Many years ago, fifteen-year-old Coco hurried to the family's workshop with instructions from her mother to pick up five pairs of shoes and deliver them to the dancers in town. When she entered the shop, she found her uncles, Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, side by side at their stations. They were identical twins, both wearing fedoras, long aprons, and striped shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Coco marveled at how their movements were perfectly matched as they pulled on needles with long lengths of thread.
"Hola, Coco," they said.
"What are you working on?" she asked.
"We're sewing tongues," Tío Oscar replied, and when he saw her
surprise, he said, "Tongues for shoes, not the tongues you speak with." "Or lick with," Tío Felipe added.
"Or whistle with."
"Or stick out when you're mad at your mamá Imelda."
Coco laughed. That was how her uncles talked, one after the other, and Coco had to pivot her head back and forth as she tried to keep up.
"Ay, tíos," she cried. "You're going to give me a headache!"
"Perdóname," both uncles said, and they immediately got back to
sewing, pulling their needles in unison again. Coco hated to interrupt them, but she needed to pick up the shoes.
"Are the dancing shoes ready? Mamá said you made five pairs." "Of course," Tío Felipe said. "One of us made three pairs—"
"And the other made two," finished Tío Oscar.
Coco followed them to the far corner of the shop, where they brought down two boxes from a shelf. As they pulled out shoes, they counted. "One, two…" said Tío Oscar. "Three, four…" said Tío Felipe. And together, they said, "Five."
They left the shoes in a pile and returned to their workstations. Coco wrapped each pair in tissue paper and carefully placed them in a basket so she could carry them to town. Meanwhile, her uncles were stroking their pencil-thin mustaches as they tried to solve a riddle.
"Which needle is mine?" Tío Felipe said. "And which is mine?" asked Tío Oscar.
"Well, I was using black thread."
"So was I. Perhaps we should measure."
They grabbed a measuring tape. "Same length!" they exclaimed.
"Mira, hermano," Tío Oscar said, "no offense, but I prefer to use my own needle."
"As do I."
Coco knew this discussion would last all day, so she marched over, picked up the needles, and handed them out.
"This one is yours and this one is yours," she said. "How can you tell?" they asked.
"Because they're clearly different."
The uncles examined the needles, doubtful expressions on their faces. "They are?"
"Yes!" Coco said, and pointing to each of her uncles, she continued, "As different as you and you!"
"Well, that makes perfect sense," Tío Oscar replied. "It most certainly does," agreed Tío Felipe.
"We're as different as boots and sandals."
"As buckles and laces." "As heels and flats."
"As…"
Coco grabbed her basket of shoes and rushed out before she got another headache. She loved her uncles, but they sure knew how to confuse her sometimes.
Coco enjoyed the bright sunshine as she headed to the dance studio. It was a quiet walk, and she heard only her steps and the rustle of her skirt.
But once she reached the center of town, more sounds layered in—children laughing on the playground, vendors calling out their wares, and dogs barking for treats.
She crossed the plaza, turned a corner, and found the studio. "Anybody here?" she called, because it was empty when she stepped in.
"We're in the back," someone answered.
She followed the voice to a dressing room, where a seamstress was taking measurements of the girls. When they saw Coco, they clapped in delight, because her family had already earned a reputation for making excellent shoes.
As soon as she set down the basket, the girls rushed to it, unwrapped the shoes, and tried them on. Then one of the girls ran to the studio and started skipping around, a simple version of the polka. Soon all five girls joined her, their footsteps rhythmically clacking and echoing one another. There wasn't a single instrument in the room, yet it seemed filled with music.
Watching them reminded Coco of a time when she used to dance, too.
She had been very young when her father left, so she couldn't remember his face very well, but she could remember his voice and the joy she had felt as she'd danced with her mother whenever he'd played the guitar and sung.
"Look!" the dance teacher said, disrupting Coco's memory. "Here's an extra pair of shoes."
Coco peeked into the basket and realized her uncles' mistake. Each had made three pairs, so instead of five, there were six pairs of shoes. Coco laughed to herself. Leave it to them to copy each other exactly.
For a moment, she thought about giving the extra
shoes to the dancers in case another girl joined their group, but then she had a better idea. She would keep them for herself!
She finished the transaction, rushed home, and went behind the family compound to try the shoes. They fit perfectly! She did a little hop, then another and another. On the hard-packed dirt, her steps landed with a soft thud. She tiptoed to the paved patio, stepped onto the bricks, and heard the pleasant clicking of her shoes. She did a toe tap, cautiously, as if testing the temperature of a pool before jumping in. Then she glanced about. No one was around, so she decided it was safe to dance. Her first steps were a bit
awkward because she hadn't danced in such a long time, but she was a natural. She felt rhythm in her blood. She didn't need musicians to sing, because she had the memory of her father's voice. She closed her eyes and the dancing took her back to the happiest memories of her early childhood. Soon she was flicking her feet, striking the ground with her toes and heels, and twirling her skirt. Her steps were getting faster, more rhythmic, and louder. Her footsteps echoed off the walls, and Coco imagined a dozen dancers celebrating beside her!
Then she heard someone's voice: "Ahem!"
Coco froze and opened her eyes. There stood Mamá Imelda, clearing her throat to get Coco's attention. She cradled a kitten and absently
scratched behind its ears, making the little cat purr. Coco wondered how her mother's arms could be so tender when her eyes could be so stern.
"Um…uh…hola, Mamá."
"I thought I told you to deliver those shoes."
"I did," Coco said, "but there was an extra pair, so I thought…well, I wanted…and…"
Her mother raised an eyebrow, questioning, and Coco hung her head,
ashamed. Then Mamá Imelda set down the kitten, approached her daughter, and lifted Coco's chin. This time her eyes were as gentle as her hands.
"M'ija," she said, "look around." Mamá Imelda stood back and looked at the hacienda with appreciation. "We have a comfortable home, delicious food, and warm clothes, but more importantly, we have each other, and all because we know the difference between good, honest work and…careless indulgences."
Coco nodded. "I understand, but—"
"It's very simple," Mamá Imelda interrupted. "Music tore our family apart, but shoes have kept us together." She straightened Coco's braids.
"From now on," she said, "the dancers can order from someone else. These shoes bring too many sad memories, and some things are better to forget." Then she headed to the workshop, the kitten following close behind.
Disheartened, Coco headed to her room to take off the shoes. They still clicked as she stepped on the pavement, but instead of music, the clicks
sounded like someone hammering shut her joy.