Chapter Text
“Delivery for Señorita Madrigal” the mailman reads, smiling at the girl from his place at the front door. The basket in his hands was overflowing with items, so much so that he had to adjust it within his arms in order to properly hold it. Blooming sugar flowers, sweet candies wrapped in purple wax papers, a whittled pendant in the shape of a heart - and so many rolls of multicolored yarn that excess threads pooled out the side of the basket and flew like rainbow streamers in the morning breeze. Casita’s doors were opened inwards, wiggling slightly to indicate the visitor.
Mirabel, who had practically jumped at the chance to answer the door and flee the always-awkward breakfast table, frowned. Then, the mailman’s words registered in her mind, and her frown deepened. She sighed, running a hand through her hair, still stuck to the back of her head from a long night of sleep. “For Isabela, right? You can set them over there with the rest.” She gestured upstairs, where her older sister’s door shined brightly - surrounded by offerings from her many admirers, which seemed to have increased ten-fold since the news of her impending engagement to Mariano. Every young person in town seemed interested in wedding-crashing when Senorita Perfecta was involved. Abuela was unpleased, fearing it would risk the marriage, but - well, Mariano didn’t seem to mind and Isabela was pleased with all the gifts. Mirabel supposed this meant the secret admirers wouldn’t come to a halt, even after Abuela had spent the previous evening in the town hall, sternly eyeing each young person that passed and speaking loudly of her beloved granddaughter’s future husband.
The delivery man shook his head. “Not Señorita Isabela -”
Mirabel, still dreary from sleep, raised an eyebrow. She scratched at the backs of her arms.
“Luisa?” Luisa, too, had her fair share of admirers, although her second oldest sister hardly ever received gifts - it would be fun, watching her freak out over the basket and flush ten different shades of red. Maybe there would even be a lovesick note within, detailing the secret admirer’s fondness for Luisa’s strength. The delivery man shook his head again. Mirabel’s mind turned to the final option. “Dolores.” She said, letting out an exclamation of realization. That made sense - while Dolores’ chatty nature alienated some people of the area, she was also one of the most popular Madrigal’s for the same reason. She was unmarried, too, and (from what Mirabel could see) despite her fantastic hearing, seemed blind to the lovelorn looks often cast her way by various townspeople.
Mirabel’s eyebrows climbed to her forehead when the man shook his head again. Who could it be? Unmarried woman within the Casita - not Isabella, not Luisa, not Dolores. She racked her brain a second time. Then, she threw her arms out in defeat. “Alright, I’m stumped. Who is it for?”
The man smiled, seemingly in exasperation. “You, Señorita.” He laughed at her dumbfounded face, depositing the large basket into her limp arms. He was slowly ambling down the path leading up to the Casita before Mirabel remembered to call out to him. “Who is it from?” She yelled, not bothering to keep her voice down. Dolores had heard it all by this point, and was undoubtedly filling in the entire family at the breakfast table. Her cheeks felt - hot, very hot, and she was keenly aware of just how expensive the yarn within the basket was. Perfect for embroidering the skirts of her dresses, or the sleeves of her blouses. She hadn’t thought anyone noticed how much she’d been eyeing the yarn in the window at the old art store within town but, here it was, alongside many more gifts. The man turned back. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
“One of your classmates paid me extra not to tell!” He yelled. The Casita’s doors closed around his amused expression from down-hill, and Mirabel’s wide eyes from beneath her glass frames. She stayed staring at the wooden door for one-two-three seconds, before glancing down, again, at the basket in her arms. One of her classmates? The schoolhouse appeared, vividly, in her mind. She had 24 classmates - 24 possible admirers. Her face flamed at the thought. Her glasses fogged from the heat of her face, obscuring the fantastical basket from view.
She turned her back to the door and slid down it, feeling the Casita’s soothing rumble around her. Wiping her glasses on her skirt, she took a moment to collect herself before facing the uproar of her family. A note slipped from the basket. Catching it beneath her slippered foot, she raised it to her face - only to have her glasses slip down in alarm, and a delighted laugh fall from her lips. “A mi preciosa Mira” the girl read under her breath. Preciosa, she thought delightedly - unfolding the note, her smile grew. A poem. The poem was so sweet - undoubtedly the sweetest thing anybody had ever written for her.
Which, y’know, someone had written her, Mirabel Madrigal, a love poem. She laughed in disbelief again. She buried her face in her hands, smashing her cheeks together in a failed attempt to smother her flattered smile.