Chapter 4

“Look, if you're too scared, then, well . . . have fun making shoes.” The mariachi does a quick rasgueado on the guitar, and Miguel admires the way his fingers flutter over the strings. “But the world belongs to the bold, m'ijo.” Miguel silently mouths the words as he considers this. “C'mon,” the mariachi urges. “What did de la Cruz always say?”

“Seize your moment?” Miguel phrases it as a question even though he knows the answer by heart.

The mariachi nods. Then he offers the guitar to Miguel. “Show me what you got, muchacho. I'll be your first audience.”

Miguel's eyes widen and his brows rise with surprise at this gesture. He aches to hold the guitar, but then he hears Abuelita proclaiming the family rule—No music allowed! Every time he dares to play something, her warning echoes in his head. But how can he resist a chance to touch a beautiful guitar?

He glances around to make sure the coast is clear. Then he reaches for the instrument and takes it with reverence, as if holding a holy relic. Once it's in his arms, Miguel presses the strings and is about to strum a C chord when he hears: “Miguel!”

It's Abuelita's voice, and he laughs at himself. I must be paranoid, he thinks. But then he hears her voice again, this time much closer. He gasps and tosses the guitar back to the mariachi, but it's too late. Abuelita, Tío Berto, and Prima Rosa, Miguel's cousin, have found them. They march straight over, their arms full of bags and supplies.

“Abuelita!” Miguel says.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Um . . . uh . . .” Miguel quickly packs up his shoeshine equipment, hoping his grandmother ignores the mariachi.

But she doesn't. She grabs a chancla from her purse. Many years ago, the strap on the sandal fell off, but since Abuelita hates to throw out shoes, no matter how tattered, she keeps it as a flyswatter. Apparently, it's a mariachi swatter, too, because she barrels up to the man, hits him with the shoe, and waves him away just like she does with the flies.

“You leave my grandson alone!” she shouts.

“Doña, please. I was just getting a shine!”

“I know your tricks, mariachi!” Then, turning to Miguel, she demands, “What did he say to you?”

Miguel shrugs. “He was just showing me his guitar.”

Abuelita gasps, Prima Rosa gasps, and Tío Berto gasps, too. “Shame on you!” the uncle says to the mariachi.

Abuelita approaches the musician, chancla aimed directly between his eyes. “My grandson,” she says, “is a sweet little angelito querido cielito. He wants no part of your music, mariachi! You keep away from him!”

She is a formidable woman, so the mariachi grabs his sombrero and scrambles away. Miguel can only watch with unspoken apologies and a heavy heart. There goes a man who let him talk about music without feeling ashamed.

“¡Ay, pobrecito!” Abuelita says, hugging Miguel so tight he can barely breathe. “¿Estás bien, m'ijo?” When she releases him, he gasps for air. “You know better than to be in this place! You will come home. Now.”

Miguel sighs, and as he picks up his shoeshine box, he notices a sheet of paper. It's a flyer for the talent show—the one the mariachi told him about! Quickly, before Abuelita turns around, he pockets the flyer.

As they walk through the plaza, Abuelita can't stop commenting on everyone's shoes. When she sees Señor Maldonado, she says, “Now there is an admirable man. See how the patent leather of his loafers gleams in the sun?” When she sees Señora Diaz, she says, “I dyed those satin pumps myself, and look how they're fading.” And to the señora, she calls out, “Don't store your shoes by the window! They're supposed to be red but now they're turning pink from all that sun.” Señora Diaz gives her a thumbs-up and hurries away.

And then Rosa spots a small boy and points at him. “Look, Abuelita!”

Abuelita gasps. “His shoelaces!” Sure enough, the laces on the boy's tennis shoes are frayed and too short to be tied into a proper knot.

“Not his shoes,” Rosa says. “He's crying!”

“Of course he's crying. I would cry, too, if my shoelaces looked like that.” Abuelita stoops down to examine them. “What happened here?” she asks the boy, but instead of explaining what happened to his shoes, he says, “I'm lost.”

Abuelita snaps to get Tío Berto's attention. “Go find his parents,” she orders.

“Yes, yes, right away,” Tío Berto says as he obediently rushes off.

“We'll find your parents,” Abuelita tells the boy. “In the meantime, you can't go around with frayed laces. Lucky for you, I have extras in my purse.” She pulls out three pairs of shoelaces, and the boy's eyes widen with delight. “Which color do you want?” she asks, and he studies them as if choosing the right color is the most important decision of his life.