Coco Middle Grade Novel Page 5

  “Miguel?!”

  “I’m sorry,” Miguel says about slamming into the skeleton and scattering his bones. He frantically picks them up, and that’s when he realizes that the mustached skeleton is not alone. He’s with two female skeletons, and the whole group knows his name.

  “Miguel?”

  “Miguel?”

  “Miguel?”

  “You’re here! Here here!” the mustached skull says as his bones magically pull away from Miguel’s arms. One flies past Dante, who chases it, salivating. “And you can see us? Qué raro.”

  One of the skeleton women charges through the mustached man, scattering his bones again. “Our Migueli-ti-ti-ti-ti-to!” She grabs Miguel and squeezes him in a tight hug.

  He can barely breathe, but he manages to ask, “Remind me how I know you?”

  She releases him and looks him straight in the face. “We’re your family, m’ijo!”

  “Family?” Then Miguel recognizes her from an ofrenda photo. “Tía…Rosita?” he guesses.

  She nods. “¡Sí!”

  He turns back to the mustached skeleton, who’s mostly reassembled, besides the fact that his head is turned the wrong way. The other woman straightens it. “Two inches to the left,” she says. “Now two inches to the right.”

  “Gracias,” the mustached skeleton tells her.

  “Papá Julio?” Miguel guesses again. “Tía Victoria?” He recognizes all of them now. Just like in the pictures, they all wear shoemaker aprons.

  Tía Victoria peers at him. “He doesn’t seem entirely dead,” she says, poking Miguel’s cheek with a confused look on her face.

  They are all so preoccupied with the bizarre family reunion, they almost don’t notice when some living holiday-goers approach. They pass right through Miguel. He grabs his stomach because of how queasy he feels. “Whoa!”

  “He’s not quite alive either…” Tía Rosita adds, concerned.

  At this Papá Julio starts to pace. He’s clearly distressed. “We need Mamá Imelda!”

  Suddenly, two identical skeletons rush over, skidding to a stop at the exact same moment. Miguel recognizes them immediately. They’re his twin uncles, Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe. They’re in a panic, their words rushing out.

  “¡Oye!”

  “It’s Mamá Imelda!”

  “She couldn’t cross over!”

  The other relatives gasp.

  “She’s stuck—” Tío Oscar starts.

  “On the other side,” Tío Felipe finishes. Then they notice Miguel. “Oh, hey, Miguel!”

  The rest of the relatives turn to gaze at him. With all eyes on him, he feels like a strange new insect beneath a magnifying glass. “I have a feeling this has something to do with you,” Tía Victoria says.

  Tía Rosita frowns. “But if Mamá Imelda can’t come to us…”

  “Then we are going to her!” Papá Julio exclaims, his mustache flaring up. “Vámonos!” He grabs Miguel and pulls him along.

  Miguel’s a bit nervous about meeting his great-great-grandmother, because she’s the one who banned music in the first place. But he can’t think of anything else to do, and he can’t remain a ghost, so he follows his family. They weave among the graves, carefully avoiding the living, since Miguel hates the sensation of people passing through him. Then they round a corner.…and Miguel is awestruck.

  “Whoa!” Miguel cries. A bridge, glowing with the orange petals of marigolds, arches before them. He’s never seen a bridge made of petals before. It extends into the darkness, and he wonders what holds it up—there aren’t any steel beams or ropes. A stream of skeletons ambles across it, the petals drifting down like orange snowflakes. Miguel’s afraid that if he steps on them he’ll sink through.

  “Come on,” Papá Julio says. “It’s okay.”

  Miguel cautiously steps onto the bridge, the petals glowing under his feet. Amazingly, he sinks a little but does not fall. It’s like walking on pillows, he realizes.

  Then Dante rushes past him. “Dante! Dante! Dante, wait up!” Miguel calls, running after the dog and finally catching up to him at the crest of the bridge. Dante rolls in the petals and sneezes a few onto Miguel’s face.

  “You gotta stay with me, boy. We don’t know…” Before finishing his thought, Miguel looks up and is awestruck once again. “We don’t know where we are.”

  He can only gaze at something even more amazing than the bridge. Out of the mist emerges a sparkling cityscape, the Land of the Dead. It’s breathtaking. Instead of sprawling outward, the city sprawls up with skyscrapers, centuries old. At the bottom are Aztec and Mayan pyramids. Above them are cathedrals from the colonial period, and above them are modern apartment buildings. All the skyscrapers are topped by cranes and scaffolds as more layers are added to accommodate the dead. The entire vista is illuminated by fireworks and strings of colorful lights outlining the buildings. Elevators, bridges, and suspended trolley cars zigzag across. This may be the Land of the Dead, but it is full of life. Miguel sees movement as skeletons and trolleys bustle about, and he hears sounds of construction, beeps and whirs of machines, and every now and then, a faint note of music.

  As Miguel gazes at the fantastic view, he notices that in the arrangement of buildings and in the play of mist and light are ghostly impressions of skulls staring back at him, but they aren’t threatening. Instead they seem to have welcoming smiles.

  When his family catches up, Miguel says, “This isn’t a dream, then. You’re all really out there.”

  “You thought we weren’t?” Tía Victoria asks.

  “Well, I don’t know. I thought it might’ve been one of those made-up things that adults tell kids…like…vitamins.”

  “Miguel,” his aunt laughs, “vitamins are the real thing.”

  “Well, now I’m thinking maybe they could be.”

  As they move along, the twin uncles regard Miguel.

  “Perhaps our young nephew can settle our debate,” Tío Felipe suggests.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Tío Oscar says. “For you see,” he tells Miguel, “there’s this new product called Velcro.”

  “Wasn’t around when we were alive,” Tío Felipe says.

  “But now it’s quite…”

  “…ubiquitous.”

  “So we’ve been wondering which makes a better fastener for shoes.”

  “Laces or Velcro?”

  “Perhaps you can offer your expert opinion?”

  “Since you undoubtedly have experience with both.”

  They speak back and forth very quickly, so Miguel struggles to keep up with who says what. As for their question, he’s never given it much thought. Besides, how can he answer a question about Velcro when he’s still trying to process the idea of talking to his dead relatives? “I’m not sure,” he says.

  “I can’t believe how big you are,” Tía Rosita interjects. “You look like Julio when he was a boy. Doesn’t he look like you, hermano?”

  “He’s quite handsome,” Papá Julio agrees. He seems to have calmed now that they are en route to Mamá Imelda.

  “We need updates,” Tía Rosita decides. “Any chisme from Santa Cecilia?”

  “And how is my sister, your abuelita?” Tía Victoria adds.

  The twin uncles join in. “And your new primos?”

  “Yes, los cuates, Benny and Manny.”

  Miguel tries his best to answer the questions even though he’s still struggling to accept that he’s talking to dead people. They seem satisfied by his answers, but then he feels a bony hand on his shoulder. It’s Papá Julio. “How’s your mamá Coco?” the old man asks. “I miss her very much. I can still remember how we fell in love.”

  Everyone anxiously waits for his answer. “She forgets things,” Miguel admits. “But she hasn’t forgotten any of you. I can’t wait to tell her how I met everyone.”

  They continue along the bridge, and as skeletons pass in the other direction, Miguel receives some strange looks. A little girl skeleton points at him. “He looks funny, Mamá.�
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  “M’ija, it’s not nice to stare at—” The mother is dumbstruck when she spots Miguel. “Ay! Santa Maria!” Her eyes widen, and now she’s the one who can’t stop staring, her head turning backward to keep her eyes on Miguel as she walks in the opposite direction. Miguel feels extremely self-conscious now, so he puts up his hood to hide.

  They continue toward an official-looking building on the far side of the bridge, and that’s when Miguel spots fantastical creatures. They’re crawling, flying, and making nests in the architecture.

  “Are those…? Alebrijes!” He can’t believe he’s seeing living versions of the sculptures from the market. “They sell ’em in town, but those are—”

  “Real alebrijes,” Tío Oscar says. “Creatures of the spirit realm. Full of wonder…”

  “Full of something,” Tío Felipe says as an alebrije from above leaves a dropping. “Watch your step. They make caquitas everywhere.”

  Miguel and Dante watch a majestic horse with a lion’s mane and a snake with feathers just like the famous Quetzalcoatl of the Aztecs. Like the sculptures in the market, all the alebrijes in the Land of the Dead have stripes, dots, and other designs in bright colors. Miguel could marvel at them all day.

  They finally get to the end of the Marigold Bridge. As they step off, the magic of the bridge disengages. Miguel is no longer transparent and glowing. He is as solid in the Land of the Dead as he was in the Land of the Living before strumming the famous guitar.

  He follows Papá Julio across the stone floor toward Marigold Grand Central Station. A voice from public speakers makes announcements: “Welcome back to the Land of the Dead. Please have all offerings ready for reentry. We hope you enjoyed your holiday!”

  They step through a door for reentry. A row of booths for arrivals agents separates the lobby from the city behind it. Miguel and his family search for the shortest line and take their spots. Miguel can’t help standing on his tiptoes to watch the proceedings.

  “Welcome back,” the arrivals agent says to a traveler. “Anything to declare?”

  “Some churros from my family.”

  “How wonderful!” the agent says. “Next! Anything to declare?”

  Meanwhile, the public speakers continue the announcements. “If you are experiencing travel issues, agents at the Department of Family Reunions are available to assist you.”

  On the other side of the lobby is the departures area. Miguel watches as one skeleton after another is approved for a trip to the Land of the Living. Then he spots a skeleton being hauled away by security guards. He gives Tía Rosita a questioning look.

  She shakes her head. “Oh, so sad. I don’t know what I’d do if no one put up my photo.”

  That’s when Miguel remembers why his family insists on placing photos of their loved ones on the ofrenda. The pictures are like tickets to the other side, and only those who are remembered can pass over for Día de los Muertos.

  Once again, he hears: “Next!”

  “Oh! Come, m’ijo,” Tía Rosita says. “It’s our turn.”

  The arrivals line moves forward. The Rivera skeletons crowd around the gate. Then the agent leans from his window. “Welcome back, amigos! Anything to declare?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Papá Julio says, pushing Miguel to the front so the agent can get a good look at him.

  “Hola,” Miguel says sheepishly.

  When the arrivals agent sees a flesh-and-blood boy, he shrieks and his jaw literally drops to the floor!

  Across the lobby, the famous Frida Kahlo waits for entry to the Land of the Living. Even though she’s a beloved artist with photos in museums and private homes, she’s wringing her hands and nervously tapping her foot. Her unibrow is furrowed with anxiety as she casts paranoid glances at the departures gate with its camera-mounted monitor.

  “Next family, please!” the agent calls to the elderly couple at the front of the line. They stand before the monitor and it scans their faces, returning an image of their photos on an altar in the Land of the Living. “Oh,” the agent says, “your photos are on your son’s ofrenda. Have a great visit!”

  “Gracias!” they reply.

  They join the rest of their family, and as they step onto the Marigold Bridge, all of them begin to glow.

  “And remember to return before sunrise,” the public speakers announce. “Enjoy your visit!”

  Frida takes a deep breath. It’s almost her turn.

  “Next family!” A skeleton family approaches and steps before the monitor. They have giant smiles full of braces, so it’s no surprise when the agent says, “Your photos are on your dentist’s ofrenda. Enjoy your visit!”

  “Grashiash!” they say.

  “Next!”

  Frida steps up. She has brushed aside her anxiety and is full of confidence now. “Yes, it is I. Frida Kahlo.” She gestures to herself. “Famous Mexican icon, beloved of the people. Shall we skip the scanner? I’m on so many ofrendas. It’ll just overwhelm your blinky thingie.”

  “Sorry, uh…Miss Kahlo. Rules are rules.”

  The monitor scans Frida, but instead of revealing hundreds of ofrendas with her photo, an X appears, followed by a negative buzzing sound.

  “Well, shoot,” the agent says. “Looks like no one put up your photo, Frida.”

  At that, Frida rips off her unibrow and throws off her frock. As it turns out, she isn’t Frida at all.

  Beneath the disguise is a tall, thin skeleton. Except for the red scarf tied around his neck, his clothes are faded and threadbare. His jacket’s missing a sleeve, and his pants are torn at the knees and hems. He dons a straw hat that’s frayed along the brim. “Okay, when I said I was Frida…just now? That…that was a lie.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “And I apologize for doing that, but it’s only out of desperation. I must cross over.”

  “We go through this every year, Héctor,” the agent says. “Last time, you stuffed cotton in your clothes to disguise yourself as another artistic icon, Diego Rivera.”

  “I was trying to be gordo like him. How was I supposed to know that the stuffing would fall out?”

  “Uh…perhaps the holes in your clothes would have provided a clue?”

  Héctor sighs.

  “We were onto you before you reached the gate,” the agent continues. “Just like the year you painted yourself as an alebrije.”

  “It was a genius idea, you have to admit.…”

  “Except that you left colorful hand and footprints everywhere.”

  “I should have waited till the paint dried.”

  “And before that,” the agent says, “you hid in a raspa cart.”

  Héctor shivers. “Silly me. I forgot that raspa carts are full of ice. Brrr!”

  “Your shivering bones were louder than the fireworks.” At this, the agent laughs, but then she gets serious again. “No photo on an ofrenda, no crossing the bridge.”

  Héctor pretends he didn’t hear. “You know what,” he says, “I’m just gonna zip right over. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

  “You know the drill,” the agent says, reaching for her walkie-talkie.

  Before she can call security, Héctor bolts for the bridge. When he sees security guards blocking it, he splits in two, half of him going over the guards and the other half going under. Then his bones reassemble mid-flight. He’s been practicing, so he doesn’t miss a beat. He glances back, happy that the guards are still trying to figure out what happened.

  “Almost there,” Héctor says to himself. He’s excited. He’s never made it this far. “Just a little further.”

  And then he arrives at the foot of the Marigold Bridge! Finally, his dream of visiting the Land of the Living is about to come true. Without hesitation, he leaps onto the marigolds—but the magic doesn’t engage! Instead of sprinting across, Héctor sinks right through the petals. And before he can try again, the guards saunter over.

  “Upsy-daisy,” one of the officers says, casually lifting Héctor and pull
ing him back to the Land of the Dead.

  “Fine, okay,” Héctor replies. “Who cares? Dumb flower bridge.”

  He shrugs it off and acts like it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal. He needs to get to the other side…before it’s too late.

  Meanwhile, a security guard escorts Miguel and his family across an arching second-floor walkway. Dante happily trots along, his tongue hanging out as he pants. “Whoa,” Miguel utters as gondolas float past, each decorated with bright paint and curlicue designs. A few trolleys pass by on rickety rails, their sides plastered with movie posters and advertisements for all kinds of products, including bone polishers, splints for “unfortunate accidents,” and grooming supplies for alebrijes.

  Tío Felipe and Tío Oscar flank Miguel. He’s still not sure who is who. In his mind, they are mirror images of the same person.

  “Don’t worry,” one of them says. “We’ll get this figured out, and then you can get back home—”

  “And we can get back to hammering soles.”

  “Hammering souls?” Miguel asks nervously as he imagines his uncles beating up ghostly spirits.

  “Not ‘soul’ as in the devil or angel on your shoulder.”

  “Or your sense of right and wrong.”

  “Your moral compass.”

  “Your conscience.”

  “And not ‘sole’ the fish.”

  “Or ‘sole’ the adjective, as in sole survivor, sole heir, or—”

  “Sole living boy in the Land of the Dead.”

  “Okay, okay,” Miguel says. “You mean the soles on shoes, right?”

  The uncles nod, but before they can say more, they reach the doors for the Department of Family Reunions at the end of the walkway. The guard leads them into a large room with row upon row of cubicles. Frantic caseworkers punch data into computers, sift through file cabinets, answer phones, and try their best to assist disgruntled travelers.

  “C’mon!” one skeleton says. “Help us out, amigo. We gotta get to a dozen ofrendas tonight.”

  At another cubicle, a miffed wife points her finger at her husband. “We are not visiting your ex-wife’s family for Día de los Muertos!”