Coco Junior Novel Read online

  “Mmmmm, nope.”

  “Don’t yank my chain, chamaco. You gotta have SOME other family.”

  “ONLY Ernesto. Listen, if you can’t help me, I’ll find him myself,” Miguel said, then whistled for his dog. “C’mon Dante.” He marched out of the alley, Dante loyally following behind.

  “Ugh, okay, okay, kid, fine—fine! I’ll get you to your great-great-grandpa!”

  Héctor led Miguel out of the alley and into a crowded street. “It’s not gonna be easy, you know? He’s a busy man,” said Héctor.

  A large billboard advertising an Ernesto de la Cruz concert stopped Miguel in his tracks. Ernesto’s biggest hit song, “Remember Me,” blared from some speakers.

  “Ernesto de la Cruz’s Sunrise Spectacular!” Miguel exclaimed.

  “Blech! Every year, your great-great-grandpa puts on that dumb show to mark the end of Día de los Muertos.”

  “And you can get us in!”

  “Ahhhhhh…”

  “Hey, you said you had front-row tickets!” Miguel said.

  “That…that was a lie. I apologize.”

  Miguel gave Héctor a withering look.

  “Cool off, chamaco. Come on, I’ll get you to him.”

  “How?”

  “’Cause I happen to know where he’s rehearsing.”

  Héctor and Miguel arrived in front of a large warehouse. Héctor detached his arm and used his suspenders to sling it toward a third-floor window. His hand tapped on it. Inside, a seamstress turned away from a costume and looked. The hand waved at her. She rolled her eyes and went to let them in.

  “You better have my dress, Héctor!” she yelled down.

  “Hola, Ceci!” Héctor said, all smiles. Héctor reattached his arm as she lowered a fire-escape ladder so they could come up.

  “Hola,” Miguel said, tumbling through the window.

  “Ceci, I lost the dress—” Héctor began.

  As Ceci started to yell at him about her Frida costume, Dante wandered away.

  “Dante,” Miguel said, following him to a big stage where performers were rehearsing. “We shouldn’t be in here.…” His dog sniffed around. Suddenly, a spirit-guide monkey jumped out at Dante and leapt onto the dog’s back. He rode poor Dante like he was in a rodeo.

  “No, no, Dante! Ven acá!” Miguel said, hustling after his dog.

  The monkey suddenly jumped onto someone’s shoulder. It was Frida Kahlo. The real one—not somebody in a costume. She stood in front of the stage. Miguel reined Dante in just as she noticed them.

  “You! How did you get in here?” she said, her unibrow cocked.

  “I just followed my—” Miguel began to explain when Frida’s eyes widened at the sight of Dante.

  “Oh, the mighty Xolo dog! Guider of wandering spirits!” Frida exclaimed, gazing at Dante. “And whose spirit have you guided to me?” She took a closer look at Miguel.

  “I don’t think he’s a spirit guide,” Miguel answered.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” she cautioned. “The alebrijes of this world can take many forms. They are as mysterious as they are powerful.”

  Suddenly, the colorful patterns on Frida’s monkey swirled. He opened his mouth to breathe blue fire. That’s powerful, Miguel thought. Maybe Dante is special. They looked at the dog, who was busily chewing on his own leg.

  Unimpressed, Frida looked back to Miguel. “Or maybe he’s just a dog. Come! I need your eyes!”

  Frida guided him to the front of the stage to watch a rehearsal.

  “You are the audience,” she said to Miguel. “Darkness. And from the darkness…a giant papaya!” The stage lights zoomed in on a giant papaya prop. “Dancers emerge from the papaya, and the dancers are all me.” Unibrowed dancers in leotards crawled around the giant papaya. “And they go to drink from the milk of their mother, who is a cactus but also me. And her milk is not milk, but tears.” Frida paused. She glanced over at Miguel. “Is it too obvious?”

  “I think it’s just the right amount of obvious,” Miguel said. “It could use some music, like doonk-doonk-doonk-doonk.”

  Frida snapped at the musicians, who started playing a discordant pizzicato.

  “Oh!” Miguel said with delight. “And then it could go dittle-ittle-dittle-ittle-dittle-ittle-dittle-ittle—whaa!” The violins followed Miguel’s direction.

  “And what if everything was on fire?” Frida asked excitedly. “Yes! Fire everywhere!”

  The performers gasped and exchanged concerned looks.

  “Inspired!” Frida said. She leaned in closer to Miguel. “You! You have the spirit of an artist!” Miguel stood up straighter, letting Frida’s words lift him. He wished his family could see what Frida saw in him. He WAS an artist. Not a shoemaker. Frida turned her focus back to the rehearsal. “Dancers exit, the music fades, the lights go out. And Ernesto de la Cruz rises to the stage!” A silhouette rose from a trapdoor in the floor. Miguel leaned forward.

  “Ernesto!” he exclaimed. A spotlight shone on the silhouette, revealing it to be a mannequin. “Huh?”

  Frida continued to instruct the stage performers. “He does a couple of songs, the sun rises, everyone cheers—”

  Miguel was confused. “Excuse me,” he said, “where’s the real Ernesto de la Cruz?”

  “Ernesto doesn’t DO rehearsals,” Frida said. “He’s too busy hosting that fancy party at the top of his tower.” She gestured out a large window to a grand tower lit up in the distance, atop a steep hill.

  Suddenly, Héctor rounded the corner. “Chamaco! You can’t rush off on me like that! C’mon, stop pestering the celebrities.”

  Héctor pulled him away, but Miguel resisted.

  “You said my great-great-grandpa would be here! He’s halfway across town, throwing some big party.”

  “That bum! Who doesn’t show up to his own rehearsal?”

  “If you’re such good friends, how come he didn’t invite you?” Miguel asked.

  Héctor turned to the musicians. “Hey, Gustavo! You know anything about this party?”

  “It’s the hot ticket. But if you’re not on the guest list, you’re never getting in, Chorizo…,” he said, sending the musicians into a bout of chuckles.

  “Ha, ha! Very funny, guys. Very funny,” Héctor said back. They continued to heckle him.

  “Chorizo?” Miguel asked.

  “Oh, this guy’s famous!” Gustavo said to Miguel. “Go on, go on—ask him how he died!”

  Miguel looked to Héctor, curious.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Héctor said.

  “He choked on some chorizo!” Gustavo said, letting out a raucous laugh along with the other musicians. Miguel couldn’t help laughing a little, too.

  “I didn’t choke, okay—I got food poisoning!” Héctor snapped. “Which is a big difference!” The musicians laughed even more. Héctor turned to Miguel. “This is why I don’t like musicians: a bunch of self-important jerks!”

  “Hey, I’m a musician,” Miguel protested.

  “You are?” asked Héctor.

  “Well,” said Gustavo, “if you really want to get to Ernesto, there IS that music competition at the Plaza de la Cruz. Winner gets to play at his party.”

  “Music competition?” Miguel asked. He quickly examined his hands to check on his skeletal transformation. It had spread to another finger. He was running out of time.

  “No, no, no, chamaco, you are loco if you think—” Héctor began.

  “I need to get my great-great-grandfather’s blessing,” Miguel interrupted. He looked up at Héctor. “You know where I can get a guitar?”

  Héctor sighed. “I know a guy.”

  Above the Land of the Dead, a shadowy figure glided across the sky and landed in a darkened corner of an alley. It sniffed out the canister of shoe polish that Héctor had used on Miguel’s face. The spirit guide released a low growl.

  “Have you found him, Pepita? Have you found our boy?” Mamá Imelda asked, following the large cat with the rest of the family. Pepita breathed
onto the ground, magically illuminating a footprint. It glowed for a moment.

  “A footprint!” Tía Rosita announced. The whole family leaned in to inspect.

  “It’s a Rivera boot!” Papá Julio exclaimed.

  “Size seven…,” said Tío Óscar.

  “…and a half!” finished Tío Felipe.

  “Pronated,” added Tía Victoria, with her expert eye.

  “Miguel,” Mamá Imelda said softly.

  Pepita leaned forward and breathed again, and the glow spread across a trail of footprints leading into the street.

  Miguel followed Héctor down a steep stairway.

  “So why the heck would you want to be a musician?” asked Héctor.

  Miguel was offended. “My great-great-grandpa was a musician.”

  “Who spent his life performing like a monkey for complete strangers. Blech, no thank you, no,” Héctor said.

  “Whadda YOU know?” asked Miguel. “How far is this guitar, anyway?”

  “We’re almost there.” Héctor jumped from a stairway to the ground, and his bones scattered, then reassembled. “Keep up, chamaco, come on!”

  The stairway in front of them opened up to a small section of town covered in dust. The shimmering brightness that lit up the Land of the Dead seemed to have skipped this area. Miguel gazed at passersby. They were dusty and drab like Héctor, lacking the bright decorations and clothing of the Rivera ancestors. A group of dingy skeletons huddled around a burning trash can and laughed raucously. They saw Héctor.

  “Cousin Héctor!” the group hollered.

  “Ay! These guys!” Héctor said with a big smile. He nodded to a man playing a jaunty tune on a violin made of coffee cans, twine, and other scraps. “Hey, Tío!” Héctor called to the man playing the violin.

  “These people are all your family?” asked Miguel.

  “Eh, in a way. We’re all the ones with no photos on ofrendas. No family to go home to. Nearly forgotten, you know?” Héctor said with a hint of sadness. “So we all call each other cousin, or tío, or whatever.”

  Héctor and Miguel approached three old ladies playing cards around a wooden crate.

  “Héctor!” one called out.

  “Tía Chelo! Hey, hey!” Héctor greeted the old woman. “Is Chicharrón around?”

  “In the bungalow. I don’t know if he’s in the mood for visitors,” Tía Chelo said.

  “Who doesn’t like a visit from Cousin Héctor?” Héctor teased as he entered a tent. He held the curtains open for Miguel and Dante to enter. Inside, it was cramped, dark, and quiet. There were stacks of old dishes, a drawer full of pocket watches, and piles of magazines and records stacked high. Miguel stumbled and almost knocked one stack over.

  Héctor spotted a hammock piled with old trinkets and a dusty hat. He lifted the hat and found the grumpy face of his friend Chicharrón.

  “Buenas noches, Chicharrón!”

  “I don’t wanna see your stupid face, Héctor!”

  “C’mon, it’s Día de los Muertos! I brought you a little offering!”

  “Get out of here.…”

  “I would, Cheech, but the thing is…me and my friend here, Miguel, we really need to borrow your guitar.”

  “My guitar?” Chicharrón shifted in his hammock.

  “I promise we’ll bring it right back,” Héctor said. Chicharrón sat up, incensed.

  “Like that time you promised to bring back my van?”

  “Uh,” Héctor said.

  “Or my mini fridge?”

  “Ah, you see…uhhhh…”

  “Or my good napkins? My lasso? My femur?”

  “No, not like those times.”

  “Where’s my femur? You—” Chicharrón raised a finger to give Héctor a tongue-lashing, but then he weakened and collapsed on his hammock, a golden flicker flashing through his bones.

  “Whoa, whoa, you okay, amigo?” Héctor said, rushing to his friend’s side.

  Chicharrón let out a long sigh. “I’m fading, Héctor. I can feel it.” He gazed over at his guitar. “I couldn’t even play that thing if I wanted to.”

  Héctor’s eyes darted from Chicharrón to the guitar.

  “YOU play me something,” said Chicharrón.

  “Oh, you know I don’t play anymore, Cheech,” said Héctor. “The guitar’s for the kid.”

  “You want it, you got to earn it.”

  Héctor reluctantly reached for the guitar. “Only for you, amigo. Any requests?”

  Chicharrón smiled. “You know my favorite, Héctor.”

  Héctor grinned and began strumming away on the guitar, playing a lovely, lilting tune. Chicharrón smiled, seeming suddenly at peace. As Héctor played, Miguel was amazed. He’d had no idea Héctor was a musician—and a good one! The skeleton began to sing a silly song about a woman named Juanita whose knuckles dragged on the floor.

  “Those aren’t the words!” Chicharrón protested.

  “There are children present,” Héctor said calmly, and continued to sing. He ended the song with a soft flourish.

  “Brings back memories,” said Chicharrón. “Gracias.” Then his eyes closed. Suddenly, the edges of Chicharrón’s bones began to glow with a soft, beautiful light. Héctor looked sad. Then they watched as Chicharrón dissolved into dust.

  “Wait, what happened?” Miguel asked, concerned.

  Héctor picked up a glass, raised it in honor of Chicharrón, and drank. He put it down next to Chicharrón’s glass, which remained full.

  “He’s been forgotten,” Héctor said. “When there’s no one left in the living world who remembers you, you disappear from this world. We call it the final death.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Miguel.

  “No one knows,” said Héctor.

  Miguel had a thought. “But I’ve met him. I could remember him, when I go back.”

  “No, it doesn’t work like that, chamaco. Our memories, they have to be passed down by those who knew us in life. In the stories they tell about us. But there’s no one left alive to pass down Cheech’s stories.…”

  Miguel fell silent, in deep thought about his family’s shrine and keeping their memories alive.

  Héctor put a hand on Miguel’s back, suddenly cheerful. “Hey, it happens to everyone eventually,” he said. He gave the guitar to Miguel. “C’mon, de la Cruzcito. You’ve got a contest to win.” Héctor slung open the curtain, and Miguel followed Héctor out of the tent.

  A little while later, Héctor and Miguel were hanging off the back of a moving trolley. Héctor fiddled on the guitar idly as they rode through the city.

  “You told me you hated musicians. You never said you were one,” Miguel said.

  “How do you think I knew your great-great-grandpa? We used to play music together. Taught him everything he knows.” Héctor played a fancy riff but botched the last note.

  “No manches! You played with Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time?”

  “Ha, ha! You’re funny!” Héctor laughed. “Greatest eyebrows of all time, maybe, but his music? Eh, not so much.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miguel said.

  The trolley reached their stop. “Welcome to Plaza de la Cruz!” Héctor announced. In the center of the bustling plaza was a giant statue of Ernesto de la Cruz. “Showtime, chamaco!” Héctor pushed the guitar into Miguel’s arms.

  Miguel looked around the plaza. It glowed and hummed with the shouts of vendors selling a variety of crafts and treats to passersby.

  “Llevelo! T-shirts!” called a vendor selling Ernesto de la Cruz souvenirs. “Bobbleheads!”

  Miguel gazed past the vendor and saw a large stadium stage, where an emcee was greeting her audience.

  “Bienvenidos a todos!” she cried. “Who’s ready for some música?” The audience whooped and hollered. “It’s a battle of the bands, folks. The winner gets to play for the maestro himself, Ernesto de la Cruz, at his fiesta tonight!” The audience cheered some more. “Let the competiti
on begin!” exclaimed the emcee.

  The stage filled with acts performing one after the other. The performers were like none Miguel had ever seen. There was a tuba and violin act, a hardcore metal band, a marimba player on the back of a giant iguana spirit guide, a dog orchestra, and nuns playing accordions.

  Miguel and Héctor signed up for the contest and headed backstage into a crowd of other performers.

  “So what’s the plan? What are you gonna play?” Héctor asked Miguel.

  “Definitely ‘Remember Me,’” Miguel answered. He plucked out the beginning notes of the song. Héctor clamped his hand over the guitar’s fretboard.

  “No, not that one. No,” Héctor said seriously.

  “C’mon, it’s his most popular song!”

  “Eh, it’s too popular,” Héctor replied. They gazed around the backstage area and noticed that many other acts were rehearsing their own versions of “Remember Me.” One man even played water glasses to the famous tune.

  “That song has been butchered enough for a lifetime,” Héctor said with disgust.

  “What about…” Miguel thought hard. “‘Poco Loco’?”

  “Okay! Now you’re talking!”

  A stagehand approached Miguel. “De la Cruzcito?” he asked. Miguel nodded at his stage name. “You’re on standby!” Then the stagehand gestured to another band. “Los Chachalacos, you’re up next!”

  As Los Chachalacos stepped onto the stage, the crowd roared. The band burst into a mighty intro and the audience went wild.

  Backstage, Miguel peeked out at the frenzied audience. Los Chachalacos were unbeatable. He suddenly felt ill. He paced.

  “You always this nervous before a performance?” Héctor asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never performed before.”

  “What? You said you were a musician!”

  “I am!” Miguel answered. “I mean, I will be. Once I win.”

  “That’s your plan?” Héctor exclaimed. “No, no, no, no, no—you HAVE to win, Miguel. I NEED you to win. Your life LITERALLY depends on you winning AND YOU’VE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE?”

  Miguel processed that. His life did depend on him winning. Panic spread across his face.

  And Héctor saw it. “I’ll go up there.” He reached for the guitar.