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  It was a quiet, calm morning at the large museum. The parking lot was filled with school buses. Children were inside the building, busy checking out the detailed historical displays and listening to stories about the past.

  Thomas, a seasoned tour guide, was waiting outside, holding up a sign for his next group. He glanced at his pocket watch, then at the road. His group hadn’t arrived yet.

  Moving to the front of the museum steps, Thomas raised his TOUR GUIDE sign and whistled to himself until he saw a big yellow blur coming his way. It whizzed around the corner, tires squealing.

  “Last tour of the day,” he said to himself. “I wonder why no one wants them—” The school bus skidded to a halt with such force that Thomas jumped back. “Oh boy . . . ,” Thomas muttered, noticing that one of the bus windows was splattered with spitballs. Then a spitball hit Thomas in the face.

  “Bull’s-eye!” a goth kid, dressed entirely in black, said.

  Thomas wiped his face in horror.

  The kids laughed as they poured out onto the sidewalk.

  Thomas took a step back. The kids looked like trouble. The goth kid led the way with shaggy purple hair and spiked wrist bands, followed by a black-haired girl named Jane, who quickly roller-skated onto the sidewalk. Sanjay, a confident, cool-looking kid stepped up next with a sigh, along with Joao, a blond-haired boy wearing a strange top hat. Behind them all crept Sasha, and though she hardly looked threatening with her big eyes and blond hair full of bows, Thomas wasn’t about to let her innocent look fool him.

  “Hiiii!” Sasha giggled, clutching a doll tightly to her chest.

  “A lame museum? Again?!” Sanjay whined.

  “I hate stuff,” said the goth kid.

  “Yeah, me too,” Jane added. The other kids nodded in agreement.

  Thomas sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

  Out of nowhere, a woman arrived at his side. Her name was Mary Beth. She was young, pretty, and eager to help. “It’s okay, Thomas. I’ll take this group.” Mary Beth looked at the kids with a mischievous smile.

  Thomas squinted at her. “Um . . . are you sure? These are the detention kids.” Suddenly, another spitball hit him in the face. He made his decision. If she wanted the kids, they were hers.

  Mary Beth smiled. “Don’t worry. I can handle them. You go take your break.”

  “Thank you!” Thomas said, smiling gratefully as he dashed back inside the museum.

  The goth kid winked at his friends, then shot three massive spitballs at Mary Beth.

  Mary Beth struck a pose and quickly deflected them with her TOUR GUIDE sign like a ninja warrior. She smiled confidently, spinning the sign. On the back it said FOLLOW ME.

  “Follow me, kids,” she said.

  “Huh?” the kids said in unison.

  The kids glanced at each other, then shrugged. Reluctantly, they started up the stairs toward the museum doors, but Mary Beth turned them away from the massive entry.

  Sanjay said, “Yo, lady. The museum door is that way.”

  “Yes, it is,” Mary Beth told him. “But you aren’t like the other kids. No, no, no. You need to see something special.” She called the kids closer and pointed to the wall. “Right through that door!”

  The kids stared at the blank wall, muttering together, “Huh?”

  Jane stepped up. “You’re seein’ things, lady.”

  “Am I?” Mary Beth asked her. “Or are you not seeing things?” She took a step backward and disappeared through the wall.

  “Whoa!” The kids were shocked.

  “Come on!” Mary Beth reappeared. She held out her hand and a small ornate door appeared.

  The kids considered the Aztec carvings in the wood, then followed her inside.

  “Today is November second. Does anyone know why that date is important?” Mary Beth asked as they worked their way down a narrow, dark, and cold hallway.

  The kids all called out guesses. “ ’Cause it’s Taco Tuesday!” cried Sasha.

  “No.”

  “Ran out of Halloween candy day?” Jane said.

  “Nope. Today is the Day of the Dead!” said Mary Beth.

  “Is that like National Zombie Day or something?” goth kid asked. The kids all started to giggle.

  “Come on, let me show you.”

  Jane stayed close to Sanjay. Suddenly, a security guard stepped into their path. All the kids jumped back in fright. The bearded man was skinny and his eyes shone hollow as he lit his face from under his chin with a flashlight.

  “You can’t go this way!” he roared.

  The kids screamed.

  Mary Beth stepped into the glow of his flashlight.

  He said, “You will get us both in trouble. Ancient rules, of the, uh . . . museum administration.”

  Very gently, Mary Beth took his face in her hands and smiled at him.

  The guard sighed and his voice softened. “Well, I suppose I could turn a blind eye, my dear.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. Blushing, he moved aside to let the children pass, but not without one last fright. He glared at Sasha. She screamed and ran after the others.

  A moment later Mary Beth led her group into a large space. “Behold, children, the glorious beauty of Mexico!” She flipped a switch and enormous windows opened. Light spilled into the room, revealing tightly packed, colorful displays of Mexican folk art. The art lined the walls and reached to the ceiling with paper flags, flowers, and skeleton floats.

  The kids gasped at the glorious sight.

  Mary Beth moved aside, allowing the children to explore. There were Mayan and Aztec sculptures, papier-mâché monsters and skeletons, huge sombreros, woodcarvings, and colorful funny paintings.

  “This place is loco!” Jane exclaimed.

  “So many skulls,” Sanjay said.

  The goth kid wasn’t going to be fooled into actually liking a museum. “At least that part isn’t lame,” he said, looking over Sanjay’s shoulder.

  Grasping her doll tightly, Sasha walked up a small staircase and looked up. “Whoaaaa.” In front of her was a giant mural of a Mexican Tree of Life. At the base of the painting, there was an ornate book on a carved pedestal. Sasha called to Mary Beth, “What is this amazing book?”

  “Ah, that is the Book of Life!” Mary Beth told her.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Sasha gushed.

  “All the world is made of stories and all of those stories are right here.” Mary Beth opened the large book so that the children could see. “This book holds many truths.” She flipped to a page titled “Cinco de Mayo.” There was an image of a wood-carved Mexican soldier with a sweeping mustache. “Some are actually true!”

  Sasha asked, “The Battle of Cinco de Mayo?”

  The goth kid exclaimed, “I love mayo!”

  They all laughed.

  Mary Beth smiled. “And some, not so much.” She flipped to another page titled “Chupacabras.” There was an illustration of a small monster eating an entire goat in one gulp, then spitting out a perfect skeleton.

  The goth kid exclaimed, “El chupacabra, the legendary goat sucker! I have to get one.”

  “Ewww!” Jane gagged.

  Mary Beth moved quickly through the book’s pages until she reached an ancient map of
the universe. As the kids stared at the map, it was as if they were transported through the Milky Way and the solar system to Earth, and finally to Mexico.

  “Although you may doubt some of these stories, there is one thing we know for certain: Mexico is the center of the universe.” Mary Beth pointed at the center of the map, where golden rays of light shone down on a little island city.

  “And long ago, in the center of Mexico, was the quaint little town of San Angel,” she said as the light moved to reveal an illustration of Ignacio, a wooden figure wearing a giant sombrero, pushing a churro cart in the festive town square. The magical image showed San Angel, the Land of the Living.

  “Churros! Churros!” Ignacio called out. Just then, a bird pooped on his cart. Ignacio considered the poop, then announced, “Frosted churros!”

  Mary Beth said, “Naturally, since San Angel was the center of the universe, directly below it lay . . .” She paused as the map dipped to reveal the Land of the Remembered. The illustration now showed a captain with his hand raised, as flower petals floated up through glistening spotlights.

  “The Land of the Remembered,” Mary Beth told her tour group. “A festive and magical place for those who live on in the memories of their loved ones.” She frowned as the memories turned dark. “And below that lies the Land of the Forgotten. The sad and lonely destination for those poor souls who are no longer remembered.” The book showed a quick glimpse of a desolate wasteland, raining ash. An illustration showed a sad black skeleton fading to dust.

  Mary Beth pointed to the branches on the Tree of Life mural behind the book. The kids looked up.

  “But before I can properly begin our story,” she told them, “you need to meet the two magical rulers of these lands.” She directed them toward an image of a woman with a beautifully painted face. The lady was surrounded by all kinds of animals looking up at her adoringly.

  Eyes wide with curiosity, Sasha asked, “Who is that?”

  “That is La Muerte,” Mary Beth explained. “She is made out of sweet, sugar candy.”

  The goth kid muttered, “She’s so pretty.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” Mary Beth replied. “She loves all mankind and believes that their hearts are pure and true.”

  Mary Beth gestured to an image of a skeleton with a white beard, wearing a regal black cloak and holding a cane that looked like a two-headed purple snake. Crying skeleton dogs serenaded him. “And that is Xibalba. That charming rascal thought mankind was not so pure, just like him.”

  “He looks spooky,” Sasha said nervously.

  “Yes,” Mary Beth told her. “He’s made out of tar and everything icky in the whole world.”

  “He’s so pretty,” the goth kid said about Xibalba.

  The kids turned to him awkwardly and giggled.

  “Let me show you something else.” Mary Beth had them turn toward a small chest across from the Tree of Life mural. The chest was full of intricately carved wooden figures. “See, all of these wooden figures here—they represent real people in our story. Just like you and me.”

  “Whoa.” The kids were interested in hearing more.

  “And so our tale begins,” she said. “On the day the people of Mexico call the Day of the Dead, or el Dίa de los Muertos.”

  Day of the Dead celebrations were under way in San Angel. The streets were filled with music and people wearing skeleton costumes.

  In the cemetery mariachis played, women danced, and children laughed as families decorated their loved ones’ gravestones for the holiday.

  Mary Beth said, “On this festive, enchanted day, families bring food and offerings to the altars of their beloved.”

  “So, is Day of the Dead every year?” the goth kid wanted to know.

  “Yes,” Mary Beth answered. “But on this particular November second, the mischievous Xibalba had had enough.”

  *****

  In the San Angel cemetery, two graves lay side by side. One was aqua blue and full of lit candles, flowers, bread, offerings, and fruit. The other grave was old, gray, and cracked with weeds. It was spooky and appeared to have been forgotten.

  La Muerte and Xibalba appeared, one behind each gravestone. They were arguing.

  “Really, my dear,” Xibalba was saying, “you have no idea how cold and vile the Land of the Forgotten has become.”

  “Ha! Just like your heart, Xibalba,” La Muerte replied, echoing, “Just like your heart.”

  Xibalba wandered through the cemetery, causing candles to blow out at nearby graves. La Muerte followed him, relighting the flames. Though they walked among the celebrations, the two godlike figures were invisible to the people in the cemetery.

  Xibalba sighed. “Why must I rule a bleak wasteland while you enjoy the endless fiesta in the Land of the Remembered? It’s simply unfair.” He never wanted to be stuck in the Land of the Forgotten.

  Xibalba reached out toward an old man arranging flowers on a nearby altar. He was about to touch the man when La Muerte slapped his hand down.

  “Xibalba!”

  “What?” He shrugged. “It’s his time. More or less.”

  La Muerte shook her head. “Not today, my love.”

  Xibalba stopped in front of her. “Come on, my dear, trade lands with me. I beg you.”

  “Ohhh.” She laughed. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

  “I’m serious,” Xibalba moaned. “I hate it down there!”

  “Hey! You’re there because you cheated.” La Muerte frowned. “You made your bed with that wager.” She gave him a sad look. “You’re not the man I fell in love with all those centuries ago.”

  “Let’s not dwell on the past, mi amor.” Xibalba quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, I was thinking, how about another little wager?”

  “You think another bet will calm the flames of my anger?” She paused. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Let’s check out the menu for the evening,” Xibalba told her.

  La Muerte turned herself into flower petals and let the wind carry her away. Xibalba melted into a puddle of black tar and sank into the earth. He reappeared next to her in the church bell tower that overlooked the cemetery. After a moment, Xibalba spotted the perfect scenario.

  “Ahh. Look there, my love.” He pointed into the distance. “The classic mortal dilemma. Two boys, best friends no less . . .”

  La Muerte finished, “. . . in love with the same girl.” She took a closer look at a little boy named Manolo, who was playing his guitar for a little girl named Maria. Manolo was a kind and gentle boy who loved music. His friend Maria was beautiful, courageous, and had a fierce fighting spirit. Maria smiled at her friend, but just as he was about to serenade her, another little boy named Joaquin leaped from the bushes, wooden sword in hand. Joaquin was strong, fearless, and loved to flaunt his fighting skills in front of his two best friends.

  “Fear not, señorita,” Joaquin announced, wearing a fake mustache. “Your hero has arrived!”

  Maria giggled. “Is that so?”

  “How dare you interrupt a guitarrista!” Manolo strummed his guitar with passion.

  Joaquin was playing, pointing his sword in Manolo’s direction, but Manolo dodged him gracefully, like a bullfighter.

  “The girl is mine!” Joaquin announced.

  Manolo chuckled. “Never! She is mine!”

  Suddenly, Maria jumped between them, knocking them both to the ground. “I belong to no one!”

  “Whoa!” The two boys looked at each other. Maria was even more awesome than either of them imagined.

  Maria rolled her eyes at them and laughed.

  In the tower above, Xibalba turned to La Muerte. “I believe we have our wager. Which boy will marry her?”

  La Muerte agreed. “Very well. We will each choose one of these boys as our champion.”

  They glided down to the cemetery, transforming into an old man and old woman as they walked. The cemetery was crowded and no one noticed.

  “Let’s go wish them l
uck.” Xibalba grinned, confident that his boy, Joaquin, would win the girl’s heart.

  “Maria, weren’t you grounded?” Manolo asked. He was holding his guitar, strumming the beginning of a song he was writing.

  “My father is overreacting,” Maria told him. “How was I supposed to know chickens don’t like baths?” Just then, a chicken walked by blowing soap bubbles.

  Joaquin stood to the side of the conversation, flipping swords in each of his hands. “Don’t worry, he knows a real man is protecting you tonight.”

  “You’re not even close!” Maria chuckled.

  “But I have a mustache!” Joaquin said, wrinkling the fake mustache on his upper lip.

  Manolo snorted. “Yeah, just like your grandma!”

  Maria slapped Joaquin on his back, causing his mustache to fall off.

  He set the wooden swords aside to grab the mustache. They all laughed, but then Maria’s and Manolo’s fathers interrupted the moment.

  “Maria!” General Posada shouted, his voice echoing down the street.

  “Manolo!” Carlos called his son.

  Manolo and Maria rushed off, leaving Joaquin standing there alone, knowing that he didn’t have a father to call for him.

  *****

  Manolo found his father standing with his great-grandmother next to his mother’s grave. He paused.

  “Come, mijo.” Carlos, who was dressed, as always, in a bullfighter’s costume, beckoned Manolo closer.

  Manolo lit a candle and placed a loaf of bread on the small altar to his mother, Carmen Sanchez. Beyond her gravestone were the stones for all the other Sanchez ancestors. The candles Carlos had lit for each one of his relatives flickered like stars.

  Carlos placed a hand on Manolo’s back. His thick black mustache wiggled as he spoke. “Your mother would be so proud of you.”

  Grandma Sanchez agreed. She had seen a lot in her time—she was Carlos’s grandmother and Manolo’s great-grandmother. Her wheelchair was next to Carmen’s grave, where she could sit, watch, and knit.

  “You think she’ll come back tonight?” Manolo asked his father.

  “Carmen is here,” Grandma said surely.