Work Text:
“My older sisters, Isabela and Luisa: one strong, one graceful; perfect in every way. Isabela grows a flower and the town goes wild. (Isabela.) She's a perfect golden child. (Luisa! Luisa! Luisa! Luisa!) And Luisa's super strong! The beauty and the brawn do no wrong.” - The Family Madrigal, Encanto
Luisa remembered getting her Gift clear as day. How could she not? She’d spent weeks staring eagerly at her glowing, unfinished door. (No one knew what would happen if you tried to open it before your fifth birthday; maybe it just wouldn’t open, or maybe something bad would happen. They weren’t in a hurry to find out.) Fifth birthdays were a Big Deal in la familia Madrigal. A very big deal indeed. Literally life changing.
All the same, once she actually opened her door, it was a struggle to keep smiling.
Her room was so grey. It resembled a big, rocky canyon. There were boulders everywhere, pulleys, ropes, weights and bars to swing from. It was like a strange mix between an obstacle course and a gym. Up a particularly steep hill, Luisa could see her bed and the rest of the furniture.
Luisa didn’t like grey. She liked pink and purple, the colours that made Abuela coo over Isabela.
The only splash of colour in the room was her furniture and the brown ropes. Everything else was in shades of grey.
Super-strength was cool and Luisa was excited to have it, but she couldn’t help but compare her room to Isabela’s or Dolores’s, or even Julieta, Pepa’s and Bruno’s. Maybe some sand would make everything look less harsh. Maybe she could ask Tio Bruno if she could borrow some. He had a lot of sand, she doubted he’d mind.
But, thankfully, she was distracted when the party began in earnest. Everyone was dancing, eating her mamí’s delicious food and Luisa showed off her new Gift. She lifted the big boulders above her head without breaking a sweat, while Isabela made flower petals rain down on her in celebration. When Luisa hugged her papá, she accidentally lifted him right up into the air and that made everyone laugh and cheer her on, encouraging her to lift everyone. Even Abuela chuckled and let Luisa carry her for a few steps. Tia Pepa giggled and made rainbows, giggling even louder when Luisa spun around. Tio Bruno laughed like it was the most fun he’d ever had and Mamá praised her for being so strong; she laughed and held still and urged Luisa to be careful.
It was fun. She held onto Isabela and Dolores at the same time and even her normally silent prima laughed, her hands over her mouth.
Luisa felt cool. She was happy, she was excited. Her room wasn’t the most exciting or pretty, but she could worry about that later. She could find a way to make it pretty.
In the meantime, she’d been so happy to play around and show off.
The next day, the real work began.
Abuela took her into town right after breakfast.
“We will find a way to put your blessing to good use,” Abuela said, patting Luisa absentmindedly on the head. “Super-strength is a wonderful Gift, mi amor. You will be able to help so many people.” She smiled at Luisa and added, “You make this old woman proud.”
“You’re not old, Abuela,” Luisa immediately protested, even as she glowed from the praise.
Abuela chuckled again, that warm sound that Luisa rarely heard her make, and smoothed some stray strands of Luisa’s hair.
It wasn’t hard to find jobs for her to do.
She helped make the new bridge, her strength meaning the men finished in record time. She caught a run-away donkey, lifted him right above her head, and brought him home. She carried huge crates of crops for the farmers and got Osvaldo’s cart unstuck from some mud. She helped stack hay bales and lifted an entire tree from the earth (it had been leaning worriedly for weeks now, all set to fall and hit someone’s home; lifting it took more effort, but Luisa managed it).
Everyone thanked her. Osvaldo gave her a chocolate bar as a thank-you. Some of the farmers clapped for her and everyone praised her hard work.
“A true Madrigal!” the villagers said happily. “You must be so proud, Alma.”
“Of course,” Abuela responded.
Luisa beamed, eyes shining. She felt sweaty and her hair was coming out of its bun; there was dirt on her hands and knees, but she felt amazing. She’d helped! She’d helped so many people!
She wasn’t used to having attention on her. Everyone always praised Isabela, or Abuela, or Mamá. But now they wanted Luisa’s help too!
“Such a hard worker.”
“A little mountain!”
“A little donkey.”
Luisa hated that nickname. She liked donkeys; they were actually pretty cute when you got used to them, and she’d spent the last few months chasing a lot of them down, but she didn’t want to be called a donkey.
She liked being called a hard worker. Even her family said she was a hard worker, and she liked working, she liked helping. She liked when people acknowledged she was trying to help.
Being called a mountain wasn’t so bad. She’d hit a bit of a growth spurt in the last month, and she’d never exactly been short. Besides, the mountains around Encanto were quite pretty.
But a donkey? Una burrita?
The villagers called Isabela such pretty nicknames: an angel, a princess, a perfect rose.
The princess nickname made Luisa scowl despite herself, fists clenched. Princesa was her nickname, it was what Tio Bruno called her.
While Julieta and Agustín tried to quietly put an end to the donkey nickname, Luisa sought out her uncle. Bruno was in the back garden, sitting on a picnic blanket and reading.
Luisa was five and a half, too old for this surely, but she crawled onto his lap anyway. He made a small, surprised sound, but his arms wrapped around her.
“You won’t stop calling me princesa, right?” Luisa mumbled against his shoulder.
“Hm, nope,” Bruno said, rubbing her back in little circles. “Not unless you want me to. And I hope you don’t want me to, because you’re simply the best princesa around.”
Luisa giggled, holding on tighter. Her eyes felt damp.
“I don’t wanna be called a donkey,” she said.
“Then I pinky-promise to never call you that,” Bruno said.
She held out her pinky and they shook on it.
Bruno never called her burrita, but the villagers didn’t stop.
“They’re being kind,” Abuela said when Luisa quietly complained at dinner a few days later. “They’re acknowledging all your work.”
Luisa looked at Isabela’s flower crown and tried not to sigh.
Years later and the word break may as well have been an incomprehensible language. It was a completely foreign concept.
Not that Luisa needed a break! Of course not. She was fine! Always hard at work, always happy to help. She didn’t even want a break, really; what good would a break do anyway? There was work to be done! Work she couldn’t fall behind on. Everyone was counting on the Madrigals, counting on her, to help them.
Luisa was older now, seventeen-years-old, and no one called her princesa anymore.
She re-routed rivers and moved the church so Padré Martinez could have the very best light during Mass. She helped build houses and moved the bridges whenever it was needed. She chased after countless donkeys. She fixed houses that were starting to lean; she rearranged furniture in houses and in stores, she fixed fences and helped build paths. She patched roofs and replaced old doors and windows. She carried Julieta’s stall into town, she carried entire carts of goods and fixed those same carts whenever the wheels acted up.
She helped out at home too: she carried the table outside when Abuela wanted to eat breakfast in the garden, and carried it back inside again. She carried everyone’s glasses and plates, and helped set the table. She caught Agustín before he could fall. She carried the piano upstairs and downstairs, depending on where it was needed; usually downstairs, especially if Agustín just wanted to play for fun, but during a party Abuela wanted the piano moved elsewhere, where there would be more of an audience.
She offered to help Julieta and Mirabel clean up after meals. She worked out every morning before breakfast, with Casita moving the floor for her so she could run in place, lifting her weights at the same time. She was the first to leave Casita and the last to arrive home.
While she worked, people often vented to Luisa.
“And so Diego told Valentina her new haircut was dreadful! After he complained about the old one! Honestly, I’ll never understand why she doesn’t see she can do better.”
“I’d fix the blasted door myself, but the arthritis has me nearly hobbling! Ay, Luisa, I hope that super-strength means you never have to deal with this. Don’t take your youth for granted, girl.”
“The donkeys got out again, can you believe it? I just fixed that fence yesterday!”
Even at home.
Julieta, wringing a towel between her hands and muttering mostly to herself, “Your Abuela…”
Mirabel, throwing her hands around as she ranted. “And Isa thinks she’s so perfect and so great! She’s a stuck up, prissy, selfish little brat!”
Pepa, stomping past with a cloud above her head, clearly reluctant to say anything, only giving in at Luisa’s quiet urging that she only wanted to help.
“It’s those stupid farmers!” her Tia cried, her cloud thundering. “Ay, Dios mio, they want sun one minute and rain the very next!”
Camilo muttered darkly about some kids in his and Mirabel’s class, a trio of bullies who picked on younger kids. “I’ll teach them,” he swore. “If the adults won’t do anything, I will!”
Abuela watched Mirabel stumble and giggle, nearly dropping a box of Julieta’s food. She sighed impatiently and turned to Luisa, who was carrying five boxes.
“Thank goodness you are responsible,” she said, gliding away.
Sometimes she missed just being princesa.
She wanted to help. Luisa wanted to help everyone, but she wasn’t sure how to do that.
She could carry a lot of things, she could fix almost anything, but she wasn’t sure she could fix people’s entire lives. Could anyone do that?
No matter how hard she worked, there was always something else to do, something new to fix. She finished one job and ten more appeared in its place. She got up early and came home late, and still felt like she needed to do more, to be more.
“The brawn,” the villagers called her and they called Isabela, “The beauty.”
If she was the brawn, shouldn’t she be able to handle everything? How did Isabela manage to be so effortlessly perfect? Was it just luck of the draw?
Her sisters hated each other, the villagers always needed help with something and her uncle was gone. If Luisa was stronger, if she was perfect enough, maybe she could make it better?
A mountain. A donkey.
A room of grey stone.
Whatever happened to that paper crown Tio Bruno made her? Luisa asked for so much glitter that he’d had to use an entire tub of it to satisfy her, and he’d stuck little fake gems to it.
She’d worn it for weeks.
After her Ceremony, in the privacy of her room, she’d sometimes still worn it.
Luisa wished she could remember where she’d put it. Not that it would make things any easier. It wouldn’t even fit her anymore. Wherever it was, it was probably all crumpled and torn now.
But still…
She missed it.
Isabela remembered her Ceremony. She was the first of the next generation to receive a Gift; before hers and Dolores’s doors had appeared, the adults hadn’t even been sure if they’d get Gifts at all.
She’d touched her doorknob and a flower crown of orchids appeared in her hair and daisy chains circled her wrists. Roses and carnations spiralled out from under her feet, spilling down the stairs and halfway to her mamá’s room.
“Oh, it’s perfect,” she remembered Abuela saying so joyfully, her hands on her heart. She kissed Isabela’s cheek and held her close. “A Gift just as special and wonderful as you, mi ángel.”
The flowers were pretty and her new room looked like something from a fairytale: there were archways of flowers, petals covered the floor and her bed hung from rose-covered vines. Everything was in soft shades of pink or lavender. Everything was symmetrical, nothing was out of place.
There wasn’t much furniture: just her bed, a sofa, her wardrobe, a screen to change behind and a vanity with a soft stool. The mirror on the vanity was shaped like a flower. Everything else was empty space. Space for her to grow flowers, to practice.
Space for her to make things beautiful.
She remembered giving Dolores a flower crown. She gave Abuela a bouquet and tucked a rose into Julieta’s hair and one into Agustín’s vest pocket. She gave Félix a daisy necklace and tied dahlias into Pepa’s braid. She waved her hand and Luisa ended up with a necklace and bracelets of flowers.
She spent most of the party dancing with her parents or Dolores, or filling requests for the villagers: bouquets galore, flower crowns, showers of petals and a wreath of flor de mayo for Señora Guzman to hang on her front door.
It was more than pretty, it was beautiful. Everyone told her, again and again, how wonderful her Gift was, how lucky she was. How it was such a perfect Gift for such a sweet little girl.
Isabela smiled and twirled around and thanked everyone for coming. She looked at all the empty space and wondered what she’d grow.
“Do you think I could make a tree, Abuela?” she remembered asking.
Abuela gave a fond chuckle, as if she’d said something very silly. She straightened Isabela’s braids and adjusted her flower crown.
“Why would you want to do that, Isabela?” she asked, smiling as if Isabela was joking and she was waiting for the punchline. “Your Gift is perfect.”
Perfect.
Isa heard that word a lot.
She learned quickly that people liked flowers. Pretty flowers and pretty smiles made everyone else smile too. When she was twelve and perfected gracefully swinging on her vines (something she didn’t dare show anyone until she had it perfect, practicing and practicing in her room), people even clapped.
Abuela kissed her cheek, smiling.
“It’s a good idea,” she said. “You can get so much done that way.” Almost mischievously, she added, “And it looks so pretty, mi flor.”
Isabela smiled, her hands lightly clasped together.
“Gracias, Abuela,” she said sweetly. “It will be easier to decorate when I can be higher, don’t you think?”
And if she sometimes dreamed of swinging fast and wildly…Well, it didn’t matter. It was a silly idea anyway.
No one needed wildness from her. Not from Señorita Perfecta Isabela.
“Our angel,” Tio Félix called her proudly and the name caught on. Soon it seemed like the whole village was saying it.
“Señorita Perfecta,” everyone said; kids her age and adults, even younger kids.
“So graceful,” Señora Guzman said approvingly.
“Our perfect Isabela,” Abuela said, her eyes shining with pride.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Isabela had to be perfect. She was the oldest, the good example. She was the creator of beautiful flowers, making the town blossom. A fairytale character come to life.
A doll.
A princess.
Whether in town or in Casita, Isabela had a role to play. Sweet, angelic Isabela; always smiling, always gentle and kind. Beautiful, graceful, a rose in every sense.
She made their courtyard look beautiful, with flowers covering every pillar, twisting around the bannisters and staircase, arching over every doorway. Outside of her room, her own pink part of Casita was always covered in pink blossoms.
Always pink. Always soft. Always symmetrical. Always perfect.
She sat with perfect posture, giving small elegant gestures as she talked about her day. She gave her parents quick hugs in greeting, wondering what would happen if she clung to them like a child. Her laughter was soft and pretty, a chiming little giggle. She flipped her hair back, always with her chin up. Every movement was graceful and poised.
After all, Isabela had plenty of practice.
Perfect didn’t come easily. When she was twelve, she stood in front of her mirror for hours, practicing her posture, smiling, smiling and smiling. She twisted and turned, watching herself from every angle. She thought of the worst things she could (Abuela frowning in disapproval, Mirabel’s door vanishing, Tio Bruno turning into a ghost story, Abuela snapping impatiently, the time she found her mamá quietly sobbing on Agustín’s shoulder, worn out and desperately missing her brother) and her smile stayed steady, her eyes stayed bright.
When she was fourteen, she had the idea for the topiaries. It wasn’t like anyone came into her room anyway; no one would see and tease her or question her. She knew it certainly looked arrogant to have so many images of herself, but this was work. This was to make the family proud, to keep everyone happy.
So she practiced. Practice makes perfect. She curtsied and twirled; she smiled and gestured elegantly. She stood in her usual pose, chin up and hands clasped before her.
It wasn’t exactly fun, but who said perfection was easy?
At least dancing was fun. Isabela enjoyed it; her whole family were a musical bunch. No one would take it away from her.
If Isabela was always worrying what people thought, what Abuela thought, then Luisa seemed like the opposite. She just did her jobs with no comment, always moving onto the next task, forever in motion.
Isa wasn’t sure how she did it. She would have been exhausted, but Luisa carried on without a care. The Strong One indeed.
Isabela admired that. She wouldn’t draw attention to it, but she quietly admired her sister from a distance. Luisa seemed to be everywhere at once, in the middle of multiple tasks at a time.
She doubted Luisa would be happy if Isa suggested a break.
So when Luisa was once more the last one home, Isabela didn’t say “Go lie down, I’ll bring your dinner to your room. Borrow my lavender soap, it will help you relax.”
Instead, she smiled her pretty smile and tucked a flor de mayo behind Luisa’s ear.
“Keep up the good work,” she said, leaving a trail of rose petals in her wake as she went to the dining room.
It seemed as soon as she hit eighteen, boys were lining up to try and get her attention. Oh, sure, she’d had boys flirt with her before and send little gifts or notes, but nothing serious.
But once her birthday hit, the attention seemed to grow.
Surely we’re all too young to be thinking of marriage, Isabela thought to herself with a bemused smile. She’d barely even thought of dating, let alone anything serious!
Thankfully, Abuela only gave a mild shake of her head. None of the boys were good enough in her eyes, not for her perfect Isabela.
“You don’t have to date until you want to, corazón,” Julieta said as Isabela eyed a box of chocolates with disinterest. “Do you like any of these boys?”
“Not really, Mamá,” Isabela admitted. Immediately worried it sounded rude, she added, “I mean, I barely know them.”
It seemed to be settled, until she was nineteen.
Until Mariano Guzman, Señora Guzman’s only grandchild, began to approach her.
Isabela knew him. Sort of. He was an acquaintance anyway. She knew his reputation: gentlemanly, kind, creative and caring. Everyone praised his manners and good looks.
He was handsome, but Isabela barely noticed. It simply wasn’t on her radar.
But Mariano started talking to her more. He’d find her in town and offer her any help she needed. He’d shower her in poetic compliments, praising her beauty and grace to the skies. To hear him tell it, there was no finer young woman anywhere. It was sweet, but coming on a little strong.
And Isabela didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t some random boy she used to go to school with, this was Señora Guzman’s grandson. Abuela’s friend. One of the most important families in town.
She saw Abuela smile and her chest tightened.
Isabela’s smile stayed in place.
A few weeks later, Isabela was making flowers bloom all around Señora Guzman’s house: they twisted around her balcony and over her front door. Her flower boxes were all suddenly filled with pink and white roses. Isabela looked up and caught Mariano watching her from the balcony. He waved with a smile and Isabela waved back.
He hurried inside and, a few moments later, reappeared in the front doorway.
“Isabela,” he said. “I was wondering…”
Isabela held her hands together, her nails digging into her palms. She saw Señora Guzman and Abuela watching them, their heads bowed together, whispering and smiling.
“Sí, Mariano?” She stayed smiling, flipping her hair back. Her breathing felt too shallow. Did Mariano notice? Did Abuela see? Her heartbeat sounded too loud in her own ears.
Mariano cleared his throat and presented her with a little folded up sheet of paper. She unfolded it and saw it was a poem.
A poem about her. About her beauty and sweetness.
“Oh,” she whispered. She wanted to give it back to him and say, No, I’m sorry, can’t we just be friends? I barely know you. I don’t know if I’m really what you want.
“I was hoping we could go to dinner sometime,” Mariano said, the shyest she’d ever heard him. “Or perhaps just for a walk if you prefer.”
Abuela and Señora Guzman were still watching. They weren’t whispering anymore, but she could see the hope in Abuela’s smile, the pride in her eyes.
She looked so happy.
Isabela took a deep breath and held the poem to her chest like it was a priceless treasure, giving Mariano what she hoped was a slightly stunned (but pleased) smile.
“I’d love to,” she said, and kissed his cheek. He blushed brightly, smiling a little dopily, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” Isabela agreed. She left with a swish of her pink skirts, rose petals trailing behind her. Grace in every step, poised and lovely, drawing the admiring gazes and smiles of their community.
Our angel.
Señorita Perfecta.
Tio Bruno may have called her pequeña rosa, once upon a time, but that felt different somehow. More…real.
Abuela caught up with her, smiling. Isabela slowed down and Abuela linked their arms together, eyes shining.
“Oh, Isa, mi flor,” she breathed. “He’s such a fine young man. It couldn’t be more perfect.”
But, Abuela, what if it’s not? What if I get to know him and don’t like him? What if, one day, I slip up? What if I make a mistake and he changes his mind? Will you keep smiling at me then?
Isabela smiled, squeezing Abuela’s arm.
“So perfect,” she agreed brightly. “He’s so sweet.”
Abuela nodded, her smile widening.
“And so good for the Encanto.”
