“No!” Miguel said. “I need to do this!”
“Why?” asked Héctor.
“If I can’t go out there and play ONE song, how can I call myself a musician?”
“What does that matter?”
“’Cause I don’t just want to GET Ernesto de la Cruz’s blessing. I need to prove that…that I’m WORTHY of it.”
“Oh,” said Héctor. “Oh, that’s such a sweet sentiment…at such a bad time.” Then he softened. “Okay, you wanna perform? Then you’ve got to PERFORM! First, you have to loosen up. Shake off those nerves!” Héctor and Miguel did a loose-bone shimmy.
“Now gimme your best grito!” Héctor said.
“My best grito?”
“Come on, yell! Belt it out!” Héctor said, and then let out a long-throated grito. “Ah, feels good! Okay, now you.”
Miguel looked at Héctor, uncertain. “A-a-ayyyy-aaaaaaa-yyyyy-ay…” Miguel’s halting grito was breathy and squeaky.
Dante whimpered.
“Oh, c’mon, kid,” Héctor said. Behind him on the stage, Los Chachalacos was wrapping up its performance to raucous applause.
“De la Cruzcito, you’re on now!” the stagehand called.
“Miguel, look at me,” Héctor said.
“Come on, let’s go!” the stagehand yelled at Miguel, gesturing for him to hit the stage.
“Hey! Hey, look at me,” Héctor repeated to Miguel to snap him out of his terrified daze. Miguel finally looked up at him. “You can do this. Grab their attention and don’t let it go!”
The emcee spoke to the crowd. “We got one more act, amigos,” she said.
“Héctor,” Miguel said softly as the stagehand ushered him to the stage.
“Damas y caballeros! De la Cruzcito!” The emcee shouted.
“Make ’em listen, chamaco! You got this!” Héctor called.
Guitar in hand, Miguel stumbled out onto the stage. Blinded by the lights, he squinted at the massive audience. They gazed back at him. Miguel stood there, frozen in fear.
Héctor turned to Dante. “What’s he doing? Why isn’t he playing?”
Miguel continued to stand stiffly in front of the restless audience, who wanted to dance.
“Bring back the singing dogs!” someone yelled. Miguel looked at Héctor, and Héctor shimmied. Miguel copied him, took a deep breath, and…
“HAAAAAAAI-YAAAAAAAAI-YAAAAAAI-YAAAAAAI!” He let out a full-throated grito.
The audience was stunned. Seconds later, they responded with whistles and whoops. Some returned the grito, while others applauded. Miguel strummed the guitar intro for “Poco Loco,” then let his voice carry the lyrics over the jubilant crowd. By the time he had finished the first verse, the audience was on their feet.
Suddenly, Dante grabbed Héctor by the leg, trying to pull him onto the stage with Miguel. At first, Héctor shook him off, but he finally let Dante drag him out. Once in the spotlight, Héctor busted out some percussive footwork to Miguel’s guitar.
“Not bad for a dead guy!” Miguel said to Héctor.
“You’re not so bad yourself, gordito!” Héctor said above the exuberant clapping from the audience.
But unbeknownst to Miguel, at the back of the stadium, a ripple of glowing footprints guided Pepita and the Rivera family to the edge of the joyous audience.
“He’s close,” Mamá Imelda said. “Find him.” The family members fanned out, stopping everyone they passed.
“We’re looking for a living kid, about twelve,” Tío Felipe and Tío Óscar said together.
“Have you seen a living boy?” Tía Rosita prompted.
Although the audience clapped along to the music, Miguel’s family paid no attention to the skeleton boy performing onstage, or to the young man next to him, who was becoming more creative with his dance moves. Héctor’s head bobbed and his limbs spun around. Every new trick made the audience howl with glee.
Héctor and Miguel ended their performance with a grito, and the audience erupted into boisterous applause. Miguel smiled, enjoying the moment. He felt like a real musician.
“Hey, you did good!” Héctor gushed. “I’m proud of you!”
Miguel’s heart swelled. Were they really clapping for him? He looked out at the cheering crowd—and spotted his family. Papá Julio was conversing with the emcee on the other side of the stage!
“Otra! Otra! Otra!” The audience cheered for an encore.
Panicked, Miguel yanked Héctor stage left, away from the emcee and Papá Julio. Héctor resisted, annoyed that Miguel wasn’t going to perform an encore for the audience. “Hey, where are you going?”
“We gotta get out of here,” Miguel said, out of breath.
“What, are you crazy? We’re about to win this thing!”
“Damas y caballeros, I have an emergency announcement,” the emcee said from the stage. The audience quieted. “Please be on the lookout for a living boy, answers to the name of Miguel. Earlier tonight, he ran away from his family. They just want to send him back to the Land of the Living.” Murmurs of concern rumbled through the audience. “If anyone has information, please contact the authorities,” said the emcee.
Héctor eyes widened. “Wait, wait, wait!” He directed his gaze at Miguel. “You said Ernesto de la Cruz was your ONLY family. The ONLY person who could send you home.”
“I do have other family, but—” Miguel began to explain.
“You could have taken my photo back this whole time!”
“But they hate music. I need a musician’s blessing!”
“You lied to me!” Héctor said.
“Oh, you’re one to talk!”
“Look at me. I’m being forgotten, Miguel. I don’t even know if I’m gonna last the night!” Héctor said. “I’m not gonna miss my one chance to cross that bridge ’cause you want to live out some stupid musical fantasy!”
“It’s not stupid,” Miguel said.
Héctor grabbed Miguel’s arm and pulled him toward the stage. “I’m taking you to your family.”
“Let go of me!” Miguel protested, struggling against Héctor.
“You’ll thank me later—”
Miguel yanked his arm from Héctor’s grasp. “You don’t wanna help me—you only care about yourself! Keep your dumb photo!” He pulled Héctor’s photo out of his pocket and threw it at him. Héctor tried to grab it, but it caught a breeze and drifted into the audience.
“No, no, no!” Héctor cried. This was his last chance to be remembered.
“Stay away from me!” Miguel yelled.
As Héctor scrambled to get his photo, Miguel ran away. Once Héctor had the photo again, he looked around for Miguel.
“Hey, chamaco! Where did you go? Chamaco! I’m sorry! Come back!”
Dante bounded after Miguel, but looked back at Héctor and whimpered. He barked to get Miguel’s attention.
“Dante, cállate!” Miguel scolded, but Dante was insistent. He tugged at Miguel’s pants, trying to stop him from leaving. “No, Dante! Stop it! He can’t help me!” Dante latched on to Miguel’s hoodie. Miguel tried to shake Dante off, but instead his hoodie slipped down, revealing the arms of a living boy. Dante redoubled his efforts. “Dante, no, stop! Stop it! Leave me alone! You’re not a spirit guide; you’re just a dumb dog! Now get out of here!” Miguel yanked his hoodie away from Dante, who shrank back.
The scuffle between the boy and the small dog drew the eyes of the crowd. Startled skeletons saw Miguel’s arms. He hurried to put his hoodie back on as the crowd began to point and shout.
“It’s him! It’s that living boy!”
“Look! He’s alive!”
Miguel ran away and jumped down some scaffolding. In the distance, he could see Ernesto de la Cruz’s tower. He dashed ahead, but Pepita landed in front of him, cutting off his path! Miguel skidded to a stop. He screamed when he saw the winged jaguar. Even worse, Mamá Imelda rode atop the feline creature.
“This nonsense ends now, Miguel! I am giving you my blessing, and you are goi
ng home!”
“I don’t want your blessing!” Miguel shouted, and tried to bolt, but Pepita clutched him with her talons and took to the air. “Ahhh! Put me down! Let go of me!” Miguel twisted his body, grabbing on to a line of papel picado hung high over the audience. He wriggled free from the jaguar’s claws, falling back to the ground. Once on his feet, Miguel scrambled upright and ran for a narrow alley staircase.
“Miguel! Stop!” Mamá Imelda called after him in a stern voice. Unable to get through the staircase with Pepita, she continued on foot. “Come back!” Miguel squeezed through an iron gate. Mamá Imelda was stuck on the other side. “I am trying to save your life!”
“You’re ruining my life!” Miguel yelled back.
“What?” Mamá Imelda froze.
“Music’s the only thing that makes me happy. And you—you wanna take that away!” Miguel started up the stairs. “You’ll never understand.”
A clear, powerful note rang out through the stairwell. Mamá Imelda had begun to sing! Her voice was beautiful and haunting. Miguel stopped.
“I thought you hated music,” he said.
“Oh, I loved it,” she said. “I remember that feeling when my husband would play, and I would sing, and nothing else mattered.” She let out a light laugh. “But when we had Coco, suddenly there was something in my life that mattered more than music. I wanted to put down roots. He wanted to play for the world.” She paused, lost in a memory. “We each made a sacrifice to get what we wanted. Now YOU must make a choice.”
“But I don’t wanna make a choice. I don’t wanna pick sides. I want you to pick MY side,” Miguel said softly. “That’s what family’s supposed to do. Support you. But you never will.” He wiped the corner of his eyes with the sides of his palms and turned away before Mamá Imelda could answer. Then he climbed the narrow staircase toward Ernesto de la Cruz’s tower.
Miguel arrived at the foot of the hill that led to Ernesto’s tower. Limousines, cars, and carriages were lined up, dropping off finely dressed guests. A couple at the front of the line flashed an invitation to a security guard.
“Have a good time,” the guard said, guiding them onto a sleek cable car that would take them to Ernesto’s mansion at the top of the hill.
Miguel rushed ahead, wriggling between guests to cut to the front of the line.
The security guard stared down at Miguel. “Invitation?”
“It’s okay. I’m Ernesto’s great-great-grandson!” He struck a dramatic Ernesto de la Cruz signature pose with the guitar.
The security guard flung Miguel through the air and out of the line.
Miguel brushed himself off and spotted Los Chachalacos unloading instruments from a van. They must have won the competition! He darted over to the band. “Disculpen, Señores,” Miguel began.
“Hey, hey, guys—it’s ‘Poco Loco’!” the bandleader said as the other members crowded around, excited to see him.
“You were on fire tonight!” said one band member.
“You too!” Miguel beamed. “Hey, musician to musician—I need a favor.”
A few minutes later, the bandleader handed an invitation to the security guard.
“Ooh, the competition winners! Congratulations, chicos!” said the security guard. Los Chachalacos filed onto the tram to the mansion. One member lugged an exceptionally heavy sousaphone. After the tram began its trek upward, he blew on the horn and Miguel came flying out.
Once they arrived at the top, the doors opened to reveal Ernesto de la Cruz’s lavish mansion. Miguel and the mariachis filed out.
Miguel gasped at the sight of Ernesto’s home. “Whoa,” he said.
“Hey, hey!” the bandleader said to Miguel. “Enjoy the party, little músico!”
“Gracias!” Miguel said, and rushed straight inside the mansion to face a lively celebration.
“Look, it’s Ernesto!” someone shouted.
Miguel followed the sound of the voice and caught a glimpse of his idol heading deeper into the party. “Ernesto,” he said quietly. He pushed through the throngs of people and went up a staircase. He lost his great-great-grandfather in the crowd for a second, but he didn’t give up. “Señor de la Cruz! Pardon me, Señor de la Cruz! Señor de la—”
Miguel elbowed his way through guests until suddenly, he was in a huge hall filled with hundreds of partygoers. Synchronized swimmers made formations in a sparkling blue pool while a DJ dropped a mariachi mash-up soundtrack. On the walls, film clips from Ernesto’s movies looped continuously. Miguel knew every clip by heart.
One caught his eye. In the clip, a nun was speaking to Ernesto.
“Oh, but, Padre, he will never listen.”
“He will listen…TO MUSIC!”
Ernesto’s fictional words emboldened Miguel. He knew he had to seize the moment. He had to make Ernesto listen and get his blessing. He spotted a pillar that stretched to the landing of a grand staircase and climbed it. Once he stood above the crowd, he took a breath and released the loudest grito he could.
The grito echoed through the space, bouncing off the walls. Every party guest turned toward Miguel, and the DJ faded the music. Feeling everyone’s eyes on him, Miguel plucked away at his guitar, singing an introduction. As he sang, a hush fell over the crowd, making his voice and guitar the only sounds in the room. The crowd parted, letting him pass through to reach Ernesto de la Cruz.
Miguel’s soul poured into each chord and lyric. He was finally going to meet his idol. He was moving closer and closer, when suddenly—SPLASH!
Miguel tumbled into the pool.
Ernesto de la Cruz rolled up his sleeves and, in true movie-hero fashion, jumped into the pool. He lifted a coughing Miguel to the edge.
“Are you all right, niño?” Ernesto asked.
Miguel looked up, mortified. The paint on his face began to run, and everyone saw he was a living boy.
Ernesto’s eyes widened. The crowd gasped and murmured.
“It’s you!” said Ernesto. “You are that boy, the one who came from the Land of the Living.”
“Y-you…know about me?” Miguel stammered.
“You are all anyone has been talking about! Why have you come here?”
“I’m Miguel. Your great-great-grandson.”
The crowd murmured some more. Ernesto leaned back, shocked. “I have a great-great-grandson?”
“I need your blessing. So I can go back home and be a musician, just like you,” Miguel said. “The rest of our family, they wouldn’t listen. But I…I hoped you would.”
There was a long pause.
“My boy, with a talent like yours, how could I not listen?” Ernesto de la Cruz embraced Miguel and then swept him up onto his shoulders, showing him off to the room. “I have a great-great-grandson!”
The crowd roared with applause.
Meanwhile, at the bottom of the hill, the silhouette of Frida Kahlo stepped up to the security guard.
“Honey, look! It’s Frida!” someone yelled.
“Yes, it is I. Frida Kahlo,” said the figure. The security guard immediately stood back and gestured her onto the cable car.
“It is an honor, señora!” the security guard exclaimed as she stepped on. The doors closed behind her. The “artist” adjusted her wig.
“I know,” said Héctor, heading up to Ernesto’s mansion.
Miguel, forgetting the time, chatted away with Ernesto and his guests. He relished the attention as the legendary singer barged into several party conversations, proudly introducing Miguel with giddy enthusiasm. The guests enjoyed watching Dante mingle, too.
In the main hall of the mansion, Miguel and Ernesto sat back on a lush sofa and enjoyed film clip after clip. Miguel couldn’t tear his eyes away when one of his favorite films came on. In the film, the villainous character of Don Hidalgo raised two glasses to his peasant friend, played by Ernesto.
Miguel stood and acted out the scene as it played behind him. “I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. Salud!” Miguel said, gesturing
along with the villain. Ernesto looked on with delight. On the screen, Don Hidalgo and Ernesto’s character each took a drink. Suddenly, the peasant spit out the drink.
“Poison!” Ernesto howled from the screen at the same time as Miguel. Miguel and his great-great-grandfather watched the ensuing fistfight between the two characters.
“You know, I did all my own stunts,” Ernesto told Miguel. Miguel’s eyes widened with amazement.
Later, Ernesto showed Miguel his ofrenda room, which was filled with gifts from the living.
“All of this came from my amazing fans in the Land of the Living! They leave me more offerings than I know what to do with!” said Ernesto.
Miguel gazed around the room. Piled high were colorful breads, bottles of tequila, flowers, instruments, and sombreros.
Miguel thought about his family’s ofrenda and the picture of Mamá Coco when she was a baby. She grew up only knowing her father by a torn picture on the altar. He wondered if this would happen to him, too, if he chose music over his family’s plans. Would his photo be ripped, too? Would it be worth it? Ernesto knelt and looked into Miguel’s eyes.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Is it too much? You look overwhelmed.”
“No, it’s all great,” said Miguel.
“But?” Ernesto asked.
Miguel gazed again at the massive piles of offerings.
“It’s just, I’ve been looking up to you my whole life. You’re the guy who actually did it! But…” Miguel paused. “Did you ever regret it? Choosing music over everything else?”
Ernesto sighed. “It was hard. Saying goodbye to Santa Cecilia. Heading off on my own…”
“Leaving your family?”
“Sí. But I could not have done it differently,” Ernesto said. “One cannot deny who one is meant to be. And you, my great-great-grandson, are meant to be a musician!”
For the first time in his life, Miguel felt that someone understood his dream.
“You and I, we are artists, Miguel!” said Ernesto. “We cannot belong to one family. The world is our family!” He gestured dramatically to the sparkling city beyond his hilltop hacienda. Suddenly, fireworks boomed and lit up the night sky.
Coco Junior Novel Page 5