

I wrinkle my nose at the question. He just had to ask, right? How am I supposed to get the sincerity of my apology across if I can't even explain myself? "It's complicated. I'm sorry, but mi familia is going to kill me if I told you."

"¿Tu familia?" He tilts his head, a look in his eyes which is decidedly unsettling. Like he knows something. But it can't be! What in the world would give it away?!

However, even more unsettling is the smile that spreads on Miguel's lips shortly after. Has he always been this mischievous? "You know what? You should come with us! Do you still play the harmonica?"

That... was the weirdest change of subject I ever experienced. "¿Sí?"

Miguel grins even broader and dashes off to get his guitar, leaving me alone with his father, who's yet to say a word. At least Dante is still here...

"Um... I'm really–"

"Sorry?" he cuts in with a gentle smile and places a hand on my shoulder. "I get it, muchacha. And if Miguel is willing to give you a second chance, so am I." He raises his head to stare after his son. "I get the feeling he knows something that I don't."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and the knot in my stomach loosens a little. "Isn't that true..." I'll be darned if that kid doesn't have some sort of ulterior motive. That change from snark to happy-go-lucky seems altogether too easy. But I suppose my switching from screaming bloody murder to falling over myself to apologize would look weird, too, from the outside. And Miguel's twelve, so... I should just use the chance instead of overthinking it to death. I'll find out soon enough what Miguel's up to. "Muchas gracias, señor."

"Please call me Enrique," Miguel's father says and offers me his hand. I gladly shake it.

"Octavia. But you already knew that." I attempt a chuckle, but it comes out as something like a cough. "I prefer Tavia, though."

Dante barks, and Miguel is back, holding the bulky guitar upside-down, in a way that makes its body touch his back. It looks tricky.

"Don't you have a guitar case?"

"Nope. I kinda used to have a guitar with a strap, but I don't want to change papá Héctor's guitar like that."

I... am not going to point out that the guitar actually had a strap attached when my great-great-grandfather played it. Or that sooner or later, Miguel will need one to take the strain off his wispy little toothpick-arms. "What happened to the other guitar?"

Miguel's eyes flicker to the side. "I may have fallen into a pool?"

Wait, what?

"It's a long story!" he adds hastily. "¡Vámonos!"

He forges ahead, Dante running criss-cross around his legs. His father follows, apparently amused by Miguel's antics, and I'm left with no choice but to shrug off the weirdness and plod after them. After we put some distance between ourselves and Mariachi Plaza, Miguel hangs back until he's walking next to me.

I didn't pay any heed to it until now, but the collar of his T-shirt is ripped. His cry rings in my ears all over again. I want to kick myself! "You're doing okay?"

"Huh?" I guess I'm staring a little too obviously, because Miguel promptly feels around his collar. He finds the tear eventually. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine, really." He curls his lips thoughtfully. "So, about what you said earlier... The family thing. You're related to Ernesto de la Cruz, ¿verdad?"

My heart skips a beat. Part of me knew he caught on somehow, but having it confirmed is another matter altogether. "How did you figure it out?"

Something about Miguel's expression makes my stomach do backflips. The best description I can find is awe - the bad, fearful kind, even though he doesn't seem particularly scared. He lifts a hand and points at his face. "You have his eyes. When you got angry, I thought..." He trails off and turns forward again. "Never mind. If I start this now, we'll be here til sunrise. If you don't go back to trying to strangle me again, that is."

Part of me wants to tell him that he can't say something like that and then simply leave it there. The other part votes it down from interrupting, for fear Miguel will stop talking altogether.

"It could have been coincidence, of course, but then Dante went crazy about you." The dog barks at the mention of his name, and Miguel gladly scratches him between the ears. "Good thing I have you, boy! You're right, I totally need to stop walking out on people."

In a weird way, that statement makes me want to laugh. "I wouldn't have blamed you for that."

"Uh..." Miguel retracts his hand and huffs out an uneasy laugh. "Yeah, not for that."

Hey! Does he think I'm lying?

I place a hand on my hip. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing?"

"You're a god-awful liar, Miguel."

He rolls his eyes and makes some oddly stilted gesture. Had it not been for the guitar, Miguel probably would have crossed his arms. "Glad to have that out of the way," he mutters. I don't think I was supposed to hear that, but... Are we still biting back? I can't really tell. He might be referring to me accusing him of lying about the guitar, but it sounds like a more general statement. Like he gets that a lot and it annoys the heck out of him. "Anyway, I meant that we would have split without clearing things up. And we'd still be mad at each other."

"Now that you mention it... That's actually very true." A broad smile sneaks up my face. I turn it at the dog still walking between us and pet him. "Thanks, Dante!"

Dante barks happily, which I count as finishing this little 'exchange' and steer my attention back to Miguel. "So you're basically telling me you figured out my lineage from comparing my eyes to pictures of my great-great-grandfather's eyes, and from the fact that your dog likes me."

"Aaaaand because I know a thing or two about overprotective family members. You should see my abuelita!" Miguel snickers. "She wields a devastating chancla if you so much as squint at one of us sideways!"

"Yikes!" The chancla is a nasty tool indeed. I still can't say I buy it, but I let the matter slide. For now I'm confronted with a completely different, more urgent problem: Overprotective family members. What if Miguel's abuelita sees the tear in his shirt and decides...?

I refuse to finish that thought. I stop and jerk a thump over my shoulder. "You know, I think I should get back to the station..."

"Come on! I'm not going to tell on you!" Miguel grabs my wrist and I allow him to drag me along. I guess I can run away later... "Besides, you need to distract abuelita from stacking food on my plate!"

"What the...? ¡Oye, amigo! That wasn't the deal, you flat-footed drumstick! No wonder you look like this!"

"Hey, drumsticks are great! Not as great as guitars, of course, but great!"

"Then how about you eat properly and be a guitar? Do guitars look like twigs?"

"I'd rather be a healthy twig than a guitar with a stomachache."

Can't argue with that logic. I guess? I think I just got lost in comparisons. But be as it may, the bottom line is that Miguel is not going to change his eating habits any time soon. I send a look at Enrique for help, but Miguel's padre seems to be very busy not disturbing our (more or less) teenage reacquainting session with parental twaddling. Oh well... I have enough to chew over without worrying about Miguel's stickman figure.

"Speaking of guitars..." the stickman in question rips me out of my musings. He lets go of my wrist and looks up at me with something that could pass for agitation. "Does my grito really sound like someone stepped on a puppy?"

Cielos... This is going to be a long day. And I have no one to blame but myself.