A/N:

I'm actually not totally sure what to classify this as? They aren't self-contained enough to be one-shots, and I am going chronologically (just with huge time gaps), and I do have something of an ending (I promise). But each chapter will have it's own time period and it's own situation so it's not like a straight forward narrative either...

Variation on a theme, I guess.

Also the research I was able to squeeze in before just hunkering down and writing is obviously limited, so please have patience as I inevitably get details wrong.

Lo siento, in advance!

1910

"I expected this sort of thing from your brothers," Sor María tied off the bandage wrap so it remained snug and trimmed the loose end with a deft pair of scissors. She had been saying that all morning.

Imelda tried to open and close her fists, relishing in the painful bruised sensation it caused. "I didn't start—"

"It doesn't matter who started what," Sor María covered Imelda's wet hair with another towel and began ruthlessly scrubbing it. "We all must take responsibility for our own sin. There's no blaming other people for your actions."

Imelda groaned under the towel. María yanked it off, leaving her hair standing up in all directions, arguably more of a black mess than how she came in. "I want you to apologize to that boy," she continued, "both in person and in prayer. ¿Entiendes?" Her long billowy sleeves covered Imelda's face for a short minute while she tried to re-part the girl's hair. She began to methodically brush it out while it was still damp.

Imelda seethed at every snag. She was more than old enough to wash and brush her own hair. If anything this incident proved she was capable of taking care of herself. She absently kicked her legs in the air, just centimeters from touching the floor. Two large, square bandages were bound over both kneecaps. The scrapes still stung. Her muddy, ruined dress hung in a shapeless mass over the lip of a small bucket next to the bathtub. Her mud caked shoes were in there too.

If she concentrated in her mind she could still hear the satisfying, twanging crack the guitar made when she had swung it down.

A quiet, polite knock sounded at the door. Sor María threw a baptismal robe over Imelda's shoulders to hide her under-dress. Apart from the visible hair, Imelda was just as covered as the nun. "Come in," María said.

The door opened but no one really came inside. The form of a huge, mustachioed man, one of the grounds trabajadores Imelda couldn't name, filled in most of the available doorway. His broad hands covered the shoulders of a skinny little boy in baggy, mismatched clothing, standing practically in between the man's feet. A small purple spot was forming beneath his left eye.

Imelda felt her blood boil at the sight of him.

"Héctor has something he wants to say," the tall hombre looked down at the unfortunate boy as a kind of lead-in.

Héctor's gaze flicked up from the ground for the briefest second. " L-lo siento, señorita," he said mechanically, as if he'd rehearsed it. "I'm sorry I pushed you. And pulled your hair. And for saying that you—"

"That's quite enough, muchacho. We don't need it repeated." María interrupted.

"There are trabajadores y soldados everywhere, Sor María," the man explained, "They don't check their language. I'm sure he didn't really know what he was saying."

Imelda glared. The little rat had called her a mule. El grande mulo. Everyone had laughed. Jeered even.

Héctor's entire face had been growing steadily more and more red the whole time. Imelda felt a strange twinge of satisfaction when he flared up all the way to his huge ears at that last part. His whole head looked like a burnt tomato.

"Then I'm sure the entire village has an apology in order for Señorita Rivera as well," María said pointedly.

The man suddenly flushed, almost as red as Héctor. " Sí, of course, Señorita."

"That'll do." Sor María had said it with such finality that Imelda almost sprang from her chair and yelled out in wild, joyful abandon. The nun was on her side, somewhat, after all. She had made it through the desert at last. She'd never have to deal with Héctor and his dumb tomato face ever again.

And then the habit rotated slowly, horrifyingly slowly, till Sor María had her eyes in fierce deadlock. "Well, go on, señorita, " she said. The girl's heart sank. The four of them stood in silence for what felt like an eternity. Héctor peeled his eyes off the floor and actually dared to glance at her.

Deciding this was the only way to end it, Imelda took a deep breath.

"Sólo lo siento por el guitarra."

I'm only sorry for the guitar.


1912

Imelda managed to avoid any meaningful interactions with Héctor for nearly two years after that first guitar-icide incident. She suspected Héctor was likewise avoiding her for exactly the same reason, though it was impossible to know for sure.

They saw each other around, sure, with a church as small as Santa Cecilia that was basically inevitable. But eye contact, even at a distance, was minimal, verbally speaking out of the question, and entering the same room only permissible during mass or some other event with a minimum of thirty people.

So, when he burst into the sewing room one hot, August afternoon and dove under the table, she was more startled than anything else.

Renata had yelped, clutching the paper flowers they'd been stringing to her chest. She and Imelda exchanged a confused look.

Imelda flipped up the table cloth, ducking under it. "What do you think you're doing—!"

"Shhh—" he held up a finger to his lips. He was curled up into a tight ball, his ankles crossed and lanky knees pulled up to his chin. She thought she noticed his face fall a little as he placed her in his mind, though that could've been her imagination.

"Have you lost your mind—"

He shushed her again. "Silencio, por favor."

"Oh, hola, Héctor," Renata poked her head under the table, her thick braid swung down towards the floor. "You ran in so fast I couldn't tell who it was."

"Hola, Renata," Héctor craned his neck around to greet her. "Now, por favor, act like I'm not here," he waved at her to get up. She shrugged and obliged, going back to the stack of flowers.

"Is this some kind of game—" Imelda demanded, not bothering to be quiet.

"—'m hiding," he hissed through clenched teeth. He aggressively nodded towards the back door, in the direction he'd just come from. Imelda sat up, gazing out the open doorway. The courtyard outside was crawling with clergy members running about frantically. Everything was littered with chicken feathers. Several of the nuns were covered head and shoulder with an off-white plaster. Another was trying to pry her foot out of a bucket. Padre García chased a set of cluttering chickens across the visible length of the courtyard.

Imelda ducked back under the table, leveling Héctor with a raised eyebrow look that said everything.

"It was an accident!" he spread his hands, looking positively sheepish.

"What are you, the god of accidents?"

"Imeldaaaa-" Renata tapped her fingernail on the table, calling her back.

She reluctantly sat up in her chair, grabbing another flower and stabbing it's center with the needle just in time. Sor Josefina entered the doorway. The sleeves of her black robe soiled with large, tan-colored splatter. Her round cheeks flushed and glimmered with sweat.

"Have you girls seen anybody come through here?" she asked, out of breath.

Renata shook her head. "Just us," she said. Imelda stiffened her jaw, staring a hole through the red and green patterned table runner. The fool was lucky the thing hung almost to the floor.

Sor Josefina sighed, nodding and moving on without another word. The nuns outside had started to scatter off to different buildings. A huge, white smear stuck out, a blotch on the chapel wall.

"Is it clear?" Héctor's voice sounded from under the table.

"All clear," Renata ducked back under the table, taking her end of the flower garland with her. Imelda tied the end of her thread into a tiny knot. "Hey, since you're here, do you know how to play Anita?"

"The Yañez song, Sí—?"

"My sister really wants it for her quinceañera but the recording we got is just awful. Do you think you could—?"

"Oh, sí , of course. When is it?"

"Saturday. I know it's last minute—"

Imelda's fingers stopped working. She stared at the mountain of folded paper covering the two voices speaking with no visible owners. She could feel the annoyance start to crescendo in her head.

"No, no hay bronca—"

"Oh, gracias, I'll tell my mom—"

"Get out from under the table!" Imelda sputtered, throwing up her hands.

"Oh," Renata's head reappeared. She brushed loose hairs out from her eyes. Héctor slid along the ground, emerging under the table cloth and springing to his feet.

"Mucho gracias for the sanctuary, señoritas."

"So, how long are you going to keep ducking under tables?" Imelda twisted the paper center of a bright pink flower, drawing the thread through the little piercing. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

Most of the girls their age, Imelda included, had shot up in the last year. Héctor was still very childlike and short. There wasn't much of a difference between Héctor now and the Héctor of two years ago. She was probably a whole head taller than him. His clothes did fit a little better, even if the trousers were bound at the waist with rope. The front of his shirt was covered in plaster, some of it dotted on his chin and neck, too.

"Ah, I just got to lay low until something else happens and they forget all about it," he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't think any of them knew it was me."

"Uh huh." He probably hadn't thought through the probability that the next time trouble materialized he'd be the cause of that, too.

"I'd better run," he ducked under the table one last time to pick up a well worn straw hat. He pushed it low on his head, nearly to his eyes. The brim threatened to fold down his ears. "Gracias Señorita Renata."

"No, gracias for the song," Renata said amiably.

He turned to Imelda, "Gracias Señorita—" he hesitated, his expression plummeting. Imelda glared. He'd actually forgotten—

"Riv—er—a—" she enunciated each syllable.

He snapped his fingers. "Señorita Rivera, gracias." He leaned out the door, feet still firmly planted in the room. His head swiveled left and then right. Then he snuck out into the courtyard the rest of the way, waving at the girls over his shoulder as he left.

Imelda stared at Renata with an exasperated look until she was forced to acknowledge it. Which she did, albeit non-verbally.

"Héctor, play my sister a song," Imelda pitched her voice too high to be authentic to either her or Renata, but the sarcasm more than made up for it.

"¿Mande?We need someone to play it, and he's pretty good. Haven't you heard him?" She pulled a handful of flowers towards her end of the table.

She'd hadn't, not really, not if you didn't count the brief moments before their paths actually crossed. He was willing to mud tackle her over that guitar, so that at least said something.

"I don't recall."

"You're just full of it, Imelda," she scoffed. "What were you so upset about? You looked like you wanted to stab him."

"I wasn't upset. I just don't like him."

"What'd he ever do to you?"

Imelda gave a labored sigh. She didn't really want to get into it. "He was always making fun of me."

"Héctor?" Renata quirked up an eyebrow.

"Alright, it was one time. Right after I moved here, we weren't friends yet, and it was a huge fight and I was so embarrassed," her fists knocked the table. "And he doesn't even remember me."

"Maybe you're making it into a bigger thing than it actually was—?" Renata said, light as feather.

"He called me a mule."

"Oh." Renata pulled her thread out arm's length. "Héctor? Are you sure it was him?"

"I wasn't the one who forgot," she said pointedly.


They had one rehearsal at the church courtyard the day before the event. The tables and chairs and most of the decorations had already been set up that morning. Imelda held piles of flower garlands in her arms while some of the older boys attached them around the perimeter in artistic waves. Renata's sister loved pink so the whole stage was lined with pink flowers and garlands and flags.

Renata's mother enveloped Imelda in a burly hug. "Mucho gracias for helping on our special day." The large woman released Imelda only to pinch her cheeks between her fingers.

"Oh, it's nothing," she passed the last of the flower train up to Renata's brother. He hooked it over a nail, creating a perfect arch over the church entryway.

Renata came out in her procession dress. One hundred percent pink, pink and white embroidery, with a row of pink ruffles going around the skirt. Imelda breathed in relief as Señora Garcia turned her enthusiasm on her youngest daughter.

"So beautiful, mija!" She spun Renata around, watching how the dress turned.

"Gracias, mamá."

Imelda borrowed a seat towards the back, plopping herself down and rotating her ankles. Señora Garcia had amassed a large collection of dress shoes for the event, which was more than gracious of her, most of Santa Cecilia was lucky to own a single pair. They certainly looked nice, but her toes pinched and complained after only five minutes. She didn't care what happened at her quinceañera so long as the shoes were comfortable.

"Where is your guitarrista?" Señora Garcia asked her daughter. "I still have his costume."

"I haven't seen him," Renata said simply.

Señora Garcia was promptly distracted by the sight of her eldest, showing the main event dress. The dress to dwarf all other dresses. Señora Garcia ran at her, voice pitched up several octaves.

Renata's dress created a swirling pink spiral when she sat down next to Imelda.

"My quinceañera is gonna be black," Renata pondered, "like my soul—"

Imelda chuckled. Renata was probably the sweetest person alive, but even at thirteen she had a healthy love for sarcasm, which was probably how she and Imelda managed to remain friends.

There was a clatter over the cobbelstone walk, and Héctor finally ran in. Late by nearly twenty minutes.

"Oh, there you are," Renata gasped, relieved. She was beginning to think he hadn't remembered.

"Hola, señorita ," Héctor gasped, a little out of breath.

"I'll go get Mamá, she's got your outfit," Renata left the bench, "Wait right here." She didn't allow Imelda even a sideways glance of protest.

Imelda and Héctor were promptly left alone.

She stiffened her back and sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring forward at the stage. Héctor sat down trepidatiously, only two spots away from Imelda.

"Señorita Rivera." Héctor said in greeting. He swung the guitar off his back, absently plucking and rotating the pegs. It was bigger than the last one. His guitar strap was made from rope, the same kind as belt holding up his trousers. The run to get there had made him sweaty and his hair stuck up in front. His feet were dirty, too.

"Señor Mulo ," Imelda addressed him back. It practically jumped out of her throat, automatically, like it had been festering inside her throat all week could no longer be contained.

His head snapped towards her, looking very confused for a whole second. His eyes went wide. "Mul— oh, Oh!" he immediately reddened. "Oh, you did remember that," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. There was that burnt tomato agian.

"I'm afraid so."

"Look, I'm really sorry I said that to you," he continued. "I don't know why- I think I'd just heard it somewhere and thought it was a compliment. Fue tonto."

For some reason, that rubbed terribly at Imelda. "A compliment?" Where had he learned Spanish that a mule was considered a compliment?

"I know, I know I was a jerk. Do you think we could— I don't know, forget about it and start over—"

Renata suddenly plopped herself down on the seat next to Héctor. She handed a cleverly folded pile of jacket and pants on top of her brother's old zapatos . "Here we go. Can you see if it fits?"

Héctor jumped at the opportunity to be somewhere, anywhere, but there and grabbed the outfit. He ran from the bench, mumbling a quick gracias on the way.

Renata looked at Imelda like she'd just strangled a rabbit in front of her. "What? What happened?"

"He said it as a compliment, Renata. Un cumplido. This is how loco he is," Imelda started venting, "What kind of person calls you el grande mulo on the street and expects you to take it as a compliment?"

"It looked a little like he was apologizing." Sweet, naive, Renata, always assuming the best of everyone.

"He's sorry I broke his guitarra amada last time, that is all."

"You broke his guitar?" Renata deflated, shrugging a centimeter away from her friend. "That's pretty mean—"

Imelda's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me? You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am, Imelda, I am."

"You weren't there. Everybody laughing—"

"It's just— I don't know, he always has the guitar. It's like breaking his arm."

"Then he shouldn't say offensive things," Imelda tried to sound confident and assured but Renata was sort of getting to her. Maybe she had overreacted. Maybe he really didn't have a concept of what he was saying, it had been a whole two years ago. They were practically babies back then. Felipe and Óscar said stupid things all the time and it didn't send her into a frenzy. Comparatively. And Héctor did seem sorry. Not just a route, mechanical sorry for the benefit of the adults, but genuinely sorry. Maybe she could try to be a little nicer.

Something had occurred to Renata. "Are you—" she paused, "certain he said 'mulo' ?"

Imelda's brow creased. "Of course. I was there."

"I've never heard a guy shout 'mulo' on the street, but it does sound a bit like—" Renata couldn't bring herself to say it.

Imelda's heart began to thud, heavy and angry and loud. She hadn't known very many off-limit words back when she first came to Santa Cecilia but her vocabulary had broadened a lot as she'd grown. He hadn't been parroting an insult, he'd been parroting a catcall. That was his sick idea of a compliment! That— that—

She sprang from her chair, ignoring Renata's cry of protest. Stone-faced, she marched back into the church, down the hall, intending to barge into el baños itself if she had to.

Instead she intercepted him around a corner, already dressed in his costume. He was balanced on one leg, the other bent up towards his hands, tugging one of the shoes over his heel. He happened to look up and suddenly he dropped it. His eyes went wide in terror at the sight of her. With the combination of his posture and her maturity, she towered over him. He snatched up the guitar, pulling it behind his back. Imelda took a deep breath.

"EL GRANDE CULO?! What is your problem?!" she shrieked.

Héctor turned tail and immediately started to run.

A/N:

-I've heard various things about the naughtiness status of the word "culo", some people consider it super offensive, others like it's a minor lewd term. I figured Imelda would be livid under any circumstance and it happened to be easily misheard as other words, which pleased my screwball sense of humor. Something like this happened with my brother when he was 9 (yes, he was punished). It sort of reminded me of Héctor editing his song for the sake of Miguel during Everyone Knows Juanita. Watch your language around the little ones, haha.

-I assumed the name Rivera came from Imelda to begin with, Héctor taking it after they married and not the other way around. Women in Mexico don't necessarily give up their maiden name in favor of their husband's the way a lot of English traditions do. And I couldn't justify Imelda keeping the name of the man she was that furious with for abandoning her, much less passing it to her family and her business and all that.

-Octaviano Yañez was one of the very early Mexican guitarists ever recorded (if not the first). Big companies like Edison, Columbia, and Victor had been busy recording Mexican artists, particularly folk songs and such, from 1902 up to the revolt against Porfirio Diaz in 1910. Diaz had been really big on marketing Mexican culture to investors of other nations to for funding purposes. "Anita" was one of his songs I just happened to like. The recording I found dated to 1907 so it was genuine to the time period.

- La quinceañera before 1910 was apparently more of an upperclass thing (they can be expensive), and there's no set way to celebrate it. It could be a simple as saying a rosary or could be a big blow out fiesta. I mostly pulled details from the quinceañeras I've been to.