9. Scribbled Notes Written With Love

As it turns out, Ratón was a pretty good performer.

Scratch that. He was a really good performer.

Despite her initial reluctance to watch season five, episode twenty-two of ‘Love Across The Stars,’ Mirabel found herself completely engrossed in the plot within minutes. Ratón told a shockingly compelling story, doing voices and weaving narratives together with a proficiency that she had not been expecting from someone who claimed to have the script memorized in his head.

The story, she could glean, had a somewhat simple premise. Well, if you could consider a woman falling and hitting her head and forgetting who she was, and then falling in love with her nephew simple, because as Ratón began to dive into the character interactions and the complexities of amnesia and what he described as ‘forbidden love,’ then sure. It was simple.

And that didn’t even include what appeared to be the beginnings of a love triangle, but Mirabel couldn’t be entirely sure. The characters scattered on the periphery, introduced to her in this episode had been intentionally ambiguous, and when she later tried to grill Ratón about it, he shrugged with a secretive smile and told her that she would simply have to wait and see.

Well, Mirabel hadn’t wanted to wait and see, so when the episode ended with a flirtatious interaction between the nephew (Diego) and his neighbor (Esmerelda) with the aunt (Rosita) as a jealous onlooker, she had demanded that Ratón show the next episode. Which he had responded with what appeared to be tears brimming at the rim of his eyelids, a wobbly smile, and a hasty agreement, quickly arranging the necessary rats into their proper places before diving into the next installment of the series.

And then, when that episode was complete, Mirabel had requested to see the next one, but Ratón, an apologetic look in his eyes, had explained that the rats were tired and that it was a lot of effort to put on a show of this caliber, you know! Not to mention the worker’s rights they demand from me!

Mirabel had wanted to suggest that he use different rats for the telenovela, since there was an abundance of them crawling around the apartment and the only thing they really seemed to do was hang like a corpse from Ratón’s hand while he waved their limp body around, but she had refrained from speaking, realizing that she didn’t want to push him. After all, claiming that the rats were the tired ones could have been an allegory for his own exhaustion from the riveting performance; Mirabel tended to notice the little things like that.

So then, instead of insisting that she see the next episode, Mirabel had practically exploded with her predictions and thoughts, enthusiastically waving her arms around as she spewed a relentless stream of her first impressions on the show. The whole time, Ratón nodded along, intently listening while she ranted about the contents of his performance.

“So when does she recover from her amnesia? It’s been five seasons and it hasn’t gone away? Oh! Unless—” Mirabel cut herself off with a sharp point of her finger as a new idea lit up inside her head. “What if she has already recovered, and she remembers everything? She remembers Ricardo, her old lover, but still chooses to ignore him, but—no, wait, ugh.” She cut herself off again, this time with a despondent shake of her head. “Then that would mean that she knows that she is in love with her nephew, and I guess I’ve only seen two episodes, but that doesn’t seem like something her character would do…. Right?”

There was a twinkle in Ratón’s eye as he watched her speak, and at Mirabel’s question of confirmation, he gave her a cheeky shrug and mimed zipping his mouth shut with his fingers.

“Agh, Ratón!” Mirabel groaned, rubbing her hands down her face in exasperation. “You can’t leave me hanging like this!”

He smiled, conspiring and mischievous. “I can, and I will.” At Mirabel’s dour expression of response, he matched Mirabel’s groan of exasperation with one of his own. “Come on, that’s the whole fun of these! You don’t know what’s going to happen next!”

“I could know what happens next if you would just show me the next episode…” Mirabel grumbled under her breath, resisting the urge to pout like a child. She might’ve been fifteen, but what could she say? Telenovelas seemed to bring out the worst in her. It was tough being a hardcore fan!

While she sat there, stewing, Ratón stood up, making his way over to one of the decrepit shelves lining his rickety walls. “Oh!” he said as he rifled through a stack of things that Mirabel couldn’t quite decipher. “I forgot to mention. I cleaned the place up for the premiere! Can’t you tell?”

Mirabel looked around. “Yep!” she lied. It appeared to be the same as it always was, but she didn’t want to crush his feelings, not after the outstanding entertainment he had just provided.

Apparently finding what he was looking for, Ratón spun around with a grin fitting for a lunatic, a pad of paper in one hand and a very blunt pencil in the other. “To plan out the costumes,” he explained, the grin not leaving his face as he moved to sit across from Mirabel. She still sat in his special red armchair, and this time he was left to sit in the crooked, mildly uncomfortable dining chair.

Without saying anything more, Ratón began to write, the only sounds audible in the apartment being the scratching of the pencil against paper and the squeaking cacophony of the rats.

Realizing that he was beginning to write for an alarmingly long amount of time without speaking, Mirabel took it upon herself to step into the creative process. “How about we start with just one for each character,” she said, craning her neck as she tried to decode what Ratón was writing. Which was a remarkably difficult feat, given his sloppy chicken-scratch handwriting, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

(Trying was the key word here, because despite her best efforts, she could not make out a single word that Ratón had written down. Oh well.)

“Of course, of course,” he replied, as if it had been obvious. Even so, as he said this, Mirabel was able to see him cross out some things off the steadily growing list of descriptors, which made her believe that they had not originally been on the same page.

Which brought her to her next stipulation. “And how about we only start with the super important characters,” she suggested, leaning backwards from her hunched position and into the raggedy chair. “Because I don’t know if I’m in the mood to make an outfit for every side character that only shows up for one episode.”

“Already ahead of you!” Ratón fired back in response, right before he proceeded to cross even more things off the list.

Ay Dios mío. Mirabel had a creeping feeling that she was really going to have her work cut out for her.             

There was a lull in the conversation and Ratón’s productivity, in which he stared blankly at his messy scrawl of notes and Mirabel stared blankly at his stagnant frame. And then, after a very long minute of this anticlimactic standoff, he looked back up at her with a sheepish expression. “How about I finish this later, and send some mice to deliver the message to you when it’s done? I don’t want to rush the artistic process.”

“Wait, you’re telling me that you’re not the one who has been delivering the notes to my room?”

Ratón placed a dramatic hand to his chest, looking thoroughly taken aback. “Huh? Of course not! What, do you think that I just sneak into your room in the middle of the night while you’re sleeping to drop the notes off?” There was a beat, and before Mirabel had the chance to respond, he pinned her with an austere look. “Don’t answer that.”

That was a relief to Mirabel; she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings with her response.

Finishing her mug of water off, Mirabel left shortly afterwards, allowing for Ratón to perform his knocking ceremony upon her exit. It was becoming sort of a ritual for them; a strange one, and one that Mirabel was too scared to ask the details about, but something she enjoyed nonetheless.

The next morning, Mirabel was woken up with Antonio’s face in hers, him being close enough in her personal space that the tight coils of his curls brushed against her cheek. Reaching a hand up to try to shoo away the tickling sensation, Mirabel’s brows furled in confusion as she groggily stared up at Antonio’s wide, unblinking eyes.

“Mirabel,” he whispered, his voice a low, quiet hiss, as if he were telling a secret and didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Who is this note from?”

Welp. That was enough to wake her up. Shooting up into an upright sitting position, Mirabel nearly threw Antonio’s small body off of her as she startled to attention. “Note?” she asked, the bubbling panic blatant in her tone. “What note?”

Had he found the one she had tucked under her pillow? Or had it been the one she had stuffed away in her pocket; had it fallen out of her skirt and onto the floor, her secret exposed for the world to see?

Her eyes landed on the slip of paper Antonio held pinched between his fingers, folded so that she couldn’t see its contents. “This note!” he said, and well, that didn’t help Mirabel at all. There were multiple notes. All addressed to her, and signed by— .

“Who is Ratón?”

Her mind performed the equivalent of a record scratch. “Er…. Um…. Who?” she stammered, finding herself unable to get out a coherent thought.

Nice one, Mirabel.

“Ratón!” Antonio gleefully repeated. “There’s a note to you, signed by someone named Ratón! Who are they?”

Mirabel blinked, her mind struggling to keep up with the stunning revelation that Antonio was saying the name of the man in the walls out loud, her forbidden little secret, over and over again. “Where did you get that from?” she demanded, effectively ignoring Antonio’s question about her hidden friend, knowing that the proper answer would be impossible to give.      

Antonio giggled, sounding like a little child that knew that they had done something naughty. Which maybe wasn’t the most creative comparison, since that was exactly what was happening in this scenario. “On your desk!” he crowed. “The note isn’t that exciting though. It’s just random names with descriptions of clothing. Why would someone even send you that?”

“Antonio!” Mirabel cried out in distress. “Don’t you know it’s a crime to read other people’s mail?!” She didn’t actually know if that was true. She was just trying to do some damage control and get her note back before anybody could see it and oh goodness she hoped that this was just a nightmare that she would wake up from soon because this was quickly shaping up to be one of the worst mornings of her life!

“It is?” he said as he tilted his head to the side, perplexed. “Well, this note is so boring, I don’t think it really matters anyways.”

Mirabel, crafty as she was, decided to use this little comment to her advantage. “Well… if it’s as boring as you say, then why don’t you just—” she spoke slowly, trying to lull Antonio into a false of security, all before lunging forward in an attempt to snatch the slip out of his hands, but his reflexes were quick, for he was quick to leap backwards and out of her reach “—give it back.”

Antonio laughed, a very mischievous and foreboding twinkle glittering deep in his dark brown eyes. “You want it?” he asked, and Mirabel nodded in desperation despite knowing that it was a rhetorical question. “Then you’ll have to come and get it!” And with that, he turned around on his heel and sprinted out the door, leaving Mirabel sitting alone in the room.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

She was on her feet in an instant, Casita scrambling to match her pace and bounce the slippers onto her feet as she ran out of the room after Antonio. She wasn’t nearly as fast as him, but her legs were longer, so she found herself catching up to him as she slid down the banister of the main staircase.

Unfortunately for Mirabel, Camilo happened to be walking by, stopping to watch the comical chase in which the ferocious Mirabel and the delinquent Antonio danced around each other.

“We playing a game?” he asked, a casual hand on his hip as he watched Antonio run around him and use his body as a fleshy shield to protect himself from Mirabel.

Who, unfortunately for both of her cousins, was not going to allow such tricks. Seizing an unexpecting Camilo by the shoulders with a deep growl, she practically shoved him out of the way, sending him flying with a yelp of protest. This revealed Antonio sitting unsheltered right in front of her, ripe for the picking.

“Keepaway!” Antonio shrieked in response, letting out a high-pitched giggle as he spun around and ran in the opposite direction. Mirabel nearly grabbed him by the back of his shirt, but ended up missing and falling on her knees instead. Letting out a huff of frustration, she sprung back onto her feet, pushing her glasses back up her nose as she continued to pursue Antonio across the courtyard.

Camilo let out an excited ooh! of delight. “I can help!” he supplied, his participation being fueled by both his bitterness at getting flung to the side by a determined Mirabel and a love for games.

Shifting into Antonio with a twirl and a devious smirk, Camilo sprinted past Mirabel so that he caught up to the real Antonio, who passed his doppelganger the stolen note with an exhilarated laugh. The two ran behind a large potted plant, Mirabel hot on their trail.

They sat on the other side of the plant, snickering loud enough for Mirabel to hear and causing her to let out a huff of frustration in response. This was getting out of control.

And then, an idea struck her. Since neither party could see each other on either side of the pot, she decided to bait them out. She stomped her feet to the right as if she was going to run that way around the plant, and then, when the pair of troublemakers came sprinting out the other side, she quickly sidestepped to intercept their path.

The two Antonios realized her trick, simultaneously scrambling backwards to retreat back behind the safety of the pot. However, Mirabel was faster, her hand snaking out to quickly nab them. Somehow, she was able to snag both of them by the backs of their shirts, hauling them back and then lifting them up by the collar, one in each hand. “Enough of this!” she snapped in exasperation.

The Antonio in her left hand let out a sigh of defeat right before shifting back into Camilo, who was able to easily twist out of her grip with his newfound height and strength.

“Aw, you’re no fun, Mirabel,” he complained with a disgruntled groan. Mirabel was about to assert that she had never wanted to play this stupid game in the first place, thank you very much, when she noticed that he was the one with the paper. And he was opening it. And reading it.

The words freezing on her tongue, all she could do was inhale sharply as she watched his eyes start to skim the words on the page. “What’s so important about this note, anyways?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion as he began to read the scribbles jotted down on the wrinkled paper. “It looks like it’s just—”

In his bout of reading, Mirabel was finally able to retrieve the stolen note, ripping it from his distracted grasp and pressing the crumpled paper in her fist close to her chest in a protective manner. “—Notes for a sewing project,” she finished for him, before he could say anything else. Or, more importantly, ask any unwanted questions.

At Mirabel’s confirmation of the note’s purpose, Camilo drew back with a sneer, his face scrunching into an expression of disgust. “That’s it?” he asked, the repulse not leaving his features. “That’s, like, super lame.”

Mirabel’s face fell flat. She supposed that she should be thankful that Camilo was choosing to focus on the message in the notes, rather than who it was signed by, but still. That was just plain insulting. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like inhaling breakfast? Or shapeshifting into someone else and stealing their food?”

Camilo let out a huff, rolling his eyes with a shake of his head for good measure. “That’s right! I almost forgot, thanks for reminding me,” he responded sarcastically. Despite his sassiness, though, he still turned to leave, making his way toward the patio where breakfast would be served, likely to do the exact thing that Mirabel had accused him of having the propensity of doing.

Mirabel let out a pent-up sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging with the action. Well. That had been exhausting and needlessly stressful.

Next to her, Antonio made to follow him, but Mirabel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Hold up little guy, we need to go get dressed! We’re still in our pajamas!”

Antonio turned around with a pout, his eyes big and pleading. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Mirabel responded without a second thought on the matter. She could only imagine Abuela’s disapproving expression if they were to show up to breakfast in their night clothes, the comfortable fabric not fitting for any member of the Madrigal family to wear out in public. And the last thing Mirabel wanted to do was be on the receiving end of Abuela’s harsh scrutinizing eye… sometimes, the best way to gain her approval was to stay under the radar and not call any additional attention to herself.

Ushering Antonio upstairs and back to their bedroom, the recovered note still grasped firmly in her fist, Mirabel helped Antonio pick out his clothes for the day before doing the same for herself.

“So,” he asked once he had pulled his shirt over his head, Mirabel kneeling in front of him to help button the cuffs of the sleeves and collar. “Who was Ratón, anyways?”

Mirabel froze. She had been sincerely hoping that after all of the tomfoolery that had occurred that morning, Antonio would have forgotten about the person written at the bottom of the troublesome note. She should’ve known that she would not be so lucky. However, in her lack of response, Antonio continued talking, bombarding her with more invasive, prying questions. “Are they a friend? Why haven’t I met them yet? And what kind of name is Ratón? I like it. It’s weird. I wish I was named after an animal.”

Mirabel bit her bottom lip as her fingers fumbled at Antonio’s buttons, losing her concentration as her mind raced to come with a plausible evasion to the stream of questions she found herself needing to answer. “He’s… uh….” She paused, keeping her eyes trained on the shirt in front of her to avoid making eye contact with Antonio. “A friend.”

There. She said it. Out in the open, for all the world to see. Or really, in this case, just Antonio, but it still left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“A friend?” Antonio parroted, quirking his head in confusion. “What kind of a friend?”

“A secret friend,” Mirabel shot back, this time quick with her response. “One that no one can know about. He’s very, uh, shy, you see. He doesn’t really like to meet new people.”

Antonio shifted on his feet. “What about me? Can I meet him?”

Mirabel faltered. “I… erm…” she stuttered, a proper response eluding her.

“I promise I’ll be nice!”

Mirabel should have said no. Shut down the idea right there on the spot instead of entertain it any longer than a split second. But no, of course she couldn’t do that, not when Antonio was looking at her with the biggest pleading eyes in the entire world. Not when it was Antonio, one of the few people in the family to show her unconditional love, kindness, and acceptance to her, no, she couldn’t bear to crush his spirit like that.

So, she settled for giving him an ambiguous half-answer. “How about I ask him?” she asked with a grimace, knowing that this was a foot in the door for things to get wildly out of hand. She could barely keep the secret under wraps by herself, but if Antonio was involved? They wouldn’t last a day.

The uncertainty was all worth it, though, because Antonio lit up in excitement, clapping his hands together as he bounced up and down at the thrilling prospect. “Would you really?!” he cried, his face stretching into a smile so wide that Mirabel knew that his cheeks had to be hurting.

“Yes,” she said, the smile-grimace hybrid still plastered on her face. “But only on one condition!”

At this, Antonio’s celebration came to a screeching halt as he diverted his full attention to Mirabel, notably holding his breath as he waited with heavy anticipation for what her condition would be.

Pushing herself to her feet and out of her kneeling position so that she was looking down on him (you know, to assert dominance), Mirabel planted her hands on her hips with a stern expression on her face. “This has to remain a secret. You have to prove that you are worthy of meeting him, so you can’t tell anybody about it! If he knows that you spilled the beans, he won’t want to meet you.”

Antonio’s eyes widened at Mirabel’s completely made-up threat. He nodded his head in stiff agreement, lifting a finger to his lips in a silent shushing motion. “I promise,” he whispered in a vigorous oath, which Mirabel responded to with an official inclination of her head.

“Good,” she replied, taking care to maintain the firmness of her tone. “Now, Antonito, let’s get going! We’re going to be late for breakfast. Camilo’s going to eat all the food if we’re not careful!”  

Antonio’s eyes widened at the realization that Holy Casita, Mirabel was right, Camilo was going to have eaten all the food if they didn’t hurry!, so he was quick to leave the room, beckoning Mirabel to follow him with an impatient wave of his arm.

Right before she trailed him out the room, Mirabel made sure to tuck away the note under the heavy base of her sewing machine. The contents were too important for her to toss it to preserve the secrecy of Ratón’s existence, so she figured that putting it underneath her sewing machine would keep it safe; no one would ever check there.

And as she followed Antonio down the stairs, she tried to suppress the rising feeling that Antonio’s knowledge of her friend was going to have disastrous results. The game that she found herself playing within the walls of Casita suddenly had gotten a lot more complicated.