Three years. One-thousand-ninety-five days. More than a third of her life had passed since that fateful night. Yet where it stood sharp in her memory, the time before - back when her abuela could still look into her eyes and Isabela could manage to say more than three words at a time to her - was a blur. The fuzzy images and scattered sound bites, which grew dimmer with each passing day, were almost dreamlike. Sometimes Mirabel couldn't help but wonder if her coming of age ceremony hadn't also marked her coming to life.
Sweat coated her forehead. The back of her nightgown clung to her wet back. Mirabel wouldn't have been any hotter if her mother had stuck her inside an oven. Still, she kept her blanket pulled tight over her head. Weak of a barrier as it was, it was all she had to keep the world away. What happened beneath it was nothing that her family, or even the casita itself, needed to see.
Though each passing day pushed her further and further from that moment, she could still feel the cool heft of the doorknob pressed against her palm. It had been heavy at first. If not for Abuela's firm hand on her shoulder, it might have slipped from between her fingers. And yet compared to the weight of everyone's eyes on her, it had been light as a feather.
Mirabel bit the inside of her bottom lip. Her shaking fists tightened around the edges of her blanket.
Three years, she reminded herself. It's been three years.
As if the distance mattered. Time hadn't stopped her classmates from whispering about her. For all the space it pushed between her and that moment, each new day only made her lack of a gift all the more noticeable. Luisa could pick up five donkeys at a time now, where nine months before it had been a cause for celebration when she'd finally managed to get three. Dolores had recently learned how to discern if a woman was pregnant - before the mother-to-be did! With only a thought, Camilo could easily slip inside someone's skin. And all Isabela had to do was push her hair back to create a garden.
Just what could Mirabel do? Not much, it seemed. Where her sisters and cousins spent their days running errands and hurriedly finishing chores, Mirabel's seemed to drag on forever. Whether she spent it holed up in the nursery or tucked into a forgotten corner, her sole daily task remained constant.
Stay out of trouble.
The edges of her eyelids burned. Amazing how she couldn't even seem to do that right.
What set her apart from the rest of her family? For as often as the question dogged at her mind, Mirabel was still no closer to finding an answer. But should that ever change, through it she might finally become capable of answering her most pertinent enigma: Why?
Why hadn't she gotten a gift? Why couldn't she be special, too?
"But Mirabel, you are special."
Her mother's voice echoed in her head. As if she didn't have enough questions already, a new one flashed through Mirabel's mind. How many times had her mother said that to her? Certainly more times than she'd bothered to make record of. Enough that hearing her say it was as much a part of Mirabel's day as eating breakfast or brushing her teeth.
"I wish," Mirabel rasped. Even as her eyelids leaked, the inside of her throat felt like old leather that had been left forgotten in the sun. "I wish mi mamá was right. I wish I was special."
"Oh, mi muñeca, don't talk like that."
Mirabel stiffened. Her blanket now seemed tight as a hungry viper around her.
She wasn't sure how long she lay like that, her knees pulled up to her chest, her right cheek pressed into her mattress. Every muscle in her body was frozen. She only moved again when the growing weight in her chest grew too tight. Flopping like a fish suddenly washed onto land, she pulled herself out from under her blanket and gasped. Cool air sent goosebumps rising up her skin. Her blanket fell into a wrinkled pile onto the floor.
Once her breath had finally slowed, Mirabel blinked, hurriedly turning her head from side to side. The moonlight streaming in through her window illuminated toys and piles of clothes spilled across the floor, as well as her desk overflowing with books and stray sheets of paper. Though slightly blurry without her glasses, her room looked no different than it had the night before.
"Who," she squeaked, "who's there?"
No one, she realized. It hit her as soon as the words left her lips. Sleep must not have been as elusive as she'd first thought it would be that evening.
Her eyes landed on her blanket. She reached a hand forward but pulled it back just as her fingertips brushed against the fabric's fringed edge. Instead, she sat with her back pressed against her pillow and her knees to her chin.
"Believe me, I know this is hard."
Her eyes widened. Her fists tightened, her fingernails digging into her palms. A sting ran up her arms.
"I'm not," the voice continued, "going to pretend that it'll magically get easier."
She turned her head. The smooth voice sent her mind whirring. Forget the what and why's - just who was this?
"Wh-Who-" Her voice was shaking too much to get any further words out.
At first, her only answer was her heartbeat echoing in her ears.
"A friend," the voice finally spoke. Though her shoulders shook, the words felt firm and warm as a hug. The voice seemed to be coming from under the floor as well as down from the ceiling and through the walls, embracing her on every side. "I know you think you're alone, Mirabel, that no one notices you. You couldn't be more wrong."
A friend? The answer only raised more questions. Yet she couldn't keep the edges of her lips pushed down. How many nights had she clasped her sweaty palms together and frantically whispered to whoever might listen?
"Gift or not, you're special. Do you know why?"
She shook her head. Her tongue was heavy as a brick.
"Because you're Mirabel. That, mi ángel, is a gift itself."
Mirabel looked from the ceiling to the floor and into every corner. She kept searching long after the voice had stilled, when all she could hear was the distant creaking of old boards and her own steady breathing. She squinted at every shadow even as her eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
When she next opened them, sunlight streamed in through her opened window. Her blanket was pulled up to her shoulders and a few of her stuffed dolls were tucked against her side.
