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At the ripe old age of six and a half, Camilo Madrigal felt his near permanent smile begin to waver. The light in his eyes had somehow already begun to die, even as he pressed on. Despite everything he knew to be true about himself and the nature of his familia, he still found himself laying awake at night staring at the ceiling, questioning things.
He didn’t want to have questions. Didn’t want to have doubts. But it seemed that his life had other plans, and he got to have an entire head full of them. So full, in fact, it threatened to topple the small child over.
When he had gotten his gift on his fifth birthday, he had been ecstatic. He was always a little comedian, taking great pride in acting and jokes and making people smile or laugh. Now he had an extra way to do that! It wasn’t really something new, more just an extension of his impressions. Camilo could just do the best impressions in the whole Encanto.
Maybe too good.
Transforming left and right, it seemed people forgot that once you took away all the roles and caricatures, there was a six-year-old boy at the center. A six-year-old boy who was growing more and more tired every day.
Everybody wanted the shapeshifting Madrigal, but nobody wanted Camilo. It was an odd contradiction he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Still, he understood that the sentiment remained. Once he got his gift, it took no time at all for people to no longer want to have Camilo hang around or help them. They needed someone taller, someone smaller, someone long gone, someone who could do some insignificant task that basically any adult could. But Camilo using his gift was just more fun. More flashy, he supposed. Why would you ask the tall gentleman right next to you to help you hang a sign when you can get the child who just wanted to play to shapeshift into that tall gentleman and do it himself? It was fun.
Fun for them, anyway. Camilo seriously questioned it. Over time, he didn’t even want to do his shows anymore. Seeing people stare at him, only laughing when whatever punchline he delivered was accompanied by the face of someone else. As if he himself was so unappealing he literally had to be a different person before they enjoyed the show.
That led to Camilo rushing away from a few adults calling his name, asking him to be something he didn’t want to be. He fought down the tears. Walking so fast towards Casita, he didn’t even realize that he was on a collision course until he slammed into someone, a flower getting wedged in his nose.
“Ai, Cami!” Isabela put her hands on her hips, “You almost knocked me over!”
He looked up at her, and immediately the 13-year-old girl’s face softened. Camilo blew the flower out, a few tears falling. “Lo—lo siento!”
Gently, she crouched down to be level with him, “Woah, hey, what’s the matter, primito?”
“I…” he wiped his face on his ruana, “How do you do it?” his voice came out sad and broken.
With a confused look, Isabela grew a small bed of flowers for the two to sit on, “What do you mean, rose bud?”
“I mean—look at you!” he exclaimed with a crack in his voice, “Every day you put on the best show of anybody in the Encanto! Y-you convince everybody you’re happy, and nobody questions it. I don’t—I don’t even ever see you question it…” he looked up at her, eyes large and filled with tears, “Don’t you want to quit?”
A shadow of shock whipped across Isabela’s face, but it was gone in an instant. Her poise remained, and she created a small yellow bouquet for Camilo to hold. Shaking his head, Camilo put the bouquet aside.
“No, Isa! When do you stop?” he sniffled, “I want to stop. I don’t… I don’t think I even like performing anymore.”
It was quiet for a long moment, and Camilo wondered if he had misjudged Isabela. Was she really happy? As a little actor, he understood what people looked like when they were faking happiness, and Isabela seemed to be the poster child. But here, she looked so serene regardless.
She held an arm open, sitting like a perfect rose with her legs tucked beneath her. Camilo made sure not to touch his snotty and tear-stained face to her dress as he leaned against her. She rubbed his arm comfortingly.
After a long moment, she spoke. “I… Performing is important, Camilo.” She said assuredly, “It’s something you have to do, and you have to be good at it.”
“But why?” Camilo sniffled, leaning away to look up at Isabela, “I don’t think I like it. I don’t even think the Encanto likes it anymore.”
Suddenly, her hands were on his shoulders, eyes intense. “Listen to me. The village is important, okay? And even more important are the people there. You know why, Cami? Because they’re going to be the most consistent people in your life.”
Camilo looked up at his cousin with wide eyes.
“Some days your familia will seem like they know more about you than you want them to. They might want you to change. They’ll know you too well. But the town? They only know what you show them, Camilo. If you’re good to them, put on a great show, they’ll be good to you.”
His eyes were widening by the second, almost afraid. Isabela only looked more and more intense as she continued on.
“So, you gotta do whatever it takes to keep them in your favor, okay? No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much it makes you feel like a shell or mockery of whatever the hell you were before you touched that door. We’re performers, Camilo. We don’t live; we survive.”
Stomach fallen all the way to his feet, he couldn’t look away as Isabela leaned in even closer.
“And above all else, we perform. This whole Encanto is one big stage, and we were made to occupy it. Don’t stop dancing, Camilo. Even if it feels like you’re dying, just keep a smile on your face, and keep on dancing.” She squeezed his shoulders, a deep fear and sorrow in her gaze, “Please, Camilo. You don’t stop dancing, and you don’t stop singing, and you make sure everybody is happy. Because if they’re happy, you can convince yourself you are too.”
He gave a tiny nod, and finally Isabela seemed broken from her trance. It seemed there was something else she wanted to say, but she left it unsaid.
The yellow bouquet started to die. With a practiced motion she flicked her hand, and stopped the petals from wilting. Camilo looked up at her uncertainly as she stood, brushing nonexistent dirt off her lilac dress. She smiled at Camilo.
“Te amo, Camilo.” She said, seeming so unbelievably happy despite everything that just happened.
What—” he stammered, “Are you okay?”
Isabela twirled in response, flowers blooming all around her as she smiled. It was tight, so clearly forced. “Of course, Cami!” she leaned down and kissed the top of his head, “Are you okay now, mi rose bud?”
“More like a rose ‘dud’.” Camilo sighed, “But… yeah. You’re right.” He shifted into Isabela, twirling just as she had before turning back into himself, grinning. Isabela gave him a sage nod. She walked away, going into town. Camilo watched with a slight smile. How she managed to be such an amazing actor at only thirteen amazed him. Her twin braids fell over her shoulders, tied in white ribbons. Yet she felt so mature.
Straightening his chest, Camilo would follow in her footsteps. The family performers. One: a model. The other: the court jester. Not a graceful role, but he’d fill it so well that any doubts that tried to invade his mind were banished.
Camilo kept dancing.