Yup, I'm still here. Melting away, but still in existence!

Tree Conquerors

Miguel figured he'd never hear the end of it. On the Thursday after the Xolo incident, Tito showed up at the zapatería to get him up to speed on school matters, and he mentioned how they found out that the thing Miguel slipped on was a xylophone mallet. Someone hadn't been as thorough as they should have been when tidying up, so now everyone was more careful to ensure something like that didn't happen again.

While at least his mamá Luisa was satisfied with the information, Miguel was a hair's breadth away from pulling an abuelita and throwing his shoe at whatever tool with the gall to exist in the general vicinity. He'd been just off the hook, and now someone was bound to put him through the grinder all over again!

Or not. Because it suddenly was all the mallet's fault. Its evil musical intentions made it lie in wait for a poor sap to bestow a concussion upon... Miguel honestly wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

He settled for rolling his eyes and dragging Tito across the yard into the common room. "I'm sorry my family are such weirdos."

Tito chuckled awkwardly. "I'm just glad I didn't get the chancla."

Miguel could only wince in response. "Yeah... That's real brave of you, coming into the Rivera den for me."

"Well, I can hardly abandon you to señor Guiterrez without your homework," Tito declared, beaming from ear to ear. "Good to see you up and about again!"

Miguel smiled, and Tito started raiding his school bag. "So, we wrote this test on meters and centimeters yesterday. I think I was pretty good."

"I'm sure you were! You love numbers!" Miguel laughed. But speaking of love, he glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. "So, what about music class?"

But Tito shook his head. "Not gonna happen, de la Cruz. I'm planning to walk out of here unhurt."

"Aww, come on!" Miguel whined, dramatically waving his arms. He wasn't too serious about it, though. He understood Tito's standpoint all too well. "Alright then," he sighed and stood up from his chair. "I'll go get my things. And check on mamá Coco."

A few minutes later, the two boys were engrossed in Tito's notes. At some point, Elena poked her head in to make sure nothing out of the ordinary was going on, but the only thing she needed to admonish Miguel about was chewing his pen apart.

Tito was very amused. Miguel was less so, but his glare did little to dampen his friend's mood: "Come on, Miguel! Better a pen than a guitar, right?"

The only answer Tito was deigned consisted of pen-on-paper scratching.

"Hey, wanna play soccer afterwards? I saw a ball in the corner."

Miguel glanced at the ball in question. It belonged to all members of the family, technically. However, Abel didn't get the memo and guarded it jealously from 'the bungling kids.'

Miguel huffed. "Not worth the trouble. My cousin is going to throw a tantrum if there's so much as a smudge of dirt on the thing."

Tito raised his brows in utter disbelief. "You're afraid of your cousin?"

And that was a challenge Miguel couldn't help but rise to. "I'm not! I'll show you soccer!"

Tito grinned. "The fight is on, then!"

"You bet!" Miguel dropped the mauled pen into his pencil case, homework forgotten, and picked up the ball. He ignored the pinch of reason telling him that he was playing right into Tito's hands – Abel was out with his friends, and being used was kind of the point of soccer balls.

Besides, playing soccer with Tito promised to be fun. And the best part: His family wasn't going to scold him for it.

The wall by the small tree turned into their designated goal, and Miguel was ready to wipe the floor with his foe. The problem was that he was really more into lucha libre than soccer. Tito was undeniably the better kicker. But Miguel was not going to give in, and he definitely had the upper hand when it came to tackling – or rather, the longer foot. It made them more or less equal, and Miguel and Tito were soon drenched with sweat.

Occasionally, a family member came along to cheer or even join for a minute. (Miguel never knew what a fearsome soccer player his papá Franco could be, not even teaming up on him worked. Tito eventually dubbed his play style Cane of Ferocity.) But it was only the two of them when Tito used an especially stormy tackle to break through Miguel's defense. The ball was driven from between Miguel's legs, bounced off a wooden plank leaning against the far wall and flew in a wide arch over the boy's heads. At last, it came to rest on the roof of the storehouse, in front of the huge sign advertising the zapatería.

Miguel stared at the edge where the ball had disappeared, hoping for some miracle that would send it rolling back down. Nothing.

"Abel is going to kill us."

"Not if we get it back before he notices. ¡Ándale!" And with that, Tito grabbed the lowest branch of the tree and pulled himself up. Miguel gritted his teeth; he remembered all too clearly the time he fell from that very tree, and the pain that came with the impact. He feared for the safety of his friend.

"Tito, stop! We can ask tío Berto when he comes back! He has a ladder!"

"Where would be the fun in that?" Tito countered, grinning down from the branch. "Don't worry, you don't have to come."

Miguel gulped. He was so going to regret this, but he couldn't let Tito do this alone. So he pulled himself together and up that tree, carefully testing every barky millimeter for stability.

"Go, Miguel!" Tito cheered from the branch above, but Miguel was in no mood for distractions and waved him off.

"Would you mind climbing on? I don't think that branch can carry both of us."

"You'd be surprised what trees can do! But if it makes you feel better..."

Tito got comfy on a slightly lower branch, at a perfect distance to lean his crossed arms on the first one. Miguel, slightly needled by the nonchalance, took it as the signal to move. He propped himself up on his arms and swung a leg over the branch, but he overestimated the strength he needed – the momentum carried him too far, over the branch and into the void.

But before his yelp could turn into a scream, a hand against his shoulder stopped his involuntary flight and he landed safely on the branch, eyes wide and panting.

"Gotcha!" Tito distracted him from the shock, and Miguel's heartbeat calmed.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Wanna go back down?"

Miguel looked at the ground, then the roof, and shook his head. By now he was level with the latter. It wasn't as high as he'd expected. "No. I've got this."

"That's the spirit! ¡Vámonos!"

Despite his eagerness, Tito stuck around Miguel. It was probably the gesture alone that prevented any more accidents, and with a sigh of relief, the youngest Rivera hopped atop the family storehouse. Pride squared his shoulders, and he turned around to face the tree he just conquered. "That wasn't so bad, actually."

Tito laughed, then his eyes fell on the soccer ball. "Glad you think so! And look what I spied!" He started maneuvering the corrugated tin roof, grinning broadly. When he straightened from picking up the ball, he paused. "¡Qué chido! Never climbed up a roof before. Nice view!"

Miguel half walked, half stumbled across the metal sheets to join his friend. He could see the whole hacienda from up here, plus the street leading to Mariachi Plaza. The family truck was rattling around a corner, loaded with rolls of leather. Rosa rushed out of the workshop, excited to meet her father. At the back of the same, tía Carmen sat with mamá Coco in the sun, sketching what Miguel assumed was yet another baby shoe design.

He smiled affectionately. "Nice view indeed. Ah!" He caught sight of something dangerous. Very dangerous. Miguel grabbed Tito's wrist and hauled him further up the roof.

"Épale! What's up?!"

"Abuelita! If she spots us on the roof, we're done for!"

That was the moment when Miguel heard his name being called. He froze. "Oh no! Nononono! I have to help unload! And if I don't answer, she's going to think I'm chasing radios!"

"Chasing radios?" Tito repeated skeptically, but he didn't ask further. "Then we better hurry, right?" Tito raised the ball above his head, and by the time Miguel realized where he was aiming, it was too late to stop him. The ball smashed into the shoe rack outside the workshop, shaking the whole thing up. Something cracked, and shoes flew in every direction.

Miguel cringed about seven times in a row, every thud like a punch in the guts. He didn't particularly like shoes, but even they didn't deserve such rough treatment!

It worked perfectly as a distraction, though. While Elena was busy assessing the damage, Tito shimmied down the tree, Miguel hot on his heels.

"Was that really necessary?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Ay..."

"Miguel!" Elena yelled from around the corner before appearing in person, hands on her hips and a mad look on her face.

The boy in question donned his best totally-not-innocent smile. "Abuelita..."

"I'm sorry, señora." Tito planted himself in front of Miguel. "I didn't look where I was kicking. I'll clean up. Did anything break?"

Miguel wasn't sure whether to admire or condemn Tito's smoothness. That said, it technically wasn't a lie, right? This whole mess was the result of a misaimed kick. And at least it seemed to pacify Elena.

"You're lucky that there's no damage." (Miguel heaved a sigh of relief.) "But you won't touch any of the shoes! Miguel!"

"Yes, abuelita..." Miguel muttered, less than content with being saddled with repairing the rack. He pushed past Tito, collecting a whispered apology in the process. He relaxed a little, and he almost laughed out his satisfaction when a "And now for you, chamaco!" behind his back tasked Tito with unloading the leather in his stead.

But Miguel wasn't heartless. Once he lifted the dislodged board back onto its pegs and sorted the shoes, he joined his family and friend in storing the leather away.

Next up was surviving Abel's wrath. But one look at Tito laughing with Rosa and running a hand through his disheveled curls, and Miguel knew it was all worth it.

He had a friend. A friend with abuelita's trust.