Cruzita and the Mariacheros

By Ashley Granillo

Cruzita is going to be a pop star. All she has to do is win a singing contest at her favorite theme park and get famous. But she can’t go to the theme park this summer. Instead, she has to help out at her family’s bakery, which has been struggling ever since Tío Chuy died. Cruzita’s great-uncle poured his heart into the bakery—the family legacy—and now that he’s gone, nothing is the same.

When Cruzita’s not rolling uneven tortillas or trying to salvage rock-hard conchas, she has to take mariachi lessons, even though she doesn’t know how to play her great-grandpa’s violin and she’s not fluent in Spanish. At first, she’s convinced her whole summer will be a disaster. But as she discovers the heart and soul of mariachi music, she realizes that there’s more than one way to be a star―and more than one way to carry on a legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lerner Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798765612002

Ashley Granillo

Ashley Jean Granillo is a Mexican American writer and educator hailing from the San Fernando Valley. She has her BA and MA in Creative Writing from California State University Northridge and holds her MFA in fiction from the University of California Riverside, Palm Desert. She is also a member of Las Musas, a collective of Latinx authors whose gender identity aligns with femininity. Her short story "Besitos" was featured in Where Monsters Lurk & Magic Hides, a Latine/x short story genre anthology. Cruzita and the Mariacheros (Lerner Publishing) is her debut middle grade contemporary novel.

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Text copyright © 2024 by Ashley Granillo

All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

Carolrhoda Books®

An imprint of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

241 First Avenue North

Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

Cover illustration by Dana Sanmar.

Additional design element: Alexkava/Shutterstock.

Main body text set in Bembo Std.

Typeface provided by Monotype Typography.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Granillo, Ashley Jean, 1987– author.

Title: Cruzita and the mariacheros / by Ashley Granillo.

Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Books, 2024. | Audience: Ages 11–14. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: Cruzita must save her family's failing panaderia by winning a mariachi band contest—the only problem is she hates mariachi and cannot speak Spanish.

Identifiers: LCCN 2023019591 (print) | LCCN 2023019592 (ebook) | ISBN9798765608500 | ISBN9798765611999 (epub)

Subjects: CYAC: Mariachi—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Contests—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Mexican Americans—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Performing Arts / Music

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.G7233 Cr 2024 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.G7233 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023019591

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023019592

Manufactured in the United States of America

1-1009438-51529-9/12/2023

For my grandparents,

Cruz and Jesús Tayahua.

No se fue la paloma. Es en mi corazón. Te quiero mucho, siempre.

Chapter 1

My gran tío Chuy was the only person in my family who believed I could do absolutely anything, from learning Spanish to preserving his legacy: Lupe’s Bakery. Ever since he died a month ago, that’s all I’ve been able to think about. I do want to help out with Lupe’s—but in my own way. If I become a super-famous pop star, everyone will want to come to my family’s panadería, and I’ll be rich enough to open ten Lupe’s Bakeries. After all, singing is way easier than rolling tortillas or baking conchas.

Unless the singing has to be in Spanish.

¡Atención a todos! Mr. Torres’s voice is megaphone-loud at the back of the classroom. Vamos a dar nuestras presentaciones finales ahora.

Chairs squeak with anticipation. No one raises their hand. I squirm in my front-row seat. Please don’t pick me.I’m so not ready for my debut. Not yet.

A blast of air from the AC sweeps under the folded paper rectangle on my desk, almost blowing it across the aisle. I clamp my hands over it and glance back at Mr. Torres. He purses his lips to call on someone—probably me.

But Kelli Johnson, my best friend in the whole world, throws up her hand like she’s about to plummet down the steep slope of a roller coaster. Yo iré primero.

A split second later, Kelli’s standing at the front of the room, confidently tossing her French braid over her shoulder. The gentle tinkling of piano music floats through her phone’s speakers. Her voice trembles through the opening of Olivia Rodrigo’s Todo Lo Que Quiero, or All I Want.

For our Spanish I final, Mr. Torres asked each of us to translate anything we wanted into Spanish and present it to the class. Of course, Kelli and I both had the same idea: to sing our favorite pop songs.

The Spanish words glide off Kelli’s tongue like she was born with the language. Mr. Torres keeps his eyes on his computer, quickly typing notes, but he’s humming along as Kelli sings. I give her a thumbs-up.

She eyes me as if to say, You’re next, Cruzita. That’s how it’s always been since kindergarten. When she goes, I go next.

I unfold the paper in front of me, a marked-up printout of the lyrics to my favorite ’90s song. Tío Chuy’s handwriting rests under the first line of printer-perfect letters. He was only able to help me translate one verse. I tried to do the rest on my own, but I’ve made so many mistakes: scribbles and zigzags of words.

Kelli finishes. Our classmates give her a standing ovation. My foot taps to the rhythm of the applause. It’s kind of a habit; there’s music in every sound.

Cruzita. My name sounds different to me when Mr. Torres puts an accent on it. Sigues tu.

My palms sweat. The lyric sheet goes limp in my hand as soon as I replace Kelli at the front of the classroom. I need to get at least a B on this presentation. Otherwise my parents definitely won’t take me to Encore Island this summer.

Kelli scrolls through her phone to find the instrumental version of my song. She holds up her free hand, quietly counting down. Three . . . two . . .

She points at me at the same time that she taps Play on her phone.

The music crescendos like a gentle ocean wave. I tap my black-and-purple polka-dot press-on nails against my thigh while I stare at the translated lyrics. Tío’s handwriting is right here—like he was, just a few weeks ago. I tell myself that this is no different than singing with him in his bakery van.

I imagine my performance from the point of view of my classmates, totally captivated by my singing. They’re drawn to the soulfulness in my voice, the passion that rises up from my gut. I dance complex choreography, and it’s so impressive that they can ignore the occasional mispronunciation of a word, the stumbling over the accent. She’s such a superstar, they say, nearly fainting as they record my every movement with their phones. She’s gonna go viral!

I look over my shoulder and say with a silky Spanish accent, Visit Lupe’s Bakery in Pacoima—in English, because even though I’m pretty sure I know how to say each of those words individually, I don’t know how to combine them into a sentence. Ir a la panadería de Lupe en Pacoima? Visitar la panadería de Lupe en Pacoima?

The classroom fills with chants: Cruzita, Cruzita, Cruzita. Mr. Torres is in tears.

And . . .

Nothing. The music plays on without me. I’ve missed the cue.

Jumbled-up Spanish flies out of my mouth on fast-forward as I try to catch up with the music. Cuando, cuando, cuando el visións—visiones—no . . .

Some of my classmates start to giggle. I peel my eyes from my notes and watch kids lean across the aisles to whisper into each other’s ears. The hushed sounds are mostly in Spanish, so I only catch a phrase here and there. The ones that hit me the hardest are no sabo kid and coconut.

I’m not.

Mr. Torres stands, and his towering presence settles everyone down immediately. He peels off his glasses and gives me a sympathetic smile. Cruzita, you can start again if you want, he says in English, which makes me feel super awful because I’m the only student who can’t hold a whole conversation with him in Spanish. By the end of the school year, you would think I could at least ask him to let me try again. But I’m not sure if it’s puedo probar or puedo proban.

¡Señor! That song’s already been translated into Spanish, Hector says. He’s the obnoxious kid who always reminds Mr. Torres when there’s supposed to be a quiz. Isn’t that, like, against the rules?

What song are you singing again, Cruz? Mr. Torres asks, his eyes still focused on me.

I glance down at the paper, which has been folded and refolded so many times that it’s getting flimsy. In the corner, a yellow oil stain in the shape of a happy face smiles at me. Tío Chuy must have set the paper down on the counter after he rolled tortillas. My hands shake enough that I tear the paper along one of its fold lines.

It’s ‘This I Promise You’ by NSYNC, Kelli says for me. From the, like, old ages. The nineties?

Mr. Torres laughs. I’m from the nineties. Do you think I’m from the old ages?

Yeah, Hector belts out, "because only you understand the stuff Cruzita’s into. Like that disk-thing she uses to listen to music. It’s ancient."

He points to my backpack under my chair. My mom’s old CD player peeks out of the front pocket. I glare at Hector. "Well, obviously, ‘This I Promise You’ is a classic. Which you must already know, since you knew it had a Spanish version. Glancing at Mr. Torres, I add quickly, But I didn’t use that version to do my translation."

I didn’t cheat. Tío and I worked on this together.

Hector snorts. Yeah, right.

Mr. Torres silences him with one glance. Hector slouches in his seat.

Cruzita, can I see your papel, por favor? Mr. Torres mixes Spanish with English, using the words he knows I’ll recognize.

The paper tears again as Mr. Torres takes it out of my hands. He scans the sheet and stares at Tío’s handwriting, which is clearly not mine since none of us were taught how to write in cursive.

Uno momento, okay? I need to send a quick email. Mr. Torres rushes back to his desk and slides on his glasses. He types so fast that I can’t catch the rhythm.

Cruzita can’t speak Spanish, Hector whispers. What kind of Mexican is she?

Kids snicker and add their own commentary—this time in English so I can understand them:

I thought her parents were Mexican.

Don’t they own a Mexican bakery?

Yeah, but it’s going out of business. They’re all probably frauds.

Have you seen her dad trying to sell pastries in front of the school in the afternoons? It’s sad how desperate they are.

They can’t even make a basic concha.

I leap up out of my seat and turn so fast that my chair tilts backward, but I push it back down to the floor before I fall over. ¡Cállate, estupido!

The class gasps in unison. Hector couldn’t look more shocked if an oven had exploded in his face and left him with singed eyebrows.

Oh, caca. I am in so much trouble.

Outside the school, Tío’s pink bakery van, the Flamingo, rests against the curb in the shade of a giant oak tree. Dad waits for me by the van’s open back doors. Fresh bread and pastries sit on the racks inside, looking totally irresistible. Except that’s exactly how the van’s contents looked this morning, which means we probably haven’t sold anything.

As kids pass by with their parents, Dad gestures to the food, using his best smile, but people politely put up their hands and shake their heads. Dad takes a concha off one of the racks and bites into it, maybe to prove to everyone that our food is edible. His smile looks strained as he chews.

Looks like we’re all failing Tío Chuy again today.

Kelli nudges me on her way to her mom’s car. There you are! Can you believe it’s already el verano? No more Spanish homework until we start middle school!

For a white girl, Kelli sprinkles a lot of Spanish into her conversations. I know she’s trying to cheer me up, but honestly, I feel like she’s low-key rubbing in the fact that she got 100 percent on her Spanish final. She had to work soooooo much harder than I did because she doesn’t have people in her family who speak Spanish, like I do. Right—as if that made a difference for me.

It’s sort of difficult when my family can’t even agree on how important it is to learn the language. Tío said it was necessary, Dad said he never learned so it’s no big deal, and Mom wishes she learned so she would prefer that I be perfect at it. I don’t really know if I want to learn, even if it’s good for me, because it’s more confusing than fun.

You’re still going to ask your parents about Encore Island and everything, right? Kelli asks.

Of course. But after what happened with Spanish class, I don’t know . . .

"You have to convince them to take you—or just to let you go with us. You can’t give up!"

I muster a smile. I would never give up on my dream, Kels.

My dream is to enter Encore Island’s annual Rising Star Contest. It’s held every summer in both theme park locations—Hollywood and Nashville—on the Punk Underground stage, which is set up to look like a subway station. Contestants sing in front of hundreds of people and a panel of judges. The winner always goes viral and sometimes even gets a record deal. Who knows? I could end up in the Encore Island Hall of Fame, with a whole section of Rock ’n’ Roll Boulevard dedicated to me, Cruzita Tayahua. If I become a shining star on every screen and tell all my new fans to go to Lupe’s, the panadería’s problems will be solved.

Plus, Mom might notice me. She might finally be proud to call me her daughter. Or at least she wouldn’t be so disappointed with the D I’ve earned on my Spanish final.

Well, we still have a month before the contest even starts, says Kelli. And then we can go anytime in July or August, as long as we sign you up for a performance slot before all the openings get taken. Oh, and if we go in August we’ll get to see the Global Tour—it’s opening then! It’s gonna be a huge new section of the park. It’s supposed to showcase music from, literally, the globe.

Yeah, I say. But I’m distracted by Dad—and by the woman who’s standing so close to him that she’s basically on his toes.

I’m going to call the cops if you don’t leave! the woman yells at Dad. Her skin turns sunburn-red while Dad refuses to budge. She holds her phone up to him, her thumb on the Record button like it’s a weapon.

What is that even about? Kelli asks. Everyone knows your tío’s van. He always gave kids leftovers from his morning runs.

I have to go . . . I’m already dashing toward the van.

Kelli calls out to me, but I don’t look back. I rush into Dad’s arms. The concha he’s been holding falls to the ground with a thud, the sound of a rock hitting the concrete.

The woman watches us for a moment, her eyes bulging out of her head. "I didn’t know you had a child who went here."

Dad ignores her. He smiles at me, and it’s the first time I notice the wrinkles around his eyes. Did you have a good last day? he asks me.

Cool. Dad hasn’t seen Mr. Torres’s email. My family is so busy trying to make a living off this bakery that they don’t know about my Spanish class drama yet.

I’m so happy to be done with sixth grade, I say.

The woman walks away, but not without taking a photo of the Flamingo. Dad closes the back doors, and we climb into the front seats.

Was it that bad? he asks as he turns the key in the ignition. The Flamingo’s engine whines like I do when I’m getting up for school, but it eventually decides to turn on.

I don’t want to keep secrets from anyone, especially Dad. Without a word, I open my backpack and show him the paper with my grade written at the top. Below it, scrawled in Mr. Torres’s handwriting: You can try again next year, ¿está bien?

The letter D greets Dad’s tired eyes. His shoulders slump, and the sigh that escapes his mouth mimics the sputtering of the muffler.

Ay, Cruzita, Dad says, but not to me.

My parents have been doing that a lot lately: acting as if I’m not here. If a D doesn’t get their attention, what will? Do they want me to scream at them about how much I’m struggling without Tío’s help—without theirs?

We have to drop off this food at MEND, and then we have to help Mamá Vicenta prep the panadería for tomorrow, okay? And that’s all Dad says.

I used to love