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It happens while they're rebuilding Casita.
Camilo wakes up feeling like he doesn’t fit in his skin, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He swallows roughly and turns over in bed, trying to get comfortable. It’s not his bed, though, just a borrowed hammock that belongs to the latest person in town to let a Madrigal or two crash at their place while they work on the new house. He barely even remembers whose place he’s in, he’s so tired.
His skin itches. It doesn’t fit right.
He wants it to be someone else’s skin so bad.
Camilo doesn’t need his gift to be useful or loved. He doesn’t. He knows that.
He knows that, but it’s so hard to always be himself.
The thing is, he doesn’t know who “himself” is half the time. And that didn’t matter before, when he could just be whoever best fit the moment or whoever people wanted him to be or just whoever he felt like being. But he can’t do that any more.
It’s not such an important gift to lose, he knows. Tía Julieta’s healing is a way worse loss to the town, and Luisa’s strength, and . . .
It’s not such an important gift to lose, but he misses it so bad it hurts.
Camilo inhales; exhales. Screws his eyes shut. Tells himself to go back to sleep.
It doesn’t work. He wants out of this hammock and this house and his skin.
He settles for the hammock and the house, under the circumstances.
It’s dark out, but the moon hangs fat and full in the sky, and it’s not hard to see his way along the street. There’s nowhere to go, really, but he can’t stand staying still right now. He wants to calm down. He wants to feel better. He wants to peel himself open and find someone else inside.
That used to be easy.
A lot of things used to be easy, no matter how hard they were.
Camilo’s used to being what people need or want. He’s used to filling in the missing pieces, used to stepping in, used to making people smile. His gift was never something that could handle serious problems, but it was always something that could make people smile. He could be funny, or useful, or make up for what wasn’t there. He could do things for people.
He can’t do much these days, it feels like.
Everything’s so different now. Abuela’s smile, and Isabela’s hair, and Tío Bruno’s presence, and everything about Mirabel, and the way storms don’t tangle in Mami’s hair anymore and Dolores can’t hear every little muttered aside he makes. He can’t fit into the places he’d usually try to fit.
He’s not sure he’s even supposed to fit into those places anymore, if he ever was.
It’s . . . confusing.
Camilo knows everyone misses their gifts, and Casita, and the miracle. He knows they don’t need those things, but they miss them.
He just feels like he’s the only one grieving them, sometimes.
He’s not, probably, but it feels like that.
He keeps walking. He wants to run, but he doesn’t want to make noise or run into anyone else. The street is dark and deserted, but there are dim little lights in some of the houses’ windows, and in town it’s so much more crowded than he’s used to things being. In Casita, there was room to breathe, even with as many family members as there’ve always been to trip over. In town, there’s just . . . not.
It’s so different now.
Everything is so different now.
Camilo doesn’t want to miss those things. Life was more stressful before, and disappointing Abuela or upsetting Mami was always a constant worry, and the family wasn’t as close, but . . .
But he could always make his skin fit, at least.
He could at least do that.
Camilo . . . inhales. Exhales. Keeps walking. The street is still bright with windowlight and the full moon overhead, and still dark with night. Still empty, too, fortunately.
He doesn’t know where he wants to go, except he wants to go home. He wants his room, and the familiar courtyard, and all the nooks and crannies he knows by heart. No matter how well they rebuild, though, it’ll never be the same.
He ends up at the house anyway. It’s only half-built, still, and no place to sleep or stay in, but he wants to be in it anyway.
It just . . . doesn’t help, really. It doesn’t make him feel better.
Camilo ducks in through the empty front doorway and walks across the courtyard. There’s no roof, and the second floor’s barely started. It’s not home.
It doesn’t fit any better than his skin does.
He drops into a crouch in the middle of the courtyard and buries his face in his arms, feeling . . . feeling a way he used to be able to just change out of. Feeling wrong, and sad, and . . . and . . .
“Tío? Is that you?” a voice says. Camilo’s skin itches. He’d turn into Bruno, except he can’t.
“No,” he says.
“Oh,” the voice says, and Camilo lifts his head and sees Mirabel. He doesn’t know why she’s here.
He doesn’t even know why he’s here.
He smiles at her, obviously, and cocks his head like he's curious, though he isn't really.
“You’re out late,” he says.
“So are you,” Mirabel says, stepping up to him. He stands up to put them on the same level before she can crouch down too. He doesn’t know why it feels important to do that, but it does.
“I’m out late all the time,” he says breezily, waving her off. “You’re not.”
“I am sometimes,” Mirabel grumbles, folding her arms.
“Since when?” Camilo says, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Since now,” she says. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“I was bored,” Camilo lies. He’s a pretty good liar, he thinks. He’s gotten a lot of practice at it. “And I’m not tired anyway. Why, what are you doing here?”
“I miss Casita,” Mirabel says, which is way too honest for their family. Or anybody, Camilo feels like.
He guesses they’re trying to be better about that kind of thing, but . . .
“So what, you’re just standing around in the dark?” he says. “Kinda creepy, Mirabel.”
“I am not!” Mirabel says defensively. "I'm just . . . visiting. Casita died protecting us. Not the miracle. Just us."
Camilo knows that.
"So you're doing . . . what, exactly?" he says, raising both eyebrows this time.
"Saying goodbye," she says, folding her hands in front of herself. Camilo gives her a dubious look even as he absently mirrors the gesture.
"Alone," he says. "In the dark."
"Yes," Mirabel says.
He really never has understood her.
"You know that's weird, right?" Camilo says. "That's very weird."
"It is not," Mirabel says defensively, folding her arms. Camilo folds his too.
"Maybe you're hanging out with Tío Bruno too much," he says.
"Maybe you're a jerk," Mirabel says with a scowl. Camilo smirks at her. Her scowl darkens. "And Tío Bruno isn't weird!"
"He's very weird, Mirabel," Camilo says. "As is creeping around our dead house in the dark."
"Well—well you're here too!" Mirabel exclaims, pointing at him accusingly.
"So?" Camilo says with a shrug. "I go lots of places."
"Then you can't say I'm being weird," Mirabel says defensively. "Or that Tío Bruno is."
"I absolutely can, actually," Camilo says. He doesn't care, personally, but if it's distracting Mirabel from figuring out what he's doing out right now . . . yeah, he's gonna take advantage.
"You're so annoying!" Mirabel says in exasperation, putting her hands on her hips. Camilo imitates the gesture as his skin itches. He'd have turned into her by now, normally.
Although that's not "normal" anymore, is it.
"'You're so annoying'!" he mimics mockingly anyway. It doesn't sound like Mirabel’s voice, obviously, but the tone is right. He's good at that kind of thing, so of course it is.
"Camilo!" she fumes, stomping a foot.
They don't usually fight. They don't usually talk either, though. Not since Mirabel didn't get a gift.
Camilo doesn't talk to too many people anyway, really.
Especially not lately.
"What?" he says, putting on a bored expression. Mirabel scowls again. He doesn't know why he's mad at her. Wasn't he just thinking that no one else seemed to be grieving? The fact she came out here should be . . .
Something. It should be something.
He's still mad, though.
He guesses, anyway. He doesn't know how else to define the way he's feeling right now.
"Don't be a brat," Mirabel says hotly. "I can miss Casita, and Tío Bruno can be a little different from everybody else. It's not weird to feel things."
"And yet you've made it weird anyway," Camilo says. Mirabel glowers at him. It makes him think of thunder and lightning, except thunder and lightning don't happen when Mami gets upset anymore.
He knows that's not Mirabel's fault.
He knows it's not.
"Why are you being like this?" Mirabel says.
"You're the one being weird," Camilo says.
"You're the one being a jerk," she says, folding her arms again. "Stop that!"
"What?" Camilo says blankly, and then realizes he's folded his arms too. Oh.
Well—why does Mirabel care? It's none of her business what he does.
"Don't be so sensitive," he says. Mirabel glares at him.
"I'm not being sensitive," she says. "You're being rude. How do you think Tio Bruno would feel if you talked to him like that?"
"I'm not talking to him like anything, I'm talking to you," Camilo says irritably. "And who are you, Abuela? My mami? You can't tell me what to talk like."
"Somebody should be, clearly!" Mirabel says. "Don't act so—so—"
"So what?!" Camilo snaps, skin itching urgently. "I'm not acting like anything! I'm just being myself!"
"Yourself is a jerk!" Mirabel snaps back, and Camilo flushes hot with fury and clenches his fists.
"Well I can't be anyone else anymore, so too bad, you're stuck with me!" he says angrily.
Mirabel . . . pauses. Camilo claps a hand over his mouth.
"Camilo," Mirabel says, and Camilo panics, whips around, and flees. "Camilo, wait!"
He didn't mean to say that.
Camilo runs out of the half-built house. He hears Mirabel chase after him. He was faster than her when they were little, but he's not sure if he's still faster than her now.
And he can't turn into anyone who is, obviously.
"Camilo!" Mirabel cries. He runs faster. He doesn't head back towards town. Someone might hear them.
He can't really outrun her for good, but he's running anyway.
He's such an idiot.
He's such an idiot. Why did he say that? Why did he say that and let her see him react to that? He knows better! He knows how to tell a stupid lie!
Mirabel yells his name again, though this time it comes out breathless. He wishes she’d just shut up. He wishes he’d never come out tonight at all. He wishes he could just be someone else; could change out of the way this feels and disappear into another person.
He wishes Mirabel would shut up.
“Camilo—!” she says, and Camilo darts off the path into the shadowy trees ahead and nearly trips over a root. Mirabel actually does trip over it—he hears her fall—and he takes advantage to get a better lead on her. Again, he can’t really outrun her for good, but if he has to actually turn and face her and look at her with his own face right now . . .
Yeah, he’s not doing that.
His skin won’t stop itching.
He runs out of breath. His legs burn. He doesn’t stop running.
If he stops running . . .
Maybe it’ll be enough, if he doesn’t stop running. Maybe it’ll do something.
Maybe he’ll at least be able to pretend this conversation never happened tomorrow.
It’s a perfectly good idea, right up until he trips over another root and goes face-first into the dirt. He yelps, not meaning to let the sound escape, and his ankle throbs.
He shoves himself back up. His ankle gives out and sends him crashing back to the ground, and he stifles another cry of pain.
“Camilo?” Mirabel calls, and Camilo hides behind the biggest tree he can find and prays she’s far enough back to not have seen which way he went. “Are you hurt?”
He’s definitely hurt. And he’s just as definitely not coming out and telling her that.
“Camilo, come on!” Mirabel says. She still sounds distant enough that he thinks maybe he’s gotten away with it. Maybe she won’t come this way. “I can help!”
No she can’t.
Nobody can.
Camilo feels so bad he wants to puke.
“I mean it,” Mirabel says. He can hear her moving through the trees. “It’s—I’m sorry about your gift. I didn’t mean to call you a jerk. I mean. I did, kind of. Because you were being a jerk. But I don’t think you are a jerk. I don’t want you to be someone else.”
That’s a lie, Camilo knows. Even if Mirabel doesn’t think it is, he’s never the first person people want to see. There’s always someone else.
And Mirabel already thought he was somebody else tonight.
His ankle throbs. He feels dizzy and sick and miserable. Mirabel keeps talking, because she’s awful.
“Camilo?” she says. Camilo wants to yell at her, but that’d let her know where he was. He huddles down small, wincing in pain as he jars his ankle, and Mirabel keeps rustling through the distant trees. “Camilo, please. You can’t stay out here alone if you’re hurt.”
It’s none of Mirabel’s business if he’s hurt or where he stays. Nothing about him is any of Mirabel’s business.
Why does she even care, anyway?
He wants her to go away. He wants his gift back. He wants to be the first person somebody wants to see, just once.
It’s never going to happen, but he wants it.
“Please,” Mirabel says, and Camilo covers his face with his hands. He hates her. He wants her gone. He wants to be anywhere else, and anyone else.
Why does he have to be himself, when himself is somebody like this?
“Camilo,” Mirabel says, and he drops his hands. She’s right beside him, moonlit-bright under the shadows of the trees and looking down at him. He wants to get up and run again, but his ankle is still throbbing and his vision is blurry and there’s no way he’ll be able to outrun her.
“Go away,” he says tightly.
“Are you hurt?” Mirabel says, dropping into a crouch in front of him. He wants to kick her. “I heard you yell.”
“I’m not hurt,” Camilo lies. Mirabel doesn’t look convinced.
He hates her so much.
“I don’t believe you,” she says.
“It’s your fault if I am,” Camilo says, gritting his teeth painfully and clenching his fists against the ground. “You and Abuela just had to have your stupid fight.”
Mirabel gives him such a sad look, and he still hates her.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you felt like this.”
“Well you didn’t ask, did you?!” Camilo snaps. Nobody asked. Nobody ever asks him things like that.
Nobody ever asks him anything, except to be someone else.
And he can’t do that anymore.
“What hurts?” Mirabel asks, reaching out to touch his knee. He jerks it back from her and jars his injured ankle again. Mirabel looks worried. Camilo just wants her to go away.
“Leave me alone,” he says.
“I’m not gonna leave you when you’re hurt,” she says, visibly determined. Camilo doesn’t hate her any less.
“You hurt me worse than this!” he says angrily, eyes hot with tears he’s barely holding back. “It’s your fault! All of it’s because of you!”
“You’re not just your gift, Camilo,” Mirabel says.
“Yes I was!” he shouts at her, and Mirabel looks so, so sad.
“Oh, Camilo,” she says softly, and he bursts into tears. It’s humiliating, and awful, and he hates her. Mirabel reaches out and grips his hands, and he feels so bad he doesn’t even yank them away.
He just wants things to go back to normal. He just wants to be useful again. Be something people want again.
Not just . . . this.
Not just this.
“It’s okay,” Mirabel says, pulling him in and wrapping her arms around him. Camilo curls in on himself the best he can, but she doesn’t let go. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
No he’s not.
Camilo cries harder, and Mirabel tightens her grip on him. He doesn’t feel okay at all. He doesn’t feel anything but miserable and sick and useless. He’s not whoever she wants him to be; he’s not who anyone wants him to be. His skin fits all wrong and he can’t fix it.
“You’re okay,” Mirabel repeats, resting her chin on his head and rubbing his back. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized how you felt.”
“I’m not okay,” Camilo manages between sobs, hating her and hating himself. Especially himself.
“You will be,” Mirabel says, soft and soothing. Camilo doesn’t feel soothed at all. “I mean it. You aren’t just your gift. You’re so much more than just a little bit of magic.”
“How would you know that?!” Camilo demands roughly, clenching his fists again. “What else am I, if I’m not that?!”
“You’re Camilo,” Mirabel says, like that’s some kind of answer.
“No!” Camilo says. “Tell me something I am! Something that matters!”
“You’re one of us,” Mirabel says, tightening her grip on him.
Camilo can’t see how that matters at all.
“I should be somebody else,” he chokes out, and cries harder.
“You’re part of our family, Camilo,” Mirabel says quietly. “We’d miss you if you were somebody else.”
“No one ever did before,” Camilo says. No one ever came looking for him. No one ever wanted him. He’s nobody’s first choice. There’s always someone better.
There’s always been someone better.
“That’s not true,” Mirabel says. She strokes his hair. He wants to swat her off and pull away, but he’s too busy trying not to cry. It’s not working, but he has to try.
“Yes it is,” he says tightly. “I wouldn’t have had a gift like mine if it weren’t.”
“You really think that?” Mirabel says, stroking his hair again. “You don’t think Tía Pepa and Tío Felix would miss you? Or Dolores and Antonio? Or any of us?”
“Not enough to matter,” Camilo says. His parents would still have Dolores and Antonio, and Dolores and Antonio would still have each other, and no one else would care anyway. Not really care.
“You’re wrong,” Mirabel says firmly. “Everybody would miss you. None of us would want someone else.”
“You’re wrong,” Camilo says, rubbing at his tear-streaked face. He can’t stop crying. It’s so stupid. He’s a better liar than this. He’s better at acting okay than this.
It’s so stupid to be this upset over losing his gift. The rest of the family had much more valuable ones. Mami could control the weather, Luisa was so impossibly strong, Bruno could see the literal future . . .
He shouldn’t be this upset.
He shouldn’t be, but he really doesn’t know what else he is, if he’s not his gift. “Camilo” isn’t an answer. “One of us” isn’t any better. They don’t need him. They’re never going to need him, no matter what Mirabel says.
Maybe they’d miss him, eventually, but not enough to matter.
“Camilo,” Mirabel says softly, and Camilo just can’t stop crying. She holds on to him, and he wishes she’d just get up and go away and never, ever let go of him. It’s her fault, though. Hers and Abuela’s, because they had to have that stupid fight. Everything was fine before that.
Camilo at least knew who to be, before that.
It was so much easier when he knew who to be.
Mirabel doesn’t get up or go away. She keeps holding him. His ankle hurts, and his throat’s sore, and his eyes are burning. He probably looks awful, and there’s nothing he can do to look any different. Nothing he can do to make it better, or change it, or . . .
“I think I have a handkerchief somewhere,” Mirabel says, and Camilo just wipes at his wet eyes, tears still spilling down his cheeks. She’s awful. She’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
She’s the only other person who isn’t acting like everything is better.
It’s not better, not knowing who to be. Not knowing who he is, except for not anybody’s first choice. Not anybody who’d be missed enough to matter.
He doesn’t need his gift to be useful or loved.
Except he really, really does.
Mirabel hands him a handkerchief. It’s lavender, embroidered with bright butterflies and tiny flowers. Camilo resents it, but wipes the tears off his face with it anyway.
“Better?” Mirabel asks.
“No,” Camilo says, because it’s not. Mirabel makes a sympathetic noise. He still feels awful and miserable and wishes he could wipe his whole face away. He’d rather be anyone else right now. Anyone else ever. There’s nobody he wouldn’t rather be than himself.
“Okay,” Mirabel says. “Do you want to go home?”
“We can’t go home,” Camilo says.
“I mean . . . back to where you’re staying,” Mirabel says awkwardly. “Or we could get you help for your ankle, maybe?”
“My ankle’s fine,” Camilo lies. Mirabel’s brow furrows in concern. He looks away, because he doesn’t want to see it.
Just because she’s a little concerned right now doesn’t mean she really cares.
They’d have talked more in the past ten years, if she really cared.
Camilo’s not the one who shut the nursery door between them after Mirabel’s gift ceremony went wrong.
Mirabel takes the handkerchief and pats at his face. Camilo pushes her back.
“Leave me alone,” he says.
“I told you, I’m not leaving you out here alone when you’re hurt,” she says. “Especially not at night.”
“Who cares?” Camilo says.
“I care,” Mirabel says, the liar.
"You don't," Camilo says.
"I do," Mirabel says. "We're family."
"So what?" Camilo says bitterly. That doesn't matter. When has it ever?
"So I care," Mirabel says, putting her handkerchief away and then putting a hand on his knee. "You're important to me."
"I'm not," Camilo says. "Why would I be?"
"We were in the nursery together," Mirabel says, and he bristles.
"Since when has that mattered?" he demands. "You stopped talking to me as soon as your door disappeared."
"You stopped talking to me too," Mirabel says, looking momentarily defensive.
"Because you didn't want me talking to you!" Camilo snaps. "You didn't want anything to do with me anymore!"
"That's not true!" Mirabel says in frustration. "You just—you kept using your gift all the time!"
"Because everybody wanted me to!" Camilo shouts at her.
"I didn't!" Mirabel shouts back. "I just wanted us to be like we were before the stupid doors messed everything up!"
"My door didn't mess anything up," Camilo says. His door had been perfect. It'd been everything he ever could've wanted.
"Yes it did," Mirabel said, fisting her hands against her knees. “You wouldn’t be out here like this if your door hadn’t messed you up.”
“I wouldn’t be out here like this if you hadn’t messed me up,” Camilo shoots back hotly. Mirabel did all of this; her and Abuela together, because they couldn’t just talk to each other. Because Mirabel couldn’t just explain and Abuela couldn’t just listen.
Things would’ve been different, if they’d been able to do that.
“I didn’t mean to mess you up,” Mirabel says. “Things just . . . we couldn’t all keep going on like that. You know that, right?”
“I could’ve,” Camilo says. He’s not Isabela or Luisa or Dolores or Antonio. He doesn’t have anything to him besides his gift. He doesn’t get to be imperfect or relax or let things go now. He doesn’t get a trade-off to make it better. He just lost the only thing he could do, and now . . . now . . .
“It wasn’t good for you either,” Mirabel says, shaking her head, and how would she know?! She’s not the one who was living with it! Camilo bares his teeth, and she gives him another sad look. “It wasn’t, Camilo. You think we all want you to be someone else.”
“You do,” Camilo says, because he knows that. He’s always known it.
He’s not stupid. He’s not smart, but he can recognize a basic pattern of behavior.
“We don’t,” Mirabel says. “I swear.”
“Liar,” Camilo says, and rubs at his wet eyes. He knows Mirabel would rather be with someone else right now. He knows she’s only doing this because she thinks she has to. That she’s just doing it because he’s another Madrigal. Not someone she likes any better than anyone else. Not someone she even necessarily likes at all.
“Who else would I want you to be?” Mirabel says, looking frustrated.
“Anybody,” Camilo says roughly.
Anybody would be better.
He knows that.
Mirabel doesn’t say anything. Camilo rubs harder at his burning eyes; so hard that it’s painful. It doesn’t help.
Nothing is going to help.
“Nobody,” Mirabel says quietly, finally, shifting in closer and moving her hand to his shoulder. She squeezes it. He hunches in on himself. “I mean it. I don’t want you to be anyone else. I don’t want you replaced.”
“That’s not true,” Camilo says.
“It is,” Mirabel says, squeezing his shoulder again. “I’m sorry about the nursery. I shouldn’t have shut you out. And I’m sorry nobody talked to you about this sooner. We should’ve known it was hurting you.”
“Just go away, Mirabel,” Camilo says tightly. They lost the miracle, but everyone else got something to make it easier. Everyone else has something they wanted before.
He didn’t. Doesn’t.
What could he ever possibly have, anyway?
He can’t even be who he’s supposed to be.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mirabel says. “How’s your ankle?”
“It’s fine,” Camilo lies. Mirabel looks down at his ankle. Camilo resists the urge to hide it under some leaves or dirt or something. It hurts really badly, still. He’s trying not to move it right now.
“Somebody in town has to know what to do for it,” Mirabel says.
“Why would they?” Camilo asks with a derisive snort. “Your mom’s been able to fix anything that hurts for the past forty-five years.”
“Somebody older will know,” Mirabel says determinedly. “Come on. Let’s get you back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” Camilo says. He still looks like he’s been crying, he’s sure, and his ankle still hurts so bad, and . . . and he just doesn’t want to. It’s bad enough with Mirabel fussing over him; he doesn’t want it from anyone else. He doesn’t want attention just because he was stupid and got hurt.
“You can’t stay out here,” Mirabel says. Camilo rubs at his eyes again.
“Says who?” he says. “I can go wherever I wanna.”
“Not right now you can’t,” she says, giving his throbbing ankle a pointed look. He glares at her.
“I said I don’t want to go,” he says. “You’re such a pain.”
“I’m just making sure you’re okay,” Mirabel says. Camilo resents her all over again.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“No you’re not,” Mirabel says.
“You wouldn’t know!” Camilo snaps. “Why would you ever know?!”
“I know you,” Mirabel says.
“No you don’t,” he says, baring his teeth again. “You don’t talk to me. You don’t want to be around me. You don’t know anything about me!”
“Camillo—” Mirabel starts, and he puts his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Shut up!” he says. “Just shut up and stop talking and leave me alone already!”
“I’m not leaving you alone like this,” Mirabel says.
“I’m alone all the time,” Camilo says. When people look at him and see someone else, and when people look at him and don’t see someone else, and . . .
“You’re not alone right now,” Mirabel says. She gets to her feet again and reaches down towards him. Camilo pushes her hands away.
“Just leave,” he says.
“Not without you,” she says. "Come on, Camilo."
"No," he says stubbornly, setting his jaw. It's stupid and childish, probably, but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to go anywhere with Mirabel. He doesn't want to go anywhere with anyone right now, but especially not Mirabel. This is only happening because of Mirabel. She couldn’t just leave things alone, couldn’t just let him run off, couldn’t just let him hide. She had to push.
She thinks it’s for the best, probably, but he doesn’t care. None of this feels like it’s for the best.
And who says Mirabel knows what’s best for him anyway?
“Fine,” Mirabel says with a scowl, sitting down beside him and folding her arms. “Then I’m not leaving either.”
“I don’t want you here,” Camilo says.
“Then get up and go,” she says simply. He glowers at her.
Mirabel is the worst.
Camilo doesn’t say anything. Mirabel doesn’t leave. The moonlight filters through the leaves overhead, making it easy to see her stubborn expression. Camilo wants her gone so, so badly.
He wants things to just be normal again.
He might as well be wishing for another miracle.
His eyes burn, and he scrubs furiously at them. Mirabel holds out her handkerchief again. Camilo ignores it. He doesn’t want her stupid handkerchief. He doesn’t want anything from her. He just wants things to go back to normal so he can change out of this stupid miserable face that no one wants to see.
It’s not fair.
It’s just . . . not fair.
“People want you around,” Mirabel says. Camilo glares at her through his tears. “They do. You make everybody smile so easily. And you try so hard to help.”
“I can’t do that anymore,” Camilo says.
“You don’t have to have a gift to do those things,” Mirabel says. “And even if you couldn’t do anything at all, we’d still want you around. You wouldn’t be worthless or bad or . . . or whatever you’re thinking you are right now.”
“Yes I am,” Camilo says.
“You’re really not,” Mirabel says. She’s still holding out the handkerchief. He takes it, even though he shouldn’t. He wipes at the stupid tear-streaked face that he still can’t change or hide. “Do you really think nobody likes you?”
“People like me,” Camilo says, blinking back fresh tears. “Everybody likes me when I’m somebody else.”
“That’s not true,” Mirabel says.
“How would you know?” Camilo says. “You’re not me. You don’t know how people treat me.”
She never saw how people’s faces used to light up when he’d turn into someone else.
And she doesn’t see how they look at him now that he can’t.
“I like Camilo,” Mirabel says. “Not somebody else.”
“No you don’t,” Camilo says. “You talk to everybody but me.”
“I talk to you,” she says.
“You don’t,” he says. “You helped Dolores with Mariano, you check up on your sisters—you took Antonio to his door. But you don’t talk to me.”
Mirabel . . . pauses.
“I don’t?” she says. Camilo wipes at his eyes again.
“Nobody does,” he says. “Not really.”
“You really feel that way?” Mirabel says. Camilo shrugs uselessly, not looking at her. People have never talked to him. Not when he was wearing his own face. That’s just how it’s always been.
Why would they, after all?
“I’m sorry,” Mirabel says.
“It’s fine,” Camilo says. He can’t expect her to be any different from everyone else, after all.
“It’s definitely not fine,” she says.
“It’s just how it is,” he says.
“It’s not,” Mirabel says. “I like you. I promise. I just . . . it was hard to talk to you, after my door disappeared. That wasn’t because of you. You just—you had your gift, and it was so easy for you, and . . . and I . . .”
“This isn’t easy,” Camilo says. He rubs at his eyes again.
“I know,” Mirabel says. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever,” Camilo mutters.
“You should talk to your parents,” Mirabel says, putting a hand back on his shoulder. “And Dolores. They’d want to know how you feel.”
“They don’t need to know,” Camilo says. He wouldn’t even be saying this if there were any chance of Dolores hearing it, for one thing. He doesn’t even know why he’s saying it to Mirabel. “It’s fine. It’s just how it is.”
“It’s not,” Mirabel says. “Not with everybody, at least.”
“I can tell, Mirabel,” Camilo says tightly. “It’s not hard to tell when people like you. Or who they like better.”
“Camilo,” Mirabel says.
“It’s easy,” Camilo says, gesturing at his face. “You just look different, and they light up. But I can’t do that anymore, so nobody looks at me like that anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean people don’t like you,” Mirabel says.
“What does it mean, then?” Camilo says. “I’m not anybody’s favorite. Nobody needs me. Nobody ever missed me when I was someone else.”
“You’re a Madrigal,” Mirabel says, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re one of us. We would’ve missed you if you hadn’t come back from being someone else.”
“I don’t believe you,” Camilo says.
“We would’ve,” Mirabel says firmly. “Come home with me. Please.”
“We can’t go home,” Camilo says.
“Home wasn’t just Casita,” Mirabel says. “It was all of us. Together.”
Camilo feels his face crumple. Mirabel leans in and wraps her arms around him. He hooks a hand over one of them and hangs on harder than he means to, though he doesn’t quite hug her back. That’d be . . . that’d be too much.
Even this is almost too much.
“It was,” Mirabel says. “And you’re one of us, Camilo. You’ll always be one of us, no matter who you look like.”
“Don’t,” Camilo says, burying his face in her shoulder. She tightens her grip on him.
“It’s true,” she says gently. “You could have any face and you’d still be Camilo to us, and you’d still be part of our home.”
He should say something. He doesn’t, though, because he’s crying too hard to manage it. Mirabel keeps holding on to him. It doesn’t help. It hurts.
It hurts, but he doesn’t want her to let go.
Mirabel holds him for a long time, ‘til he finally can’t cry anymore, and his sobs stutter to a stop. He clings to her as tightly as he can let himself, and it still doesn’t help, and it still hurts, and he still doesn’t want her to let go.
He feels so bad.
He feels so bad, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know who or how to be, or what it’d take to feel better, or . . . or anything. He doesn’t know anything.
“It’s okay,” Mirabel says, and Camilo stifles another sob.
“It’s not,” he manages hoarsely, shaking his head. He’s still not anybody’s favorite. He’s still not the first person anybody wants to see. Mirabel still shut the nursery door between them, and there’s still dozens of other people he’d rather be, and he still can’t be anyone but himself.
“It will be,” Mirabel says, stroking his hair. “I promise. We all want you with us. We all want you home with us. Gift or no, and no matter what you can or can’t do.”
“I can’t do anything,” Camilo says.
“We don’t care,” Mirabel says. “You could never do anything again, and it wouldn’t matter. We’d all still want you.”
He doesn’t believe her.
He doesn’t, but . . .
“Okay,” he says, and she hugs him even harder.
“Okay,” she repeats.
They stay like that for a long time. Camilo isn’t sure if he feels better, but . . .
He just . . . isn’t sure.
Mirabel gets up, eventually, and he lets her pull him to his feet and pull his arm across her shoulders and take his weight. He tries not to lean on her too heavily; she braces herself and tugs him into her side. He wants to say something, but there’s just too many things to say.
Or maybe there’s just nothing left to say, after all that.
“I’ve got you,” Mirabel says determinedly, and Camilo wishes he could change into whoever it is she wants him to be.
They start walking. He can’t stop worrying about what everyone’s going to say when they see him. He’s wearing a face nobody wants to see, and he looks terrible, and he’s limping, and . . . and . . .
“It’s okay,” Mirabel says, and he tries to believe her. Everybody else can believe her. Even Abuela can believe her. He should be able to too. It shouldn’t be this hard.
“I don’t feel okay,” he says, and Mirabel looks at him, and his skin almost doesn’t itch.
“That’s okay too,” she says, simple and earnest. “We’ll get you home no matter how you feel.”
“Okay,” Camilo says, feeling his face crumple again. He should be able to take it off. He should be able to be someone different; someone who all this wouldn’t hurt. He should be like Isabela, sharp and perfect, or strong and enduring like Luisa, or selfless like Dolores, or kind like Antonio, or . . .
Or like Mirabel.
If he could be like Mirabel, he could handle all of this. He could still be useful. Still feel loved. Still do . . . so many things.
If he were like Mirabel, he could convince himself it was okay not to be.
If that even makes any sense at all.
“I do miss you,” Mirabel says, not looking away from the path ahead, and something in Camilo’s chest clenches painfully. His skin almost, almost doesn’t itch.
He doesn’t know if he feels better yet, but he wants to.
They keep walking.
They go home.