Los Monstruos: Rooster and the Dancing Diablo

Prologue

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” A group of kids at the park egg on Tucker, a twelve-year-old thief, and Julia, the star soccer player with long dark hair.

“Give back my Snickers bar!” Julia says.

“I can’t,” Tucker replies. “I already ate it.”

“That was mine! I bought it with my own money!”

Tucker can only shrug. Meanwhile, the kids keep shouting. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Julia puts down her soccer ball and nudges it with her toe till it’s directly in front of Tucker. Then she crouches, ready to kick. This is it! Tucker’s about to get smacked! He’s ready for it and puts up his hands to block the blow, but Julia never kicks that ball. From one moment to the next, the crowd goes silent. Instead of shouting for a fight, the kids tilt their heads because there’s music. They feel it more than hear it--a thumping in their chests that is stronger than their hearts.

Julia’s the first one to go, moving her soccer ball with fancy footwork. Tucker and the others join her, and they aren’t the only children in Tres Leches who drop what they’re doing to follow the sound. All over town, young people stop washing dishes, drop their brooms and mops, and walk away from yard work, letting the lawn mowers sputter to a stop. Some are as young as eight; others, as old as seventeen. They know they’ll lose their cellphone privileges or be grounded for sneaking off, but no punishment is greater than the lure of music from El Camarón Dance Hall & Arcade.

Tucker’s lured by the music, too, but he still manages to swipe someone’s water bottle and a few dollar bills from the pockets of those who shouted, “Fight!” the loudest.

Soon, they’re at Main Street, sidestepping the bell peppers that grow in the potholes and glancing at the clock, even though everyone knows it’s never on time. Usually, the sugary scent of pan dulce from the bakeries that line the street would get them to stop whatever they’re doing, but the taste of music, the feel of it, is so much sweeter than any concha, galleta, or donut.

“Go back home!” the grown--ups shout.

“Cover your ears and turn around!”

“Don’t go to El Camarón! It’s dangerous!”

It doesn’t look dangerous. The sign of a vaquero riding a giant shrimp makes the children laugh. Its neon lights blink on and off, just like the lights of carnival rides. They don’t hear the buzz of loose wires or notice the burnt-out bulb that has blacked out an arm of the vaquero. All they care about is the party music. The kids step to the beat, snap their fingers, shimmy, and sway. Some add a little syncopation by clapping their hands.

“You have to take out the garbage for your parents!” the grown-ups continue.

“And take care of your baby sister!”

“Your abuelita needs help with the laundry!”

Every day, the kids hear this. It starts in the morning, their parents tugging aside their blankets, ordering them to brush their teeth. At school, they’re bossed around by teachers, coaches, custodians, the principal, the vice principal, the school secretary, the school nurse, the librarian, the crossing -guard, and the president of the PTA. The young people whisper to each other, “When will they ever leave us alone? Can’t they let us have fun for a while?”

There’s no end to what the grown-ups will say. “It’s going to rain!” though no clouds are in the sky. “A cold front’s coming in!” though it’s still summer. “It’s too hot!” which is true, though the temperature hasn’t reached triple digits yet.

The children shrug off these forecasts. They don’t care about the weather. If it’s hot, they’ll sweat. If it’s cold, they’ll shiver. If it’s raining, they’ll splash through the puddles. All that matters is fun.

Julia reaches El Camarón first. Instead of walking in, she nudges the soccer ball with her toe again, this time aiming for the front door. She kicks it, and it goes straight through. There’s a crashing sound as something breaks inside.

The owner, Cayetano, steps out, but he’s not mad. “¡Bienvenidos!” he calls, happy to see them. He has long hair and a cowboy hat with a wide brim that shadows his face but not his gleaming teeth. He wears a denim jacket and jeans, and he would wear cowboy boots, but no one makes them for people who have chicken feet.

The young people rush through the door. They love this place--the beeps and vrooms of arcade games, the clicks of cue balls on the pool table, an accordion playing a polka, the smells of popcorn and cotton candy.

A disco ball spins white dots around the room. Red and yellow beams crisscross each other while blinking on and off. A DJ mixes music from the stage. Her name is Marigold, after the flower that’s all over town for Día de los Muertos. She’s braided her long hair, wrapped it around her head like a corona. She wears Wranglers, cowboy boots, a leather vest with fringe over a white T--shirt. She whispers into the mic, “dance,” and “eat,” and “play.” She repeats the words over and over, in sync with the beat.

The kids don’t hesitate. They want to dance. They want to eat. They want to play. They crowd the floor and dance to whatever Marigold desires--sometimes hip-hop, now and then a waltz or foxtrot, but most often country-and-western or Tejano. Some know the steps. Others just jump up and down or sway their heads. A few invent their own moves, mixing in karate or gymnastics.

At the snack bar, Cayetano pours soda into icy mugs, letting the fizz spill over. He lines up bowls filled with peanuts or M&M’s. He scoops popcorn into paper bags, handing one to Tucker, who’s stashing treats in his pockets. It’s not stealing. Everything’s free at El Camarón.

What a party! Who cares about legs and arms cramping from the dancing? Who cares about stomachs aching from so much junk food? These kids refuse to fade out, even after the sugar rush, the time beneath dizzying lights. They don’t rest until the lights flicker, the amps buzz, and the circuits break with a soft pop. Cayetano lights the chimenea in the corner of the dance hall, and Marigold lifts the needle from the record that was playing. The only “music” now is the crackling of fire, and the kids stand around, not sure what to do next.

The chimenea’s ablaze now. A yellow cloud rises from its smokestack, elongating into a finger of smoke that makes its way across the room. Then, as if it had a mind, it points at Julia.

She hugs her soccer ball and skips to the dance floor. Cayetano joins her there. He holds out his hand, an invitation to dance. She takes it, shifting the ball beneath her free arm. They circle the floor with a one-two-three step, a waltz, the smoke swirling around them. Then Cayetano starts to twirl her, faster and faster. The yellow smoke curls around them till it becomes a small tornado with the dancers trapped inside.

And then the fire puffs off.

It’s dark and quiet now, only the clattering chicken feet disturbing the silence as Cayetano heads toward the fuse box. Once he finds it, he resets the breakers and flips on the lights. The young people squint in the sudden brightness. The floor is littered with peanut shells and wadded popcorn bags, and every now and then, a discarded shoe or baseball cap. There’s a charred mark on the floor where Julia spun inside the small tornado.

“Go home,” Cayetano says, his voice weary. “The party’s over.”

In a daze, everyone walks out. They finally feel the pain of sore muscles and blistered toes. It’s dark, but they find their homes. Some get an earful from their parents, but most go to bed, their families happy to learn that they’re safe.

The rest of the evening is quiet. The town sleeps peacefully, even the dogs, but at dawn, a frantic voice wakes them up. “Julia! Julia! Where are you? Please come home!”