PROLOGUE Sometimes Miguel Rivera thought he was cursed．If he was，it wasn't his fault．It was because of something that happened before he was even born． Long ago，in the town of Santa Cecilia，there was a family with a mamá，a papá，and a little girl．Their house was always full of joy—and music．The papá played guitar．The mamá and the girl danced．And everyone sang． But the music in the happy house wasn't enough for the papá．His dream was to play for the world．So one day，he left with his guitar and never returned． Miguel didn't know what happened after that for the musician．But he sure knew what the mamá had done．The story of Mamá Imelda had been handed down in the Rivera family for generations． Imelda didn't waste one tear on that walk-away musician！She banished all music from her life，throwing away instruments and records，and found a job．Was it making candy？Fireworks？Sparkly underwear for wrestlers？No！ Mamá Imelda made shoes．And so did her daughter．And then her son-in-law．And her grandkids．The Rivera business and the family grew in sync．While music tore the family apart，shoes held them together． Miguel heard this story each year on Día de los Muertos：the Day of the Dead．He used to hear it from his Mamá Coco，but she didn't remember much anymore．This year，she sat in a wicker wheelchair，vacantly staring at the ofrenda，that special place in their house where Miguel's family placed remembrances of and gifts for their ancestors to honor them． Miguel kissed her cheek．“Hola，Mamá Coco．” “How are you，Julio？” Miguel sighed．Sometimes Mamá Coco had trouble remembering things，like his name．But that made her the best secret-keeper！He told her pretty much everything—things he couldn't tell his abuelita，who ran their household with an iron fist． If Abuelita said he needed to eat more tamales，then Miguel ate more tamales． If Abuelita wanted a kiss on her cheek，then Miguel kissed her cheek． And if Abuelita caught Miguel blowing a tune over the top of a soda bottle—“No music！”—then Miguel would stop． Abuelita even yelled at passersby．“No music！”to the truck driver blaring his radio．“No music！”to the gentlemen singing while they strolled down the street．Her ban on music had affected all the aunts，uncles，and cousins，too． Miguel was pretty sure they were the only family in Mexico that hated music．The worst part was that no one in his family seemed to care． No one，that is，but him．
Leaving the family home behind，Miguel breathed the crisp air of another sunny morning in Santa Cecilia．As he headed into town with his shoeshine box，he passed a woman sweeping a stoop．She waved． “Hola，Miguel！” “Hola．”Miguel waved back．Closer to town，Miguel smiled at a lone guitar player plucking away at a song．The farther in Miguel went，the more music filled the air．Church bells chimed in harmony．A band played an upbeat tune．A radio blared a swift cumbia rhythm．Miguel soaked it all in．He couldn't help tapping out a beat on a table covered with brightly colored wooden animal figurines． As Miguel rushed past another stand with pastries for sale，he grabbed a pan dulce and tossed the vendor a coin． Smelling the sweet bread，Miguel's canine sidekick，Dante，sidled up to him．Miguel tore off a piece of the bread and Dante chomped it down． Everywhere Miguel looked，people were preparing for their loved ones to return from the Land of the Dead by hanging colorful papel picado and laying marigold petals at their doorways． As usual，Mariachi Plaza was full of musicians strolling around，waiting for their chance to serenade a couple or a family with a love song or a classic corrido．Soon a tour group gathered around a large statue of a mariachi player in the center of the plaza． “And right here，in this very plaza，the young Ernesto de la Cruz took his first steps toward becoming the most beloved singer in Mexican history，”said the guide． Everyone in the group nodded，familiar with the legendary musician and singer．Along with the tourists，Miguel gazed up at the statue．He'd seen it a hundred times，but it always inspired him． After a moment，Miguel found a spot in the plaza and pulled out his shoeshine box．A mariachi plopped down for a shine． Miguel knew the mariachi would enjoy this story．After all，everyone loved Ernesto． “He started out a total nobody from Santa Cecilia，like me，”said Miguel．“But when he played music，he made people fall in love with him．He starred in movies．He had the coolest guitar．He could fly！”Miguel had seen that special effect in some old film clips．“And he wrote the best songs！But my all-time favorite？It's—”Miguel gestured to some musicians nearby，who were playing“Remember Me，”Ernesto's biggest hit．“He lived the kind of life you dream about．Until 1942，when he was crushed by a giant bell．” The mariachi looked pointedly at his shoes，which Miguel was only halfheartedly shining． Ignoring the musician，Miguel shrugged off Ernesto's unfortunate death．“I wanna be just like him．Sometimes I look at Ernesto and I get this feeling，like we're connected somehow．Like if he could play music，maybe someday I can，too．”Miguel sighed．“If it wasn't for my family．”
