Yup, still a Grammar Goddess-free environment. But at least I know what's up with her now.
And I'm posting early because I finally want to answer the guest reviews!
Guitarist Girl: A de la Cruz-redemption story would definitely be interesting to write. I don't want to say too much here, because spoilers, but I do have my plans with these characters. It may or may not be what you're hoping for (I'm seriously not sure what you're hoping for exactly), but I'm giving it my all to make it a fun ride either way! ^-^
ArtofthePlate: Octavia doesn't notice the 'Forget You' sign because there's no sign to notice yet. It's been only nine days so far, and I figure it would take at least a month to get the whole population of Santa Cecilia on board with the Héctor-was-the-real-musician idea. The sign will be hung up for sure, but all in its due time. Remember, the time skip spans a whole year.
As for how much the family knows about Miguel's detour... Well, that's not quite the focus yet, because there's friendshipping to be done. But I do intend to adress that eventually!
To the other two guests, I'm afraid I can't say much more than thank you. I'll keep writing!
Shoe Perils
After explaining that no, I didn't mean the things I said, that Miguel's grito sounds perfectly fine and that playing popular songs is a perfectly legit way to start out, I discover that the kid's a little perfeccionista. He actually concedes the points I made. I suppose filtering helpful info from a rage fit is a great ability to have, and I admire him for that. But all too often, ambition leads to anxiety, and Miguel's questioning something as basic as his grito rings several alarm bells. I can't help asking how many times he's performed before.
"Four. Well, three and a half."
"Sorry..." I mumble for what feels like the millionth time and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Anyway, how's the stage fright?"
"Awful," Miguel says, but there's laughter in his voice. "I was scared stiff the first time I stood in front of a crowd. But it's getting better."
"Nothing like a grito to get rid of the anxiety, isn't that right?" I grin, somewhat jealous. Dancers rarely get to scream, but dang it! Relaxation at its finest!
Miguel promptly agrees, "Sure is!" and waves his free hand, eyes twinkling with excitement. "What about you? I bet you've performed before!"
"¡Ya lo creo! Since I was seven, in fact. There's no faster way to melt people's hearts than letting a child perform. Which you're probably aware of." I scratch my head. Part of me is surprised that he asks, the other part is surprised that I'm surprised. "My family is deeply involved with pretty much every festival in this area. I actually performed in Santa Cecilia a couple times. Even more so now that I finished school!"
Miguel turns away, suddenly striking a rather bitter tone: "Not that I would know." He doesn't offer any explanation, but putting two and two together really isn't hard.
"Music is everywhere, isn't it? How did your family even survive?"
"By locking everyone into a workshop."
"¡Híjole! I'd crack!"
Dante whines. Miguel's lips stretch into a thin line. There's something he doesn't say, and I get the distinct impression it's a bleak I did.
I can't blame him. Just thinking about the scale of reclusion the Riveras must have been living in makes me queasy. Only skirting festivals? No background music to take the strain off work, not even humming? No radio, no watching the news? No singing in the shower? Did they ever attend church?!
Before I can make up my mind about asking such weird questions to a person I've been trying to beat up only a few minutes ago, Miguel pulls himself together and maneuvers his guitar around. He starts picking at the strings, coaxing a gentle but gloomy melody from them. I never heard it before, I'm certain.
"What song is that?"
It takes a moment for Miguel to react. The way his head tilts when he looks up... so slow and deliberate... He's still the dreamy kid I once knew. Suddenly, I feel bad for interrupting him, but then Miguel blinks the far-off look away. It's instantly replaced by question marks tinged with indignation.
"It's not a song. I just made it up."
"You just...?!" I splutter. "You mean... just now?!"
"Got a problem with that?"
"No." I shake my head, thoroughly amazed. Dante barks and wags his tail, as if trying to underline his master's epic-scale awesomeness. Not that it needs any underlining. "Honestly, it's boggling my mind. When I ad-lib a melody on my harmonica, you definitely hear it. I'm utterly hopeless when it comes to composing, even though I basically grew up in a music box. And then you come round the corner and pull this! How long has it been since your family stopped with the no-music nonsense?"
Miguel shrugs. "Last Día de los Muertos."
I can only shake my head again. I really want his talent, but this isn't the time to be jealous. And while I would like being able to compose great music off the top of my head, I'm certainly not interested in having Miguel's history. He complained about it to me before, and I imagine he complained to a bunch of other people, too. The story about the musician who left and never came back... Wait!
"¡Por Dios!" I snap my fingers. How could I not have realized? "Your great-great-grandfather! The musician who left! He's this Héctor person you mentioned, right?"
"You remember?" He seems genuinely surprised, and this time around, it's me who shrugs.
"Well, yeah. I mean, it's been a while, but your family history is... um... unique enough to be remembered."
"Unique? Seriously?" Miguel sighs. "Just say it, we're weird."
I'm not sure how to answer that. I've forgotten how blunt he is...
I settle for an awkward giggle, but the more I think about it, the funnier it becomes. The giggle turns into genuine laughter, and Miguel looks at me as if I just fell off a flying saucer.
I hurry to wave the matter aside. "Sorry, just laughing at myself."
"Suuuure..."
Snickering, I turn forward and cross my arms behind my head. A few steps later, I catch myself humming the very melody Miguel just played, though with a more positive tune. And the músico goes right ahead and readopts it for his guitar, tongue poking out. He's giving off an aura of quiet bliss which I can't help smiling at. It's so sweet. You'd have to have a heart of stone if you wish to suppress this...
Poor kid.
Ay, he'd totally kill me if I said that out loud! So I resort to thoroughly kneading Dante's hairless hide while listening to my new old amigo's compositions, up until we reach the zapatería.
I'm not sure what to expect from the compound that the two Riveras lead me into. The wooden gate could totally use a paint job, but there's nothing even remotely unusual about that. Still, one step in and I feel right out of place. Shoe racks to the left, guarding doorways which reveal a workshop with even more shoe racks and a bunch of tools whose names I couldn't possibly dream up. A wooden shed to the right, decorated with about a billion potted plants. Straight ahead, a sealed well. It marks the center of a bustling courtyard opening before us, and the sight is one I absolutely cannot take in at once.
I always kind of assumed that Miguel is the youngest of the Rivera clan. He certainly sighed a lot about being babied. (And I sighed right back. Not trying to make myself look better than I am here – complaining is fun.) Well, there are small twins running around now, swarming the legs of their padres and tíos who are in the middle of preparing a table. I quickly check the time on my cell phone. Could it possibly be noon already? Oof, indeed it is! I knew playing the tourist guide was time-consuming, but I didn't realize it was that much!
Talk about Santa Cecilia being a fun place to be... Oh, shoot! Mamá is going to bite off my head! I should be home for lunch right now, but I'm half an hour away! Where do I get a time machine?!
Before I can fret myself into a full-blown panic, a delighted squeal and a guitar thrust into my hands from right out of nowhere derail that train of thought. Enrique calls a greeting. Miguel is buried in little boys, though he doesn't seem to mind. He laughs and gathers the twins in his arms.
"Hey, careful there! Your primo is no Charizard!"
Dante runs circles around them, obviously enjoying himself, but I can barely do more than gape. My great-great-grandfather's guitar weighing heavily on my arms doesn't exactly help matters, either. Huh... At least now I can sort those two kiddos in relation to Miguel. I do wonder how they know Charizard, though. Both the games and the TV show are package deals, free music attached. Merchandise in a store, maybe? Or have they been binging since last week?
Dios, I'm confused!
But what I am not... Well, that would be invisible. Especially while hugging a gigantic block of dazzlingly white wood, so a whole bunch of people pause in serving outdoor lunch to size me up. I don a smile, shift the weight of the guitar to one arm and wave. I'm not really sure what to do; I don't recognize any of them. Where's Rosa? Could one of them be Abel? I can't spot anyone who looks Danilo's age.
Oh well, I'm good. Right here. Distracted by Miguel and his cousins having a tickle fight in front of my nose, which looks plenty silly and adorable at the same time. Even Enrique laughs before he heads for the table, where he kisses a pregnant woman resting in a chair and starts a conversation I can't hear. (In fact, any snippets of chitchat potentially wafting over are completely drowned out by the three boys. Part of me is thankful for it.)
Hmm... The woman must be Miguel's mamá. I feel sorry for the baby already, sentenced to growing up with a brother twelve years older than him or her. I had to experience firsthand that it's bad enough with a brother who has only five years on you, and as far as Miguel is concerned, he may even turn thirteen before his sibling is born. Not that he's acting the part right now...
I clear my throat. "Miguel?"
Nope, still wrestling his primos. Granted, they sit on him by now, but is some kind of acknowledgment really that much to ask?
"Miguel!"
"Huh?"
"What do you think about introductions?"
"Sounds great, but I'm afraid I'm a little busy. Eww, not you too, boy!"
Dante has taken to licking Miguel's face, providing the young músico with the motivation to finally fend off anyone invading his personal space. One divide-and-conquer tactic later, the twins are all over Dante and Miguel stands. I pat his back to remove the dust, and Miguel himself fixes his hair and jeans.
"¡Gracias, Tavi!"
"De nada, Michacho." Wait...
I blink at my own words, and Miguel looks similarly stunned. Next thing I know, we're both laughing.
As you do. I can't believe this just happened! It's been so long, but that stupid nickname is still rolling off my tongue as if I used it only yesterday!
"Ay, that felt a little too natural, didn't it?"
"¡Qué cosas! You sure you really were my age the last time we saw each other?"
"Not anymore!" Cielos, I can't get that smile off my face! Even though I never really missed Miguel in my life, having him back feels just so very right! And we don't need to hide from Rosa anymore, which makes it even better!
However, Miguel's expression has turned into something more lopsided by now. He plucks his instrument from my arms, the grin on his lips somewhere between playful and sheepish. "Sorry for tossing the guitar at you like this."
"Don't worry about it. It's not exactly your fault, ¿no?" I glance at the twins, who let go of Dante in favor of staring at us in wonder. Good lord, they're adorable! "¡Hola, chavitos!" I smile and bend my knees a little. "I'm Tavia, Miguel's friend!"
Both of them brighten at being talked to directly. "¡Hola, Tabia!" one of them tries. The other sticks with "¡Hola!"
Miguel chortles. "Do you want to tell her your names, too?"
"I'm Benny!" the one who messed up my name cheers.
"I'm Manny!" announces the other, and I know I'm doomed. So far, the only difference I can detect between the two is that Benny wears a red T-shirt and Manny a yellow one. Next time, they'll probably wear other colors.
Oh well, I guess I can worry about that when I know if there'll be a next time at all. There's still the distinct possibility that I'll be chased away with a flying chancla.
Wonderful prospect.
I breathe deeply and relax my shoulders. "Alrighty, Miguel. Ready to take on the incoming flood of names."
"That's the spirit! Come on!"
Humming an upbeat tune, he herds everyone to the table. Dante needs no further encouragement, but the twins run off first chance they get. Nobody cares enough to call them back, but at least we have some leg room now.
Miguel sets course for his mother straight-away. "¡Hola, mamá!" he says, places his guitar in a chair and goes on to give her a careful hug.
"¡Hola, Miguel! How was the plaza? Did you have fun?"
"¡Por supuesto! There even was this tourist family... I don't think they understood a word, but they seemed to like my playing anyway! Isn't it great how music connects the whole world?"
For this music is my language...
I'm rather sure I know the tourists Miguel is talking about. Now I wonder what would have gone differently if it hadn't been for them... I probably would have stomped home after discovering the grave-robbery and hauled my whole family to the closest police station. Where we would have been told that everything is in order, because the guitar never was our (great-)great-grandfather's to begin with. Probably the most awful way possible to learn something like that. As it is now, at least I got some quality time with Miguel out of the deal.
"And the world es mi familia... ¡Épale, Tavi! Your foot-tapping is making me loco!"
¡Huy! I didn't even realize I was tapping out the song in my head. And infected Miguel with it. Who in turn triggered the next melody: "Un poquito loco, by any chance?"
"Un poquito más loco, by a tap dance."
I puff up my cheeks. Wittiness in twelve-year-olds should totally be outlawed. "¡Bah! Cállate, músico."
"Someone can't handle loooo-siiiing!" Miguel chants and proceeds to underline the words with a smirk. And a tap dance. Now that's just pure evil!
I cross my arms, frowning, glowering – and struggling to keep the corners of my mouth from twitching upwards. Why is it so utterly impossible to stay mad at this boy?!
I swat at him playfully. "Stop it!"
Miguel is still grinning, but his expression is quickly wiped blank when someone chuckles and we're reminded of our audience. I really don't want to know what my own face looks like right now, but it feels hot enough to be glowing like a traffic light. I seem to have a real knack for ruining first impressions.
"You made a new friend, I see," Miguel's mamá chimes in, smiling at me. Very open, very welcoming. It puts me at ease, and I take a breath to introduce myself properly.
Miguel is faster: "She's actually an old friend, but..." He trails off, uncertain. That's kind of what you get for talking first and thinking second.
"Way to trip over your own tongue there, Miguel," I tease and promptly get to admire said tongue in all its poked-out glory. There's another ¡Cállate! in the air because someone can't handle losing, which I studiously ignore and turn to face Miguel's mamá instead. "My name is Octavia Aguayo. I'm from a dancer clan, so things were a little rocky back then. But I'm happy to finally meet Miguel's family!"
"The pleasure is all mine."
"A secret dancer friend, eh?" A huge, meaty hand flops down on Miguel's head and ruffles his hair. It belongs to an equally huge man with an equally huge nose and a balding head. "Isn't that typical for you, sobrino?"
Miguel rolls his eyes and stands next to me, pretending to have a reason for ducking away besides running for the hills. Yup, he's definitely the clan baby.
"Okay, let's get this started. Looks like everyone who's not somewhere else has gathered."
He's right. The people who hung back before are all well within earshot by now. Miguel's mother (Where's Enrique gone to?), the uncle, a woman who appears to be trying for a more fashionable appearance than her family and somehow managed to look more uncanny than Barbie, an elderly man with a walking cane who looks very serious, and even Benny, Manny and Dante are back! And they brought... a stray cat? Another pet? The way it stares at me says it's not here by mistake. It seems more intelligent than it should be, and like it's trying to tell me something along the lines of Lay one finger on this family, chamaca, and I'll tear you to shreds.
What am I thinking? Guess I'm going crazy; there's no way that cat would be communicating with me.
I turn back at Miguel and smile. He returns it, beaming with excitement. "You already know my papá, right?"
"Enrique."
Miguel nods enthusiastically and starts pointing. "Mamá's name is Luisa." His finger wanders to the Barbie lady. "That's papá's sister, tía Gloria." Next up is the uncle. "And that's his brother, tío Berto. He's also Benny and Manny's father, and Rosa's and Abel's, but I think they're in the kitchen with tía Carmen."
"Their mother?" I venture, and Miguel nods again.
"You'll recognize them," he assures and goes back to pointing. "And that man over there is papá Franco, abuelita's husband. Her name is Elena. And of course, you know Benny, Manny and Dante. ¡Epa! And Pepita is here, too!"
He picks up the cat, who summits his shoulder and licks his hair, then promptly sneezes. Miguel laughs. "Sorry girl, I'm all dust right now. Is everyone doing fine?"
The cat meows in what seems to be confirmation and hops off her perch to rejoin Dante. The dog licks her head, and I feel like I missed something that would explain this strange behavior, of both Miguel and the cat. Something of vital importance.
I shake off the misgivings. Of course I missed something vital. I barely know these people, there must be thousands of vital somethings I missed!
Which brings me back to introductions. "Nice to meet you, everyone!" I'll try not to mess up your names too badly.
"¡Bienvenido, muchacha!" the Barbie... Carmen? Gloria? Gloria, Gloria. Why do I suck at names so hard?!
Regardless of my confusion, I have to admit that she suddenly looks a lot less uncanny when she smiles. Such a warm family! Is this really the anti-music-clan I've been avoiding my whole life?
I'm afraid it is.
"Why don't you put down your bag?" Luisa offers, causing me to glance around uncertainly. I can't simply occupy someone's chair, right?
"I... uh..."
That's when my cell phone decides that it's been ignored for long enough. I yelp and desperately ransack my satchel. That little nuisance is singing Remember Me for the whole Rivera family to hear, and I'm pretty sure they have zero desire for that!
The display shows the number of my mamá. No surprise there. It also shows three missed calls... She'll be so mad! "Excuse me, gotta accept this! Be right back!"
I rush for the corner between the gate and the workshop, which seems quiet enough but is still in the Riveras' sight. Alright then... Better get this over with.
"¿Mamá?"
"Octavia Ernesta Guadalupe, do you know what time it is?!"
Yup, she's mad. Not last-names-mad, thankfully, but mad. "Um... Lunchtime? ¡Mamá–!"
"Where are you?!"
"Please, mamá! ¡Déjame explicar!" I take a deep breath, buying time to sort my thoughts. "Listen, I'm sorry I forgot the time. I met a friend from school in Mariachi Plaza, and..." A sigh escapes my lungs when I remember why I came here in the first place. "He said something I really didn't like. I'll tell you more when I come home, okay? I'm still looking into it, and it's no talk for the phone, anyway."
For a moment, the line is silent. Then: "Do you know when you'll be home?"
"Give me a second." I wave my phone at the general direction of the Riveras. "¡Oye, Miguel!"
The músico drops the cutlery he's been in the middle of distributing and jogs over. "¿Sí? What is it?"
"It's mamá. I should've been home ages ago. Any idea how long this will take?"
Miguel glances at the table. "If this is about lunch, you're welcome to eat with us. But I don't want to keep you if there's something urgent."
"No, nothing urgent. Thanks."
The rest is cleared up quickly. I tell mamá not to worry about making lunch for me. She sets a new deadline for sunset and reminds me to practice; I suppose her motherly instinct convinced her I'm planning to be here all day. Which I certainly don't.
I put my phone away. "Sorry for this."
Miguel shakes his head and flashes a smile. "No, it's fine. Family comes first."
"Careful with the words, Michacho. I'm Ernesto de la Cruz's great-great-granddaughter, remember?"
He seems to mull it over. "Family comes first unless it's about harming innocents?"
"I can work with that. The shoe racks will be spared."
It takes a moment to click, then Miguel points at the outdoor shoe rack with mock bewilderment. "Innocent? We're talking about this lineup of deadly weapons, yes?"
I try not to laugh, and fail spectacularly. "I better get used to never having the last word with you, Miguel!"
The little músico's forehead wrinkles, the over-astonishment falling away. "Uh..."
Hmm? Can't handle compliments or what? No, that can't be it. He wasn't thrown off-balance like this by his plaza audience. "What's wrong?"
That snaps him out of it. Miguel perks up and waves his hands. "Oh, I'm sorry! I just space out sometimes!"
"Uh-huh..." With his head up on some guitar-shaped cloud, no doubt. But I'm pretty sure that wasn't it.
I don't press the issue. "So, where can I put my stuff?"
"In the workshop!" Miguel half-shouts and skips through the door frame, finally back to his usual upbeat self. "I'm sure we have... space..." His voice trails off. I use the moment to slip after him into the building, and what I see takes my breath away.
Which is just as well, because the smell of leather and various other things I can't name is overwhelming enough without the shelves stocked to the ceiling with boxes. Soles and the occasional unfinished pair of shoes dangle from basically everywhere. A total of three worktables makes up the center of the room, and three more line the walls.
I step further into the workshop, pivoting to take everything in. So many tools! Out of which I can at least identify a sewing machine and an anvil, but rayos y centellas!
"¡Aguas! There's a–!"
"Ow!"
"Pillar behind you..."
"Yeah, I just discovered it." I rub the back of my head. This place is only half as fascinating now...
"You're okay?"
I glance at Miguel. He looks a little torn, with one hand on a tabletop and the other reaching for me. I smile reassuringly. "I'm fine. Just keep doing what you do."
He eyes me skeptically, then turns and pushes some things around. "Ta-da! A nice little spot for the lady's handbag!"
"It's not a handbag!" I puff up my cheeks. My mamá has a handbag! It's full of useless stuff, and I refuse to carry around useless stuff! "Besides, do I look like a lady to you?"
"Is that a trick question?"
Yup, I really need to get used to losing word duels with a twelve-year-old. I park my satchel among some hammers and an electric fan, next to a device which looks like bristles on wheels. I walk around the table to inspect it a little closer. Its purpose seems obvious, but you never know with shoemakers.
"This is a polisher?"
"Yup! But you maaaay want to stand somewhere else if you're planning to get out of this workshop without any more headaches."
He's staring at the ceiling above me, and I automatically follow his gaze.
"What's my head to do with– ¡Ay, Santo Dios!" I jump backwards, straight into some other weird contraption. Pain shoots up my spine. I instinctively grab for purchase, only to bump my wrist and end up on the floor anyway, grunting and hissing. "Ow..."
I blink the wooziness away and Miguel comes into view, wincing in sympathy when he spots the crumpled heap that is me.
"I guess I don't need to ask if you're okay?"
"This place is a death trap," I grumble, all the while attempting to sort my limbs into resembling a normal human being. Every part of my body throbs, but what hurts most is the humiliation. I'm Octavia Aguayo, for goodness' sake! Not Grace Lessness! "You should put up a sign. Something like Shoemakers Only."
"100 Percent Mortality Rate for Dancers," Miguel adds, apparently relieved that I'm still able to dish out sarcasm. He offers me his hand, and I gladly accept the help. But not without a huff of indignation for good measure.
"Just keep rubbing it in, will ya?"
As I'm holding Miguel's hand, I can feel him shaking. Two seconds later, I find out he's been trying to contain his laughter. "You have no idea how accurate that was only ten days ago!"
"Oh, I think I do. It has to do with music and chanclas." I direct my gaze at the ceiling, so I can glare at the cause of my misery. A bunch of shoes are stuck in the wood, and they look none too stable in their position. Like they'd fall down at the drop of a... shoe, I guess.
The very thought hurts.
"Don't you think you should get those down before they bop someone on the head?"
"Nah, they're perfect right there. Besides, we do get them down!" And here comes this mischievous grin again. "Give me a leg-up! You're gonna love this!"
Love? Not too sure about that, but I decide to humor the boy and lace my fingers. "Be so kind and leave my head alone, okay?"
"¡Promesa!"
And he does. Miguel's not heavy, and he's obviously done this before. He plucks the closest shoe from the ceiling and is back on the ground in a matter of seconds. The shoe looks a little damaged, but nothing you couldn't fix. There's literally no reason to leave those shoes hanging up there and waste leather. But Miguel is still smirking and waves me away from the polisher.
"Now watch this!" Tongue poking out, he pushes the shoe against one of the brushes and steps on the pedal switch. The machine springs to life, way too noisily for my tastes, and I'm really starting to wonder if Miguel really is un poco loco. Considering his excitement, I expected something more gripping than polishing a slightly damaged shoe.
"Are you kid–"
That's where Miguel lets go. The shoe takes off like a missile, hits another shoe and bounces off to crash down on the worktable.
"Nailed it!" Miguel cheers and walks around the table to pick up the shoe. Which he proceeds to offer to me. "You wanna try? It's harder than it looks, though."
I glance at the shoe in the Miguel's hand, then at those in the ceiling, and back at his. It's so immature... and yet I can't deny the itching in my fingers. Target practice with a brush wheel? It looks so childish, but so immensely fun!
"Alright!" I snatch the shoe and position myself at the polishing machine. "Which one should I aim for?"
"Um... That one!" Miguel points at a fancy gentleman's shoe stuck near a roof beam. "It's really large, and even if you're a centimeter off, your shoe may glance off the beam and still hit. Perfect for beginners!"
I study the ceiling-shoe a little longer, calculating the perfect angle. Then I step on the pedal switch. The force of the bristles trying to rip the shoe from my hands is surprisingly strong, but I love it already. A grin sneaks up my face, showing off the anticipation coursing through my veins. Gotta focus on aiming now!
"Let's do this!"