16. A Plate Drawn On Wood

She didn’t leave her room for the rest of the afternoon.

Not when Isabela pounded on her door, trying and failing to open it (thank goodness Mirabel had put that chair under the doorknob that wiggled as she attempted to come in, she didn’t know if she was emotionally equipped to handle Isabela’s ire at the moment), demanding to speak to her. Raising her voice as she asked why Mirabel had left the cart in town halfway through, and that “it was just flower deliveries, how on earth did you manage to screw that up?! Ugh, Mirabel, what is your problem?!”

Not when Camilo cleared his throat just outside, crouching down and whispering in a hushed voice through the crack under the door so that only she could hear. “Mirabel, I’m sorry if my shapeshifting upset you, I promise I didn’t mean it,” the apology followed by him saying, “But our deal is still on, right?” (Typical Camilo behavior. Mirabel didn't have the heart to tell him that they had never shook on it, so the deal technically wasn't valid). 

Not even her mother, knocking with a quiet gentleness that only healing hands were capable of, asking her to come down for dinner was enough to get her to exit her room. Mirabel felt a stabbing twinge of sadness as she heard her mother depart, the muted voice of her father drifting by and asking if everything was all right.

“What’s wrong with Mirabel? Is she okay?”

“I’m not sure. She’s been acting so strange lately. Asking all these questions about Bruno… Augustín, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her.”

“Should I go talk to her?”

“Maybe in a little bit. I think she needs some space right now.”

The only way she was going to leave her bed was by force. And that’s exactly what Casita did.

Bouncing the floorboards beneath her bed so that the frame trembled and shook, Mirabel felt herself unceremoniously tossed onto the ground. Landing with a hard thump, she let out a sharp “Hey!” in protest.

“Ugh, Casita, can’t you see that I’m wallowing?” she lamented. Leave it to the sentient house to ruin a perfectly good sulking session.

In response, Casita rolled a clock along the floor so that it sat right underneath her nose, sharply ringing as it indicated that it was eight o’clock.

With a jolt, Mirabel realized that she had promised the man in the walls (she was still in the transition period of what to refer to him as, so a bland, ambiguous title would have to do for now) that they would watch telenovelas tonight. “Uh, yeah, no way. Nope. Not going to happen.”

The clock began to rock around violently, the shrill ringing growing more vigorous.

Mirabel groaned, burying her face into her forearms. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Just show up, and watch a telenovela with him as if there is nothing wrong? Casita, have you met me?! You know I can’t do that!”

The clock abruptly stopped and was carried away on the floorboards. The shutters of her window began to flutter in response, belting out an enigmatic pattern that would be indecipherable to most people.

Mirabel, however, was not most people.

You need to go talk to him.

At least, that’s what she thought Casita said. She was fluent in house, yes, but sometimes the translations tended to get a bit dicey.

Whether that was what Casita said or not, it was a good point. What was moping around going to solve? What questions could she possibly get answered in her melancholy state? In the hours that had passed since the realization, the forbidden connection, Mirabel hadn’t accomplished a single thing.

Which was very out of character for her. What on earth was she doing? She needed to get a grip. Start moving. Solve the mystery once and for all.

Feeling a surge of determination, Mirabel pushed herself to her feet. The windowpanes and floorboards erupted in excitement, urging her on as she gathered her things, namely the rat costumes that she stuffed into the small bag she slung over her shoulder, and prepared to exit. Doing her best to not make too much of a ruckus, she removed the chair from where it sat wedged under her doorknob, cringing as it scraped across the ground.

And then, with a great deal of delicacy and precision, she peeked her head out into the hallway.

Thankfully, there was no one in sight. Although everything in her life was disintegrating around her, she could only deal with one problem at a time. The implications of her prioritizing her hermit friend were dubious and questionable at best, but Mirabel figured that he was technically family, so it wasn’t like dealing with this first was all that bad.

Sneaking to the painting with as much stealth as she could muster, Mirabel entered the corridor with practiced discreteness. She had made it behind the walls undetected. Unfortunately, that was the easiest part of what she had to accomplish that evening.

She needed a game plan. Everything up until this moment had been pure impulse.

In most circumstances, Mirabel would kick down his door (which she had already done multiple times at this point), grab him by the collar and demand him to tell her the truth. Shake him by the scruff of his scrawny neck and only let him go when he finally admitted that he was her Tío.

However! Contrary to popular belief, Mirabel was smarter than that! She knew that if she were to directly ask him who he was, if he was her Tío, he would just deny and deflect. Just like he had when she had barged in with his ruana. 

Mirabel felt a guttural growl of frustration rise at the back of her throat. He had lied to her, right to her face! And the worst part? She had believed him. Looking back on it now, she felt so stupid. Of all the things that now made sense in light of this new information, the whole ruana debacle was by far the most absurd. The thing that she found that she could not get over. Why would Tío Bruno leave Casita without his ruana? And how would Ratón find it, and why would he even choose wear it in the first place?! The story was so ridiculous and contrived it was almost laughable, if Mirabel wasn’t so embarrassed by how she had fallen for it.

But anyways. The reason she couldn’t ask him straight up and directly was because she knew that she wouldn’t get an honest answer. He’d probably come up with some half-baked lie. And then Mirabel, being Mirabel, would probably believe him, begin to harbor some doubts, yada yada yada, and then long story short, she’d be back at square one.

She had too much self-awareness to allow this to happen.

So instead, she was going to take a more subtle route. Set up a little verbal trap, one that would place him in a position where he would be tested, no, forced to acknowledge that he was her Tío. It was going to marvelous. Stupendous. Devilishly clever, and once she got her confirmation, the fog would be lifted and all would be revealed.

How was she going to accomplish this, you may wonder? Don’t worry about it, the details aren’t all that important.

(She had no idea).

And she had run out of time to cobble together a last-minute plan, because before she knew it, she was standing right in front of Ratón’s door.

She wanted to lift her hand to knock. Clench her knuckles into fists and pound on the wood in frustration. But she found that she could not, suddenly doubting her presence. Her intentions. Her suspicions. Everything that she had been so certain of just moments earlier suddenly evaporated around her, leaving nothing but the bones of her uncertainty behind.

As it turns out, she wasn’t going to have much of a choice anyways.

Ratón, to her horror, opened the door in front of her, allowing the warm light inside to spill out into the dark, dingy hallway. “Mirabel!” he exclaimed. “You made it, just in time! Well, actually, that’s a lie. You’re a few minutes late. Did you bring the costumes?”

Mirabel stood mutely in the doorframe, her eyes unblinking and lips slightly parted as all she could do was stare, no, gape at Ratón. Or rather, Tío Bruno, because seeing him in front of her was only visual confirmation of what she had feared. It was all there. It had been there since day one, and she had been too blind to see it. The sandals, the green ruana, the loose coils of his black hair, and even—

“Um, Mirabel? Hello? Don’t tell me you forgot them!”

This was enough to draw her from her stupor, Mirabel blinking before abruptly turning to fish into her purse to retrieve the aforementioned goods. Without a single word, she offered them up to Ratón, who was quick to snatch them from her grasp and spin back around, all while managing to not take note of her uncharacteristic silence. His movements crackling with excitement, he hurried back to where his rats were waiting, their ears perked up and noses twitching in the air as he approached.

Perusing through the costumes, he held them up to the light as he studied them, and upon deeming their quality, set them off to the side with a pleased smile that only grew wider as he moved through the stack. Next to him, the rats watched with curiosity, sitting back on their haunches to get a better glimpse. And then, as they realized that the clothes were all rat-sized, they exchanged worried glances with each other, apparently none of them being thrilled about the prospect of having to play dress-up.   

Noticing that Mirabel still stood frozen by the door, Ratón beckoned her over with a frantic wave of his hand. “Oh, Mirabel, where are my manners?! Come come, let me show you the sets I completed! You’re going to love them.”

Mirabel swallowed, and then stepped forward, slowly making her way across the floor with careful, deliberate steps. It was amazing how walking from one end of Ratón’s pitifully cramped living quarters could feel like an eternity, her focus honed intently on his back as she drew closer.

And then, all too soon, she was standing next to him. Her Tío, their elbows nearly brushing as they stood in front of his artistic accomplishment. It was almost too much, Mirabel uncertain if she should say something, or run away. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Her hollow gaze turned to look at him, and seeing the expectant exhilaration resonating deep within his expression, realized that it would behoove her to respond. But she found that the words eluded her, dissolving on her tongue as she finally took a good, long look at his face in light of the new revelations she had been exposed to.

This Bruno was not like the one on the mural, with his haunted, sunken gaze the color of mint. Nor was he like the depiction on his door, with the furled brows that snarled into a frown, and he especially was not like Camilo’s impersonation that conveyed him to be some sort of spooky boogey-man that sent spikes of fear shooting down her spine. No, this Bruno was kind, soft, and warm, a vulnerable person with a great passion for making rats act out telenovelas and helping protect those he loved.

He should be different. By all things holy, Ratón and Bruno should be two separate people. But the evidence had been pretty damning, and even though she wanted to deny it, Mirabel found that she could not.

“Mirabel?”

Oh yes, that’s right. He had asked her a question. Mirabel had nearly forgotten, what with the earthshattering connection she found repeatedly shoved in her face. Her mistake.

She let out a light cough to awaken her slumbering voice. “They look… great,” she said. All that preparation, all that agony for just three words.  

Ratón glanced between her and the backdrops, a picture of puzzlement and thinly veiled hurt painted on his features. “Mirabel, you didn’t even look at them.”

Oh. Huh. She hadn’t, had she? Jolting at this realization, Mirabel turned to look at the sets, finding herself yanked forward to the present. Surprisingly, they had come out rather nicely, especially given Ratón’s circumstances. He didn’t really have many resources to draw from for this project, if the dire condition of his apartment was any indication. Although, as she studied them, Mirabel began to get the distinct feeling that he had found some of his supplies from outside his room and around the house, especially since she could swear that she could see….

“Wait a second,” she said, adjusting her glasses as she leaned in to get a closer look. “Is that Isabela’s favorite comb?! How did you even get that?!”

Ratón let out a guilty laugh, one of someone who knew that they had been caught. “Oh, that? That’s, uh, Isabela’s comb? I mean, I’m sure she doesn’t need it all that much, and you know, the ladder up to the balcony is a very important detail! So I figured that only the best supplies could be used to construct it. So, uh, yeah. I borrowed it.” Stole was probably a more accurate descriptor, but Mirabel was too busy losing her composure at the moment to care.

She laughed off his hurried explanations, feeling a surge joyful mirth that was very out of place given the circumstances. “You don’t need to justify anything to me, I fully support it,” she guffawed. “Oh man, she is going to be so mad.” There was another peal of laughter as she doubled over, the image of Isabela finally having a bad hair day for once bringing her a great deal of enjoyment.

Ratón hesitated, clearly not knowing what to make of Mirabel’s fit of giggles. “I, er…” he began awkwardly, rubbing his arm as he stammered. “You’re, uh, not going to tell her, right?”

“Of course not,” Mirabel assured him, waving off his concerns with an absentminded flick of her hand. Because what was she going to say to her? That her favorite comb was going to be used as a prop for a telenovela performed by rats? Yeah, no thank you, it would be much more entertaining to witness passively from the sidelines, that was for near certain.

Recovering from her laughter, Mirabel straightened. And then, seeing Ratón stand in front of her, the full frame of his body and posture presented to her in a blatant copy of his pose on the family portrait in town, she remembered everything. The mural, her mother’s stories, Camilo’s shapeshifting, all the things that served to point accusing fingers towards Ratón’s elaborate lie. It was enough to sober her up, the distraction of Isabela being robbed vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared and leaving a silent, pensive Mirabel in its wake.

Ratón didn’t seem to notice this drastic mood shift.

“Well, enough of this! The telenovela isn’t going to start itself, you know!”

Mirabel didn’t respond. She had nothing to say.

“And,” he continued, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her behind him, Mirabel subconsciously flinching at the sudden contact. He steered her to the red armchair and guided her into it. “Since it’s telenovela night, you get the best seat in the house! How exciting, right? Just because you’re my favorite person to watch telenovelas with.” He withdrew contact and stepped away, Mirabel’s hand suddenly feeling very cold. “Also, you know, because I’m not currently using it since I’ll be up here. That’s actually the main reason.”

Despite the comfy nature of the chair, and the fact that it was kind of an honor to sit in it (because the standards of everything else in the small room were abysmally low), Mirabel felt that she couldn’t relax. Of course she couldn’t, because how could she? When her uncle, the one who had caused ripples of pain to echo through the family for ten years due to his absence, who had lied to her and betrayed her trust, was standing right in front of her, fussing with rats as if nothing was wrong?

While Mirabel festered, a bundle of nerves stewing in her conflicting turmoil of indecisive emotions, Ratón was fretting around the stage, doing his very best and failing miserably to shove the rats into their costumes. Mirabel watched his back as he moved, her teeth biting the inside of her cheek with such strength that she could taste the sharp, metallic tang of her blood from the blunt force. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her heart beating fast as she conjured up a plan in her mind (a very crafty one, mind you, and not one that was being created on the spot) and mentally prepared to execute it.

Welp. Here went nothing.

“Hey, Bruno? Could I get a mug of water before we start?”

Ratón didn’t falter in his movements, smoothly setting the rats he had been outfitting back down with a gentle pat as he turned to abide her request. “Sure thing, Mirabel,” he said, his natural, candid response as he walked by her and over to the counter.

As he moved behind her, the fringe of his ruana tickling her arm as he brushed past, he remained fully unaware to what he had just indirectly admitted to in responding to his name without a second thought. Mirabel’s breath hitched; her heart skipped a beat. All she could do was stare directly ahead as she felt her muscles grow taut, tightening in instinctual response. Her fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as a swell of foreboding anxiety pressed down on her chest, leaving her rigid and out of breath.

Ratón was Bruno.

Rat ón. Was. Bruno.

While she sat there, her mind accelerating to a panicked sprint as she struggled to process the stunning confirmation of her revelation, she heard the man in question bustling around the kitchen behind her. The sound of him opening the cupboard. The clank of him setting the mug down on the counter. The pouring of water. All the while, he remained completely oblivious. Ignorant to the grave mistake he had just made, his grand ruse of a decade finally coming to a close.

Mirabel gulped, the corners of her mouth twitching with the motion. Maybe he didn’t notice? she thought to herself, suddenly being confronted with the question of what she was supposed to do next, if he didn’t realize what he had done.

She was quickly proven wrong, though, because right as that thought crossed her mind, there was the piercing sound of a mug shattering as it dropped to the floor, Mirabel feeling some of the fragments skitter across the hardwood and clip her ankles.

Great. She had just gotten that mug for him, and she was probably going to have to go get him another one now.

However, the mug could wait. In fact, it was arguably the least important part of this whole scene.

Turning around at an excruciatingly slow speed, Mirabel pivoted to face him. He stood there, staring at her in mute mortification with his eyes wide, jaw open, and body stiff. Stunned into silence. Acutely aware of his blunder, and realizing that nothing he could say could talk him out of this one.

Mirabel swallowed. The words unspoken were thick, incriminating. “Tío Bruno?” The name felt foreign and strange on her tongue, yet at the same time, in a really twisted, convoluted way, it felt right.

“I, um….” He faltered, his lips twitching as the beginnings of words would form before being discarded, resulting in an endless loop of nothing being said. And then finally, “That was an accident.”

Mirabel’s eyes shifted to the broken ceramic shards on the floor, and then back to him. “The mug? Or….” The fact that you responded to me calling you Bruno? Because in what world could that possibly be an accident?!

“Uh….” There was another pause. Eloquence was not his friend at the moment. “Both?”

“Ratón,” Mirabel began, a slimy, wormy thought demanding Or can I even call you that? “Have you been Tío Bruno this entire time?” That… had been a stupid question. Because it’s not like he could have been her Tío only part of the time, no, this was an all or nothing deal.

Either way, it got the point across quite clearly. The question had rendered him speechless, and all he could do was shake his head, although shake his head to what (disbelief, anger, denial?), Mirabel was not quite certain.

He took a step toward her, ignoring the sharp, jagged remnants of his precious mug that he traversed to draw closer to her and Mirabel, in response, removed herself from the chair and took a step back. Away from him, away from his lies. Far away, only the bump of something against her thigh stopping her retreat.

Mirabel paused as her hip hit the dining table pressed up against the wall. Turning to look at it, she almost gasped as she saw what was drawn onto the surface. A crude plate, just like the ones that the family used to eat dinner, with the name 'Bruno' scratched beneath the painting in his characteristic, messy handwriting. A pang of sadness, of sympathy pierced her heart, but she was too preoccupied with this final confirmation to acknowledge it.

“So it really is you,” she whispered, looking back to where Ratón, no, Bruno stood in front of her, horror etched on his face. “How… how could you do this to me? Lie to me?”

“Mirabel, I—” he began, but beyond that, no words came out. He just searched her eyes helplessly, his lack of response, lack of denial, telling Mirabel everything she needed to know.

She wanted to slap him. Yell at him. Hug him. Cry into his shoulder.

However, she didn’t do any of these things. Feeling so many strong, conflicting emotions at once, she found that she could only do one thing.

Pushing past Bruno, she ran from the apartment.

“Mirabel, wait!”

But Mirabel didn’t wait. She was already gone.

Bruno didn’t follow her.