Had anyone told me that shoes could be so much fun, I would have called them crazy. But I guess a bunch of shoemaker kids would find ways to entertain themselves, especially with the usual Santa Cecilian pastime – music – out of the picture.

Between Miguel's cheering and my reluctance to give up before hitting that darn shoe, I totally forget the time. And I suspect that so does Miguel, because we both wince upon hearing a female voice calling his name.

"Nothing?"

Is that some kind of default setting with him? He's certainly not helping. An elderly woman is standing in the courtyard-door frame, hands on her hips. She stares disapprovingly at Miguel, then at me, and starts walking. I move out of the way, only realizing I dropped the shoe when she picks it up and nonchalantly sends it back into the ceiling.

It would have been funny had she not been so intimidating. Even though she's short and her back hunched forward, I can tell she's not someone I'd like to tangle with.

"Uh..." Miguel emits. "I think I should go sing to mamá Coco. Or pick up some plates from the kitchen..."

I nod eagerly, giving it my all to look like I'm not using the woman's grandson as a shield. "I can totally help you with that! The plates, I mean, since I have no idea who mamá Coco is..."

The woman sighs, her imposing aura dwindling (though not quite disappearing). "You go sit at the table, chamaca. I need a word with our músico here."

I flash Miguel a worried glance, who gives a subtle shrug and mouths Go!, which isn't the most reassuring I've ever seen. But his abuela won't eat him, right?

I can't help feeling guilty as I dodge the Pillar of Doom and leave. Is he going to be chewed out again for getting into a fight? It's not his fault...

But I do as told and join the rest of the clan. It seems like everyone has showed up – the table is set, I spot Rosa and a guy who's doubtlessly Abel, plus a rather heavyset lady (Miguel was right when he said I'd recognize Berto's wife, their shared interest in food is hard to overlook) and a really, reaaaally old woman in a wheelchair. She must be the mysterious mamá Coco, seeing how Miguel hasn't come round mentioning her during introductions.

All of them are waiting. Dang, we pulled a serious traffic obstruction, Miguel and I! There are only three spots open by now – one at the head of the table next to Coco (Socorro maybe?), and two at her other side around the corner.

I slip into the chair furthest from her, next to Luisa. I'm grateful I get to sit with Miguel, but I'm still not sure what to do about the people who haven't met me yet. Should I tell them hello, too? Across the lunch table?

"Ah, I heard we have a guest."

I turn to Berto's wife. She's smiling, and I can't help smiling back. That solves the problem. "Sí, that would be me. Nice to meet you, uh..."

"Carmen," she kindly jogs my memory. "And you are?"

"Tabia!" Benny chimes in, making some of us chuckle.

"Octavia, actually," I explain, feeling stupid for worrying. "Octavia Aguayo."

"Ah, I remember!" Rosa speaks up. "You're that girl who always sang with Miguel, right?"

What?!

I catch myself gaping, close my mouth, and open it again like a fish out of water. "You knew?"

"Oh, please." Rosa rolls her eyes. "The whole school knew. You weren't exactly subtle about it. Actually, I heard one the teachers say she'd sign you both right up for the church choir."

I... I can't even. There are no words! "Why didn't you ever tell us?"

"And scare Miguel even more?"

That makes even less sense. "Why would he have been scared if he knew that the only member of his family who could catch him was on his side?"

"Because the more people know, the more can slip up." She waves dismissively. "It's Miguel-logic. It's not for us mere mortals to question."

"I does make some sense..." I ponder, somewhat baffled by the thought process. Had I known of Rosa being in on the secret, there would have been nothing but relief on my part. "He must be interesting to live with."

"You don't know half of it," Rosa groans and starts playing with her fork. "He's beyond impossible sometimes. And I bet I'm only starving right now because he's ditched my dumb brother!"

She glowers at Abel, who glowers back, making Carmen admonish them. I fail to listen because a drowned rat alias Miguel drops into the chair next to me, cups his chin and starts tapping a rhythm on the table.

"I see you're still alive."

"Just barely." Then, in a quieter voice, he adds, "I'm glad we're having lunch now, or it would've taken forever."

"Miguel!" Luisa chides, causing the cousin pair to snicker. Miguel glares at them, then mumbles an apology that sounds only semi-sincere and returns to tapping.

"So, may I ask what this was all about?" I try to distract him from his sulk. "Rosa said something about ditching Abel."

The guy in question moans across the table. "Give me a break! That kid would win a slipperiness contest against an eel!"

"Isn't he an anguilito?" Rosa supports her brother. I figure I should back Miguel up on the teasing front, but unfortunately, I'm too busy laughing my head off.

Besides, Miguel can fend for himself: "Well, I guess I am full of power," he smirks, flourishing his spoon.

"You're absolutely stunning, corazoncito," Luisa joins in the fun, and I fear I might find myself rolling on the floor very soon. My sides are hurting so bad!

"Mijos, the food is getting cold!" Miguel's abuela reminds us, and I finally manage to pull myself together. The food does look delicious – there are tamales and enfrijoladas, soup and a variety of salsas, fruits and vegetables that keep me from being too disappointed with the lack of chorizos.

I get recommendations from all sides (Carmen makes the best blandas while there's no beating abuelita's tamales, apparently), and I somehow end up with so much on my plate that I consider switching it with Miguel's once he's engrossed in talking to his mamá Coco. She doesn't respond – and I can only marvel at his stamina. I'd never have the patience, but Miguel's enthusiasm seems to know no bounds. So while he rambles on about guitars, luchadores and his current crafts project in school (something about an alebrije version of Dante to guard his candy stash), I try to get acquainted with everyone else. (Top of the list being straightening the names out.)

There's a high demand for the story of how I met Miguel in the first place, which the two of us tell in tandem because it was apparently deemed interesting enough for Coco to hear, too. We even end up singing together. And while singing isn't something I'd consider out of the ordinary, it's hard not to feel that this time is special. Maybe it's because my memories of singing with Miguel have dulled, or maybe it's because there's nothing to keep him from going all out. I enjoy singing, but Miguel... He goes above and beyond. It's resounding in his crystal-clear voice, written across his beaming face, flowing along his tiny yet peppy movements – the true meaning of passion. Singing is best done standing upright, but somehow, Miguel manages to bring out the beauty of chair-swaying.

Aww, man... Two songs in and I'm addicted already. That calls for some comfort pineapple! And Miguel switches from duet to solo, smoothly enough to make me suspect some kind of reflex. I don't think he consciously took notice.

I wonder if he'd notice should I ever feel inclined to slap him with my pineapple slice.

I decide to cut back in at the next song, but we never get that far. As soon as Miguel pauses to take a breath, his abuelita reminds him of his plate. It's like breaking a spell. Everyone has quietened to listen, so now the faces are dedicated to stuffing and chatter is slowly picking up again.

What's more: the eldest family member is back in touch with the world. She's been wearing that serene smile all the time, but now she's actually there to back it up with spirit.

"That was a lovely song. Who's your friend, mijo?"

For a moment there, I forget how to chew. He just told you! I don't know this lady, but it's heartbreaking anyway.

And apparently, Miguel doesn't mind telling her again: "She's a friend from school. Her name is Octavia, and she's a dancer. Just like you, mamá Coco!"

What? "A dancer? But I thought..."

"You thought I was the first one to ignore mamá Imelda?" Miguel chuckles. "Me, too. Turns out I wasn't. In fact, mamá Coco met papá Julio in Mariachi Plaza. They fell in love over their shared passion for dancing."

Wow... Must have been hard for the poor guy to get accustomed to a music-free environment. Not that I'd say that out loud. "So music does run in the family after all."

"I guess so." Miguel looks around the table. "Most of us never tried."

"Well, most of us aren't children anymore," Berto points out. "We have a business that needs running."

"I didn't say it doesn't!"

"Calm down, Miguel!" Enrique cuts in. "We're still getting used to music in our lives."

Miguel huffs and starts crunching down his enfrijoladas. I get that he's frustrated, but Enrique has a point. Unlike Miguel, they've lived for decades believing music was evil. That must be some change!

I shake my head and turn forward to talk to Rosa and Abel. As much as I like Miguel, I have no intentions of gluing myself to him. "Sooo... You're planning to take up any instruments?"

"I don't know," Rosa answers, eying her father uncertainly. "Maybe."

"I'd love to play the accordion." Abel's turn. "But I'm sure I'm not as good as primo wonder-eel."

"I'l sho yu wonda-eel!" Miguel complains. It might have sounded marginally more threatening if he didn't do it through a mouthful of tortilla.

Rosa makes sure to let him know: "Oh, really? How? You gonna spit some at him?"

"Eww!" Good thing there's no eel on the table... I glance at Elena, half-expecting her to say something, but she's busy talking to Coco. It hits me that they must be mother and daughter, and my heart clenches.

I'm so glad my bisabuelito hasn't fallen victim to Alzheimer's or anything. He's still fit as a fiddle.

Coco must have noticed me staring, because she turns and smiles. "What's wrong, chamaca?"

"Nothing." I catch myself driving my nails into the table and hurry to grab a fork to busy my hands with. "I was just thinking about my own great-grandfather. His name's Fabio. He loves dancing, too. You might have come across him once. He loved the spotlight."

Miguel chokes and coughs so hard that it sounds like he's trying to dislodge his lungs. I don't know who asks first if he's okay. Not me, anyway. I'm like... the fourth or something.

Miguel only waves dismissively. "Don't mind me. Just keep talking."

"As if I could. Not after that." I eye Miguel skeptically. Again, I can't get rid of the feeling he knows something that I don't, but should. "What the heck are you up to?"

"Nothing." He grabs an orange and starts peeling it absentmindedly. "I don't think they've met. Your papá Fabio must be a whole lot younger than mamá Coco."

"He's 79."

"Wow. That's twenty years."

Twenty?! I can barely believe my ears. Only stare at Coco in amazement. "You're 99?"

"Rude!" Rosa pipes across the table, and if Elena's mouth is anything to go by, I'd say she agrees and is halfway into a tirade. But Coco only smiles.

"It's okay, mija."

I shake my head. "I apologize anyway. I shouldn't have stared."

She keeps smiling. Dang, if Coco isn't one gentle soul, I don't know who is! "You and Miguel sing beautifully together. It reminds me of mamá and papá."

"Really?!" Miguel eagerly leans forward. "Can you tell us another story of mamá Imelda and papá Héctor?"

"Miguel!" Luisa cuts in. "Give your mamá Coco some space!"

"Sorry!" Miguel jerks back and returns to peeling. "Would you like some orange, mamá Coco?"

"Thank you, mijo."

Miguel hands out orange pieces to everyone within arm's reach, and I chew contently on mine while Coco spins a wondrous tale of dancing, the sound of a guitar, of voices joined in song and one small, happy family.

When I chat it up with the rest, I find out that Abel remembers Danilo only vaguely, but better than the rest of his class. I'm not surprised – my brother tends to stick out with his more Spanish-y white complexion. It's always a hassle to convince new acquaintances that we are, in fact, related. Even Abel refuses to believe it for a minute.

Rosa wants to know everything about dancing, and I promise to show her something later. I need to practice anyway, but convincing Miguel to provide background music is harder than I thought – even though he seems desperate to say yes, somehow he shies away from actually working with someone.

"What if I mess up?" he asks, fiddling with a banana leaf. "I've never really done this before. Not without help. I mean, I can try playing something we both know, but you've probably done it a thousand times before and... I don't know."

I curl my lips. Perfectionists. "Miguel, doing something you've done a thousand times before is kind of the point of practice. Besides, a good chunk of the dance moves I know are meant to be danced to an unknown melody, so long as the rhythm is true. And I've heard enough of your music to know that you can do this. And so what if you mess up a note? It's not like there's anything at stake here. We'll just start again." I grin and poke his shoulder. "Besides, I still owe you half a performance, right?"

A tentative smile grows on Miguel's face. "Yeah, right. It's not like I'm the one with the guitar or anything."

"Whoops! Busted!"

That earns me a laugh and an elbow to the ribs. "You're impossible."

"Not just me, amigo! Not just me!"

With that out of the way, Miguel dedicates himself to his tamales again. "Where is my guitar, anyway?"

"I put it into the common room," Berto speaks up. "Since you kids were busy tearing the workshop apart."

I share a look with Miguel and shrug. I guess we were.

It's not long after that everyone finishes eating. The table is cleared and Miguel is sentenced to dishwashing for the crime of marching off to Mariachi Plaza without Abel. Elena helps him, and I somehow get myself roped into it, too. I don't mind wielding the dishtowel too much, considering that it gives me a moment alone with those two, but it doesn't make the whole situation any less odd. Elena stoically scrubs pots while Miguel seems torn between saying something and drowning himself in the soap water.

Until he decides on the former: "What's the matter, abuelita?"

Elena pauses, then her expression softens and she returns to scrubbing with something akin to resignation. "It's nothing, mijo."

It's really not. Miguel works a little too roughly on the plate but, to his credit, he doesn't push for an answer.

Personally, I have my suspicions. Without trying to make myself more important than I am... It's gotta be me. If I'm not mistaken, Elena grew up with Miguel's great-great-grandmother, the one who established the music ban in the first place. If that doesn't influence her view of accepting a dancer in their midst, I don't know what does.

I put my dried cup into the cupboard, toss the dishtowel on a table and give Miguel's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. His head whips around and I smile, happy that I managed to chase away the tension for a moment. "I need to visit the bathroom. Tell me the way?"

"Uh..." He points a bubbly finger. "Right behind the workshop, near the tree."

"Thanks!"

I don't know if Miguel grasped my actual intentions. I'm about to sweep out the door and leave the two to themselves, but then Elena sighs. "It's okay, chamaca. You should hear this, too."

Well then, Elena definitely saw through the lie. I pick up the towel again and Miguel hands me a freshly cleaned plate, but I doubt that any of our minds are on the dishes. There's another story to be had! Though I'm pretty sure I won't like this one... The suspense is killing me!

"I never knew how much mamá loved dancing. The only time I remember her dancing, she nearly broke her foot from falling down the well. She couldn't walk for days."

I share a look with Miguel. He clearly didn't know that. He looks shocked, maybe even somewhat ill. I understand where he's coming from, but I'm not exactly surprised. Injuries happen when you don't know what you're doing. Heck, injuries happen even when you do!

I stare at the plate in my hands, searching for words. "That must have been traumatizing. You're told that music is bad, and then you get it confirmed like that... I can't claim to understand what it must have felt like, but accidents aren't something you can prevent by banning certain things." I shake my head to unglue my eyes from the plate and wave my dishtowel as beseechingly as you can possibly wave a dishtowel. "Wanna know the last place I got hurt? Your workshop. I got startled and hopped backwards into your... whatever it is."

"A sanding machine," Miguel supplies, making me huff at my own stupidity. Could have thought of that.

"Whatever. Point is, it's a matter of experience. If I tried my hand at shoemaking, I'd probably poke holes into it with those pick-thingies."

"Awls."

"I'm not going to memorize that."

"Come on, it's not a hard word!"

"Yeah, like polka."

"What?"

I tilt my head and open my arms in an I-rest-my-case gesture. "It's a dance and music genre from... I think it was the Czech Republic? It was brought to México by Germans and is now a staple of Norteña, if you want the short version. It's actually much more interesting than that."

Judging from Miguel's expression, he's in sponge mode. I'll totally be explaining the long version later, and he'll soak it up like there's no tomorrow. Sin duda.

Ay, what did I get myself into? As if having lunch with the Rivera clan wasn't enough for a day.

"That reminds me... I promised Rosa to show her some steps, but..." I glance at Elena uncertainly. I can't quite read her face. Disapproval? Anyway, I have a pretty good idea by now whom Miguel got his death glare from. "I'd understand if you don't want me to."

"Very well," she says, and her face shows what may or may not be the beginning of a smile, before turning deadly serious again. She jabs a finger at me. "But if I see one bruise on my granddaughter...!"

"I'll be chancla'd into next week. Got it!"

After a successful dishwashing session, I can't ignore any longer why I'm here. When Miguel goes to get his guitar, I stop him and pull him into the shadow of what I dubbed 'the Rivera tree.'

"What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong."

Miguel's brows knit. Dang! Stupid, stupid!

I close my eyes and sigh. "Lo siento, that came out more aggressive than I meant it to." I place my hands on my hips and look squarely into Miguel's eyes. Cielos, he's so short! "Listen, I believe you. Something turned your familia's attitude towards music upside down. That's nothing to take lightly. But you accused my great-great-grandfather of murder. And fraud. Not to mention after I nearly tumbled into his grave because the guitar and a lock are missing. I'm sure you can understand that I find it hard to accept all this."

Miguel nods solemnly, hands deep in his pockets. "You wouldn't believe how well I do." He jerks a thump over his shoulder. "This way."

He turns on his heel and stalks off. I follow him, feeling sick to my stomach. There was something in his eyes... I can't put my finger on it, but it was icky and didn't belong there.

I massage my temples. What's wrong with him? I bet it somehow relates to the near-scuffle, too. Maybe I should try that one?

I should. I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even: "You screamed."

"Huh?"

"You screamed," I repeat firmly. "I guess I shouldn't be asking, but... Why? You said it was my eyes, but we never fought before."

Miguel spins around to face me, but he doesn't stop walking. "I don't want to talk about it. Ask me again when I can be sure that neither of us is going to do something stupid afterwards."

I'm not planning to do something stupid at any given time, but I can't find it in myself to feel offended. "How will I be able to tell?"

Miguel shrugs. "I don't know."

That does it! No twelve-year-old is supposed to talk like that! Before I can change my mind, I grab Miguel's wrist and pull him into my arms. It's kind of awkward because he's just that small, but it's also kind of... nice.

"Um, Tavi?" Miguel pipes up, his voice a little muffled by the jeans of my bib shorts. "What exactly made you do that?"

That's more like it! "I don't know." I let go of him and smile encouragingly. "But you looked like you desperately needed a hug."

Arms crossed, Miguel curls his lips and huffs through the nose. He doesn't deny it, though. "Let's get that VIP before someone else mistakes me for a teddy bear."

"What? VIP?"

"The Very Important Photo."

"Ouch! That almost hurts physically!"

"Complaints may be submitted to Rosa Rivera English Pun Enterprises."

"You're impossible." I shake my head. "So, a photo, huh?"

"Of papá Héctor, mamá Imelda and mamá Coco. Papá Héctor's guitar is in it, too."

"That guitar, I assume."

A photo... Part of me hopes it's fake, or a sort of souvenir photo. Like people taking selfies with cardboard cutouts. What if this whole thing is just a big misunderstanding? That's possible, right? But a fake wouldn't be enough to convince the rest of the clan to allow music. Or would it?

While my thoughts are drawing useless circles, Miguel pushes at a door without a handle. It reveals a scarcely furnished room with two people in it.

"¡Hola, mamá Coco! Hey, Rosa! What are you doing here?"

"Replacing a certain someone who should be looking after mamá Coco."

"Sorry..."

Rosa sighs and fixes her alice band (which looks as perfect as it could get). As she passes Miguel, she places a hand on his shoulder and whispers, "I don't know how you do it." Then she hustles outside, and maybe I'm imagining things, but I'm 60 percent sure I heard her sniff. Miguel seems rather taken aback as well, and we silently agree to pretend we didn't hear that.

Moving on.

Miguel presses a kiss to his mamá Coco's cheek. "¡Hola, mamá Coco!" he repeats, a bright smile on his face.

"Papá," she responds, smiling herself. And yet something is very unsettling about the way she looks at Miguel. "¡Papá! You're home!"

Miguel's shoulders sag. I can almost hear the shattering sound of his heart.

Of both our hearts. I can only cover my mouth and watch in petrified horror as Miguel hugs his mamá and speaks to her in a soothing voice: "Yes, mamá Coco. Papá is home, and he loves you very much. He's really looking forward to seeing his wonderful girl again."

"Papá is home?"

"Yes, mamá Coco."

"Such a sweet little boy." She reaches out with a gnarled old hand and caresses Miguel's cheek. I feel like an intruder, but I'm spellbound. I can't look away.

I'm on the verge of crying. Miguel looks close to breaking down, too. He squeezes the hand stroking him and gently disengages. "Thank you, mamá Coco."

When he turns, his smile has only grown. I force the corners of my mouth to match his, and it makes me feel a little better.

"I know this is useless to say," Miguel begins, "but it's okay."

Now I understand what Rosa meant. "How do you keep it together?"

Miguel sighs. If I didn't know better, I'd say he looks ashamed. "I don't know. Practice, I guess. It's not always like this." He sends a glum look at his mamá Coco and wipes the unshed tears from his eyes. "Can you look after her for a minute? I want to go get my guitar."

"Sure."

"Gracias, Tavi. Yell if something happens."

"You bet I will."

And then he's gone. Unsure what to do, I walk over to the bed next to Coco's wheelchair. When I'm about to sit, something on a table across the room catches my eye. It's a picture frame, which I pick up before sitting down for real. It must be the photo Miguel has been talking about, because it shows a family. At some point, a corner had been ripped off – it's been patched up with tape.

The woman in the photo is breathtakingly beautiful. Miguel kept calling her Imelda, right? She looks sternly into the camera, her daughter in her lap. The father... Héctor... Well, I can see how Coco would mistake Miguel for him. They're both gangly, with impossibly large ears and feet. And isn't that Miguel's hairline, even?

The man is leaning on a guitar I know all too well. There are no two ways about it – it's the same guitar Miguel is off fetching right now. And it's no souvenir, either. Even disregarding the fact that the picture must have been taken at some point during the aftermath of the revolution, the woman wouldn't wear an expression like this if it was meant to be some silly tourist photo.

So that part of Miguel's story is definitely true. The other one...

At least I didn't murder anyone!

I drop the frame onto the blanket and kick off my shoes. I place my feet on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my knees. I don't want to see anyone.

There's the blood of a murderer running through my veins. The one who took the life of this sweet woman's father.

"Someone tell me I'm reading too much into this." I barely recognize my own voice. I can't remember ever being so hoarse. "Someone tell me I'm reading too much into this."

"What's wrong, niña?"

My head is so heavy. I stare at Coco, her serene expression, then hide behind my legs again. It's no good.

"I'm the tataranieta of the person who tore your family apart."

The next time I look up, the vacant smile is back.

I can't take it anymore. I feel so ill I can barely breathe. I don't care about keeping my act together anymore. I let the tears run, and the stress overtake my senses. The world can go to hell for all I care.

At some point, the mattress drops away from under me and a pair of arms wraps around my shoulders. I don't need to be in full control to realize what's going on. My arms find that narrow waist on their own, and my forehead the warm crook of a neck.

I never should have gone to Mariachi Plaza. I should have gone home and straight to bed.

"Damn you, Miguel Rivera." Dios, I'm tired. "Damn you, músico..."