#scribblrhob

               Dios mio. I can’t take care of a kid.

               The thought strikes Héctor on the drive back from Santa Cecilia, with the kid in question buckled in to the passenger’s seat. It’s a bit late to opt out now, considering he’d already agreed to take care of him while the family figured out what to do with Luisa and Enrique gone. Everything had been so sudden, he’d just gone on autopilot—went to the funeral, listened to Tía Elena’s instructions, helped pack up the kid—Miguel, his name was Miguel—and his things, and gotten back on the road to Capula without even thinking about the fact that he, Héctor Rivera, was now responsible for the health and well-being of a young child when he could barely take care of himself.

               Well. It was just for a few months. Surely he could keep the kid alive that long?

               He glances over at the boy beside him, hiding beneath the hood of his too-big sweatshirt and keeping his eyes firmly out the window. Héctor swallows, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

               “So, ah…you’re eight?” he tries weakly. Ave María Purísma, he should be better at this. He is a teacher. But Miguel gives a short nod, and he sees an in. “Eight’s a good year, you know. I’m sure you’ll love…” Ohhh, he’s already messed this up. He clears his throat, looking back at the road before glancing at Miguel again. “Ah…you mind if I turn on the radio?”

               Miguel shakes his head mutely, and Héctor wastes no time in switching the radio on. He groans at the terrible static that greets them. The way Chicharrón made him promise to take care of his precious car on the trip, he’d expected some beautiful, sleek vintage number, not a rattling camioneta that couldn’t even get the tiniest bit of signal.

               He glances over as Miguel finally moves, leaning over to adjust the knobs expertly. After a few barely perceptible tweaks and turns, music finally bursts through the static. The quality’s still not great, but now there’s a definite song playing. Héctor gives a small smile.

               “Pretty impressive, chamaco, considering this radio’s at least as old as Tía Elena.”

               Miguel shrugs. “Papá’s radio is the same way,” he says before once again curling up in his seat and staring out the window.

               “Must’ve taken a while to figure out how to do that,” Héctor says, desperate to keep a hold of some sort of conversation with the kid. “Most kids aren’t that patient. You must like music an awful lot.”

               Miguel glances back at Héctor, just for the shortest moment, then shrugs before looking back to the window. Well, it wasn’t much, but it was something. And Héctor could work with that.

~

               They come into Capula just as the sun’s starting to set. Miguel’s stayed silent throughout the trip, despite Héctor’s few attempts to coax out some form of conversation. Maybe the kid’s just quiet. That terrifies him more that he’d like to admit. He’s always liked the kids that are ready to talk the best; one-on-one meetings with quiet kids—where trying to get any sort of reply or reaction was like pulling teeth—were his absolute least favorite. He couldn’t imagine having to do that every day.

               “Ah, mira, mira! There’s the school,” he said, pointing at the large buildings as they passed. “You’ll be in the primaria when the term starts, and I’m right next door in the secundaria.” He smiles at Miguel. “And you only have to call me Profe when you’re in the secundaria. Héctor’s fine anywhere else.”

               Miguel looks up at him curiously. “Abuelita told me to call you Tío Héctor.”

               “Well, sure. Tía’s always been old-fashioned. Not me, though.” He reaches into one of the cupholders and pulls out his sunglasses, putting them on despite the fact it’s nearly dark out. “I’m a cool tío. And cool tíos just go by their names.” He conveniently doesn’t mention that he was in no way fit to have the title of “tío” on him just yet.

               He glances up at Miguel over his glasses and, just barely, he thought he could catch a ghost of a smile cross the boy’s face. There we go. Maybe there was hope for them yet.

~

               The car’s parked in front of the apartment complex, and Miguel’s already pulled out his suitcase when Héctor yelps out a half-finished curse (Swearing in front of children is not good, he reminds himself, because then they’ll never stop repeating it. He’s learned this from several parent meetings and even more not-very-happy discussions with la directora.). When Miguel sends him a curious look, he tries to play it off coolly.

               “Haa, funny thing, Miguelito! I, ah…with everything that happened, I…left my keys…in the apartment. But it’s all under control! I just…” He presses his lips together, then snaps. “But you know what? I’m lucky. I left a spare key with my neighbor for this exact situation.” Well, not this exact situation. It was much more along the lines of “Come and visit any time” (not that she did), but that was not something the angelito querido cielito needed to know just yet. He lopes back to the fire escape, calling for Miguel to stay put and that this would only take a minute, and starts the climb up to the apartment window he’s looking for—the muffled sounds of “La Llorona” being interrupted tell him he’d knocked on the right one. He puts on his most charming grin as the window opens, and he’s greeted by a long-suffering sigh and crossed arms.

               “Rivera,” is beautiful, serious Imelda’s greeting.

               “Diosa, am I glad you’re home. Wouldn’t you know, I’ve locked myself out of my apartment. Qué rollo, eh? I was…”

               “If this is your way of trying to spend the night, I swear I have a boot right here...”

               “No! No, not this time.” As lovely and romantic as flirting with Imelda on the fire escape is, he doesn’t like the idea of going back to Miguel with a boot imprint on his face. “I just wanted to know if you still have that spare key I gave you?” As she rolls her eyes, he adds, “Look, ordinarily I’d talk with the casero in the morning, but…the little chamaco down there is staying with me for the next…for a while, and he needs to get to bed as soon as possible.”

               Imelda frowns curiously, and she sticks her head out the window to see if he’s lying. Héctor watches her face soften as she catches sight of Miguel down below. She chews at her lower lip, then looks up to the heavens before going back into the apartment. Héctor holds his breath, staying very still, then lets it out in a disbelieving laugh as Imelda returns with the key in her hand.

               “And if you say a single word about me keeping this…”

               “It goes with me straight to the grave, diosa.” He takes the key and sends her a big grin. “So I’ll see you before term starts, right, directora?”

               “Go home, Héctor.” Imelda shuts the window sharply enough to nearly take off his nose, but the quick glance she gives over her shoulder makes it entirely worth it. He takes a moment to sigh dreamily, but remembers that there is, in fact, a child waiting for him down below, and that there will be plenty of time to moon over la directora in the staff meetings they’d be having in a few weeks. He lightly swings down the fire escape, then holds up the key triumphantly as he walks back to Miguel. The boy’s giving him a slightly worried look.

               “Does that lady hate you?”

               “Hate me? Oh, no, chamaco, she likes me a lot.”

               The worry quickly turns to disgust. “Is she your girlfriend?”

               “She…you know, this sort of thing’s pretty complicated and I bet you’re dead on your feet.” He picks up the suitcase and nods for Miguel to follow him. “Let’s get you set up in Casa Rivera, hm?”

~

               He’s not sure if it’s nervous energy from being in a new place or a hint of what Miguel’s like when he’s not…in his current position, but the kid wastes no time in walking around the little apartment, looking at everything. Héctor lets him wander, setting the suitcase down for a moment.

“I’ve got that room over there set up for you. My roommate won’t mind…” He stops and lets out a little laugh as Miguel makes a bee-line for the record player, eyes wide, and Héctor can tell he’s itching to look through the records stacked beside it.

               “Go ahead, take a look,” he assures. As he walks by, he chances giving the top of Miguel’s head a rub; the boy quickly ducks away, and Héctor carries on as if nothing happened. “The good ones are mine, the bad ones are Ernesto’s.”

               Miguel, holding one of the records, looks at Héctor dubiously. “How am I supposed to know which ones are good and which ones are bad?”

               “Well, that’s an easy answer, chamaco.” He returns to Miguel’s side and takes the record, flipping it once before lightly setting it in the player. “You gotta listen to it.” He sets the needle down, then switches the player on. They wait a few moments, both staring at the player, and Héctor sends Miguel a grin as the bright sound of guitars filled the apartment. “Hey, bastante buena, sí? This must be one of mine.”

               A little smile makes its way across Miguel’s face, just enough to make the tiniest dent in one cheek, and he returns his focus to the music…at least, until he notices the guitar case in the corner of his eye. “Is that yours?”

               “Mm-hm.” Héctor’s since made his way into the apartment’s teeny little kitchen, trying to figure out what he could possibly make for two people with three stale tortillas and rice that may or may not have been in the cupboard since he’d moved in.

               “Can you play?”

               “No, I just like the way it looks.” At Miguel’s offended expression, Héctor gives a little eyeroll. “Of course I can play. Ernesto and I wouldn’t be able to go on tours if I couldn’t.”

               “No manches! Aren’t you a teacher?” Miguel argues.

               “You think teachers hibernate during the summer? That’s when we get to have our fun.” He pulls out one of the tortillas and waves it; it holds its shape like a frisbee. Hm. “The plan was to be in Guadalajara this week, so Ernesto should be playing in one of the smaller clubs about now. Normally I go with him, but this year…” Well, it’s obvious why he isn’t on the summer tour. He doesn’t need to bring that up. He tosses the tortilla aside, noting how well it flies, and shrugs with a smile. “Well, it’s the reason you get your own room this summer instead of bunking with me!”

All at once, he sets his hands on Miguel’s shoulders and guides him toward the door, ignoring his little noise of protest. “Now, Señora Olguin lives downstairs, and she lives for feeding boys she thinks are too skinny. Why don’t we go down and make her night, hm?”

~

               Héctor can’t sleep that night, and he knows it’s Miguel’s fault.

               Even without being in the same room, Héctor can feel the anxiety radiating from the boy. And who could blame him? Losing his parents, being sent off with a tío he hadn’t met—he possibly hadn’t even heard of—and having to prepare himself for a new home, a new school, a new life for even a few months…it was entirely too much for any kid to have to endure. And that would be assuming that said tío wasn’t constantly dancing on the edge of disaster and a general danger to anything he tried to take care of. Moving in with Héctor? Miguel’d be lucky if he could survive this without being committed.

               Héctor spends several hours tossing and turning, but there was no way he can sleep with the way things are. So he decides to stop this and try a new plan. He slips out of bed, throwing on the first wrinkled sweatshirt he can grab, and quietly makes his way back to the main room. He grabs his guitar case, then hesitates in front of Miguel’s door. He waits a moment, then another, then sucks in a breath and gives two quiet knocks.

               “You still awake, Miguelito?”

               “No.” Miguel’s voice is thick, and the sniffle that escapes through the door makes Héctor’s stomach twist. Maybe he should leave him. It’d probably be good for him to get all this out. And yet…

               “Qué pena. I was gonna head to the roof, and I thought you might think that was cool.”

               There’s a pause, and Héctor considers dropping it. But then he hears some movement on the other end of the door, and then another sniffle, and then a very quiet “Why are you going to the roof?”

               “Sometimes staying inside’s a pain. Too many thoughts get trapped in here, you know? It’s nice to go somewhere where they can all just escape.” He shrugs. “But you’re asleep, so I don’t want to bother you.”

               Héctor takes two steps back from the door, then waits. A moment later, the door creaks open. Miguel’s nose is still red, and he gives his eyes a quick wipe, but he’s pulled on his hoodie and shoved his feet into his shoes.

               “Can I come to the roof with you, Héctor?” he asks quietly. Héctor smiles and ruffles Miguel’s hair—this time Miguel doesn’t duck away.

               “Of course, chamaco. Just stay quiet; we don’t want to get complaints from going up the stairs too loudly.”

               Technically, the roof “isn’t accessible”. But that didn’t stop Héctor from finding the service stairs when he’d moved in, and it doesn’t stop him from guiding Miguel up them now, making sure the boy keeps clear of any electrical wires or vents. They pick their way to Héctor’s favorite spot, one large enough for two people—perfect for a night of tequila and song writing, or sneaking the odd kiss while discussing next year’s curriculum, or to air out the worries and grief that’s been bottled up since Tía Elena said, “This is your Tío Héctor, Miguelito. You’ll be staying with him for a little while.”

               Miguel watches with wide eyes as Héctor opens up the case, pulling out the gleaming white guitar. His mouth turns up as he catches the little skull grinning at him from the headboard as Héctor tunes it, then his jaw promptly drops as Héctor gives a grin and plays, near perfectly, the song they’d listened to on the record player.

               “Nada mal, hm?” Héctor asks with a little laugh as he catches Miguel’s shocked face. “No one ever thinks that teachers do anything besides teach.” He gives Miguel a grin and a wink as he slows the song down. “Hope you learned something from that.”

               Miguel doesn’t answer, instead moving up onto his knees and getting closer to Héctor, eyes fixed on the way his fingers danced over the frets.

               “How can you play like that?” he asks when Héctor switches to a different song.

               “About double your lifetime’s worth of practice and a good ear.”

               “So will I be able to play like that if I practice? Without sheet music or anything?”

For the first time, Héctor feels like he’s getting a glimpse of the real Miguel, the Miguel that was around before the accident, before the move. His eyes are bright as he watches Héctor play, and he’s smiling enough to show off his dimple fully.

               “I’m sure you will. In fact…” He stops playing and flips the guitar around, holding it out to Miguel. “Why don’t you show me what you know now?”

               Miguel’s eyes widen, and he looks down in shock at the guitar as Héctor sets it in his lap. “I…I just started taking lessons. I can’t…”

               “You’re a Rivera, though. We’ve got music in our bones.” He nods and waves a hand. “So show me whatever you think is the best you can do.”

               Miguel looks up at Héctor with wide eyes, and his tongue pokes out, just a bit, as he adjusts the guitar in his lap. It’s too big for him, and he struggles to reach his hand around as he plucks out the sorriest “Estrellita” Héctor’s ever heard. He stops the boy quickly, shaking his head.

               “No, no no no. That’s not right at all.”

               “But I can’t reach!”

               “That’s not what I’m talking about. Your whole attitude’s all wrong.” Miguel’s expression darkens, but Héctor snaps his fingers before he can say the obvious. “You need to perform. And the first step to that is loosening up.”

               Miguel’s expression…doesn’t lighten, but it shifts to curiosity. He watches as Héctor shakes out his long limbs in precisely the way that got a guaranteed laugh from his students, then half-heartedly gives his arms a shake when prompted to copy him. Héctor crosses his arms with a little frown and shakes his head.

               “Definitely not enough. I think we need to pull out el grito.” He looks at Miguel with raised eyebrows. “So come on, give me your best grito.”

               “My best grito?”

               “Every musician can do it, muchacho. So come on!” Before Miguel can say anything, Héctor is up on his feet, letting out a loud shout that echoed through the quiet, dark neighborhood. He looks down at Miguel, one eyebrow raised, and grins as the boy stands up and opens his mouth…to let out the tiniest squeak. He shakes his head.

               “One more time. You just gotta yell.” He lets out another grito, this whoop prompting a few lights from neighboring buildings to turn on. He ignores them, watching as Miguel sucks in a breath, opens his mouth…

               And lets out a shout loud enough to rival Héctor’s.

               “That’s it, Miguelito! One more!” He crows out again and again, the shouts blending with Miguel’s trills and laughs. Miguel shouts a couple more times, then sucks in a deep breath to let out the loudest grito he can. But all at once, he chokes on the sound, and a loud sob escapes from him instead.

               Héctor immediately pulls the boy toward him, paying no mind as Miguel drops the guitar to clutch him as the grief and stress from the day finally erupts out of him. He rests a hand on Miguel’s head as he hugs the boy to him.

               “Está bien, está bien, Miguel,” he murmurs, keeping still as Miguel weeps against him. “You’re okay. Take as long as you need.”

               He’s not really sure how long they stand there, but he makes no movement aside from a back rub or hair ruffle as Miguel continues to cry. He needs this; more than anything today, Miguel needs this moment. Eventually, he does gradually start to wind down, sobs fading to tears fading to hiccups and sniffles. He goes limp against Héctor, exhaustion winning out over anything else. Héctor finally pulls himself away from Miguel, looking at him for a long moment before turning and stooping down.

               “Come on, hop up.”

               Miguel doesn’t argue as he climbs up on Héctor’s back, burying his face into his shoulder. As they start walking, he hoarsely says, “But your guitar. I…”

               “It’ll be here when I get back,” Héctor assures lightly as he makes his way back to the service stairs. Miguel lets out a breath as he nods, head falling back to Héctor’s shoulder. He stays quiet the entire way back to the apartment; Héctor’s fairly certain he’s fast asleep. He’s very careful to keep quiet as he makes his way back to Miguel’s room, and he’s extremely careful as he sets Miguel in the bed. He throws the blankets over the boy—he’d never figured out what tucking someone in entailed, so this will have to do—and half-smiles as he stands back up.

               Well. One day down. Maybe they both could survive this.

               He just starts to turn when he hears a very quiet voice ask, “Héctor?”

               He turns back around—it looks as though Miguel’s fast asleep—but he kneels down beside the bed all the same. “Sí? What is it, chamaco?”

               Miguel shifts, and suddenly two arms are wrapped tightly around Héctor’s neck.

               “Thank you, Tío Héctor.”

               That’s all he says before pulling back and turning over to fall asleep. Héctor, meanwhile, stays put, eyes wide. With some difficulty, he swallows the lump in his throat and stands up, giving Miguel’s hair one last ruffle before he steps out of the room.

               It hits him, now, that the trouble might not be Miguel staying with him. It’s only been one day, but he’s already keenly aware that saying goodbye to the little chamaco might be the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do.

[Part 2: La Directora] [Part 3: Skipping Class] [Part 4: An Unannounced Visit] [Part 5: The Roommate] [Part 6: Día de Muertos (Pt. 1)] [Part 6: Día de Muertos (Pt. 2)] [Part 7: A Birthday Livestream]