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“What could I do if I just grew what I was feelin' in the moment? What could I do if I just knew it didn't need to be perfect? It just needed to be? And they'd let me be? A hurricane of jacarandas; strangling figs, hanging vines. Palma de cera fills the air as I climb and I push through! What else can I do?” - What Else Can I Do? Encanto
It wasn’t that Isabela hated pink; it was more like she’d come to hate what the colour represented.
Señorita Perfecta Isabela. Princesa Isabela. Hermosa Isabela.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Sometimes, Isabela wondered what would happen if she came down to breakfast and she wasn’t dressed in pretty pastels. What if she wore something bolder or darker? Something without so many frills? What if she didn’t wear flor de mayo or roses in her hair, and instead wore a new flower? What would happen if she didn’t wear any flowers at all?
Abuela and the family would be unhappy, that’s what would happen.
Isabela was the eldest: the good girl, the perfect girl. She was the leading example to her sisters and cousins, to everyone in her age group. She was the little girl that adults cooed and doted over, she was the teenager parents wished they had. Always so sweet and polite! they said in approval.
She was the most admired young woman in town. Kind, gentle Isabela, who always had something sweet to say. Graceful, poised Isabela, mature beyond her years. Always sweetly smiling, always polite and helpful. A delight to all who knew her.
As Isabela swung on her vines to the awed gasps of onlookers (You’d swear they never saw me do this before, Isabela thought), it felt like her vines were puppet strings. Still, she kept her smile in place and every movement was elegant. Even as she swung, not a hair was out of place. In seconds, the church was full of beautiful blossoms: pink and white roses all along the pillars and pews, and an archway of roses, orchids and carnations at the altar.
“Gracias, Isabela,” Padré Martinez said, shaking her hand with both of his. “Your work is beautiful as always.”
Isabela kept smiling, modestly accepting his thanks and the praises of the bride and groom. With a flourish, she presented the bride with a rose bouquet; as she elegantly swept away, she left a trail of rose petals all down the aisle and heard the mother of the bride say, “Oh, it couldn’t be more perfect!”
No doubt, someone would go singing her praises to her parents or Abuela. Isabela would smile and say, “It was nothing, I’m happy to help,” even if she didn’t want to talk about flower arrangements again.
All the while, she would be sweet and charming. The tightness in her chest would loosen when Abuela looked at her with pride, when Mamá kissed her cheek and Papá smiled at her.
She was fine. Of course she was fine. What did she possibly have to complain about?
She was Isabela Madrigal with the perfect Gift, perfect hair and clothes. She had the perfect family and the perfect boyfriend.
Isabela was perfect and that made everyone happy. So why did she feel so on edge? Why couldn’t she stop her ridiculous daydreams of trying something new? She didn’t need new. The family certainly didn’t need her to act so foolish.
She’d be fine.
She sat on Mariano’s balcony, smiling as he read her his new poem, all about her and her beauty.
It was always about beauty.
A rose, the poem called her. Perfect.
Señora Guzman was just inside, of course, within earshot as a chaperone, as was only proper. When Isabela’s eyes flickered towards the doors, she could see Señora Guzman sitting on a plush chair with her knitting; her smile grew as Mariano read his poem.
She seemed to enjoy it more than Isabela did.
What would happen if she asked Mariano to write something else about her? Something that didn’t compare her to a flower, or call her beautiful, perfect and graceful? What would he come up with then?
Would he come up with anything at all?
If Isabela wasn’t perfect, if she wasn’t making flowers, who was she?
The tightness in her chest returned with a vengeance and she clasped her hands on her lap to hide how they trembled. She was being silly, so silly. Mariano was perfect; gentlemanly, handsome, friendly and always willing to help others. He was creative and funny; Isabela liked him, so why couldn’t she make herself love him? What girl wouldn’t want Mariano Guzman to write poems about her?
“Such a perfect match,” Abuela said happily, so many times that Isabela could mouth the words along with her and copy Abuela’s exact stance- if she dared. Isabela remembered how excited Abuela had been when Mariano first approached her. Her smile had been utterly joyous, taking years off her face. For a moment, Isabela had seen the beautiful young woman her abuela had been.
“He’s such a sweet boy,” Mamá said with a smile, hugging Isabela.
“Well, I suppose he’s good enough for my little girl,” Papá laughed.
“Ay, Isa, he adores you!” Tia Pepa said excitedly.
“He’s a good kid,” Tio Félix said, patting her shoulder. “Just like you.”
It was a perfect match. They were the perfect couple. Everyone was so happy. It would be so good for the Encanto, two of their strongest families tied together forevermore.
“What do you think?” Mariano asked her when he finished his recitation.
Isabela placed her hand on her heart. “It was lovely,” she said. She said it every time.
So perfect. So good for the Encanto. Abuela was happy; the family was happy.
Everything was perfect.
That night, she lay on her bed, suspended up in the air, hidden among the huge curtains of flowers. She lay perfectly still and she wanted to scream.
She wasn’t entirely sure why she wanted to scream. The day had gone so well; even Mirabel had stayed out of her way.
All the same, Isabela lay there, stiff as a board, and she wanted to scream her head off.
She couldn’t imagine Mariano lying next to her.
Tio Bruno had foreseen the life of her dreams; he’d said she’d be happy as can be. He told her that her powers would grow.
But here she was, an adult, and nothing had changed. Her Gift was the same as always: rows and rows of roses, flor de mayo by the mile. She wore pretty dresses and said equally pretty things; everything was pretty, lovely, beautiful, perfect.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
“My perfect nieta,” Abuela said.
“Our angel,” Tio Félix said.
“My sweet girl,” Mamá said.
Perfect. Sweet. Angelic. Yep, that was Isabela.
So many girls would kill for her life; her life was a dream for many, many people…So why did she feel so…So…
Trapped.
Isabela sat up, heart pounding. She felt trapped. She felt very small and insignificant. She felt like a doll, a puppet; moved around to where others wanted her to be, wearing what other people wanted her to wear and saying what everyone else wanted to hear.
She didn’t want to wear pink, or lilac, or even lavender. She didn’t want blossoms in her hair. She didn’t want to wear the same kind of make-up all the time. She didn’t want to always worry about her hair or posture; she didn’t want to follow some invisible script.
She wanted something new. She wanted something new so badly it hurt.
She wanted…She wanted…
She didn’t want to marry Mariano.
She didn’t want to be perfect.
She didn’t want to be the good girl, the sweet girl, the princess.
She wanted to be loud. She wanted to be allowed to slouch. She wanted to laugh instead of giggle. She didn’t want to perform for the villagers at every party. She wanted to wear new colours, new styles of dresses.
She didn’t want anymore stupid roses. No more pink, no more pastel! She wanted to…to…chop all her hair off! Dye it! Plaster herself in vivid, crazy make-up! She could wear a shorter skirt, or trousers, or dungarees; she could wear boots and spiky things.
No she couldn’t.
Everyone would be so angry with her. They’d be so disappointed. Abuela would give her that wounded, baffled look she’d worn after Mirabel’s Ceremony. Tia Pepa would thunder the way she always did when Tio Bruno was mentioned.
If Isabela acted out, if she lost control, would everyone pretend she didn’t exist too?
Maybe…Maybe Bruno’s vision had just been about all the flowers she could grow, or her perfect control of her Gift? Yes, that was it. That had to be it…
Chest heaving, tears stinging her eyes, Isabela grabbed her pillow, buried her face in it and screamed until her throat ached.
Abuela and her parents called her into Abuela’s room. Her parents sat on the edge of Abuela’s bed and Abuela gestured for her to join them. Julieta took her hand, smiling. All three of them were smiling. In fact, Abuela looked downright giddy; it was an unusual look from her.
“Isabela, mi flor,” Abuela said softly. “I have the most wonderful news.”
“Oh?” Isabela’s eyes darted between Abuela, Mamá and Papá. “What about?” Goodness, surely they weren’t about to say that Mamá was pregnant; Antonio had been enough of a surprise! Then again, wouldn’t they announce a pregnancy to everyone at the same time? They usually did.
Abuela looked so proud, as if Isabela had done something wonderful. She took Isabela’s free hand between both of hers, patting it gently.
“Mariano wishes to marry you, mi flor. He approached me and your parents today.”
Oh God.
It felt like her blood had been replaced with ice; she felt cold right down to her very core. Her chest was impossibly tight and she wasn’t sure if she could breathe properly. Surely she’d start to choke if she tried to breathe in? She felt like she was falling down a dark tunnel with no end in sight; it felt like her vines were wrapping around her, keeping her in place, choking her.
Logically, Isabela had known how this courtship would end. As much as she might daydream about Mariano finding someone else, or simply ending it herself, she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t ever risk it. It was for the family, for the village, for Abuela. She’d known where this would end up.
But she was still so young, wasn’t there more time? Just a little more time?
It was through sheer force of will that Isabela kept her smile on her face. Practice makes perfect.
“Oh,” she breathed, feeling a stab of relief when she heard how dreamy she sounded. “Oh, that’s…That’s wonderful.”
“Now, there is no date set just yet,” Abuela said. “But I’m sure he won’t keep you waiting long.”
He can keep me waiting as long as he likes.
She widened her smile and nodded.
“Oh, you’re all grown up,” Papá said, looking teary-eyed. Mamá was beaming at her and kissed her cheek, still holding her hand. Abuela was still smiling, eyes shining.
Isabela looked at the candle. Work and dedication. Make the family proud. Strengthen our home.
She smiled until her cheeks hurt.
“My one request was that he propose here, at Casita,” Abuela said, releasing her hand. “We’ll make sure it’s perfect for you, Isabela.”
Mariano, here, in her home. Mariano, in her room. Mariano in her bed, in- No, no, no. Stop that train of thought right there. There was no need to panic. Mariano was a wonderful young man, he was sweet and he cared about her. He loved her.
And Isabela didn’t want to marry him.
“I never wanted to marry him! I was doing it for the family!”
Pop!
There was a cactus in her room. A little, fat cactus with a bright orange blossom on it. A spiky, asymmetrical cactus that stuck out like a sore thumb.
It was such an odd sight. It didn’t fit. It didn’t belong. Where had that strange little thing come from?
Slowly, dazed, Isabela knelt down. One touch of her hand and the cactus grew in size, which only succeeded in making it even more asymmetrical. Its spikes poked at her palm and fingers.
It was real, alright.
She’d done that? She’d grown that odd plant. She’d just made something sharp.
Something new.
Something that wasn’t perfect. Something that wasn’t pink, white, purple or soft red. Something that wasn’t soft.
But it was beautiful all the same.
And it was hers.
Heart pounding, Isabela stood up, the cactus cupped in her hands. She examined it curiously from every angle. Sure, she’d read about all kinds of flora, but she made pretty little things, not stuff like this.
In a flash, she remembered-
“Your powers will grow,” Tio Bruno said, ruffling her hair. “You’ll make a bunch of new things one day, Isa.”
“Really?” Isabela asked, hanging off his arm. She knew she shouldn’t, she should stand up straight instead, but Tio Bruno never told her off. “Even more than roses?”
“Vines for a start,” Bruno said with one of his rare grins. “I promise, kid, you’re gonna do things you’ve never even imagined.”
Oh, Isabela thought, eyes wide. This is what he meant.
She resisted the urge to laugh, to throw her head back and cackle. She’d grown a cactus! How absurd! How strange! How utterly unlike Señorita Perfecta!
She loved it. This spiky, odd plant was hers.
“Good talk!” Mirabel said, but Isabela barely heard her. “Bring it in, Isa!”
“What else can I do?” Isabela whispered to herself, looking at her perfect, symmetrical room. All those pastel colours, all those pretty flowers. What could she do instead?
The proposal had already gone to hell; she had time until Abuela apologised to the Guzmans and they rearranged things. She didn’t just have to imagine, she could try.
She had to try.
Isabela let her vines lift her up and carry her to the centre of her room. Mirabel followed after her, obviously bewildered.
“Uh, Isa?” she asked. “What are you doing?”
“You see these?” Isabela asked, pointing to the topiaries of herself; her most popular poses, all so perfect and practised so often that Isabela could do them in her sleep.
“Er…Yeah?”
“I hate them,” Isabela announced. She gently set her new cactus down and, with a swing of her arm and a clenched fist, vines wrapped around the topiaries and destroyed them. “I practise them all the time; I came up with the idea when I was fourteen. Everyone kept saying how poised I was, how elegant…But, y’know, that stuff isn’t natural. I don’t think a single person in the world actually moves like that normally.” She snorted and kicked at the head of a topiary that had landed at her feet.
Mirabel caught it, stared at it for a second and let out a choked scream, flinging it away.
Before she could say anything, Isabela was off again, running across her room. She outright sprinted, pumping her arms and legs; harsh footsteps, rushed movements. As she ran, the petals on her floor changed colour: rose pink to sunshine yellow. As she ran her hand along the wall, it changed to red and blue. She spun around, laughing, and the rows of roses before her turned blue and green and new flowers grew among them: bromeliads, salvia, bee balm, a marmalade bush, cordyline and heliconia bird of paradise.
It was chaotic. It was colourful. It was bold and unusual; none of it really matched or blended together; they were all crowded together or else spaced very far apart. There was no rhyme or reason to it.
Isabela loved it.
What else can I do? she wondered as she began to run around again, leaving sweet, glorious chaos in her wake. What else can I do?
She jumped onto her bed, tightly gripping the vines that suspended it. Her breathing was rapid but this time it was with excitement, not anxiety.
What else can I do?
“I don’t need to be perfect,” she whispered to herself. Louder and more firmly, she said, “I don’t want to be perfect. I want…I want to be me.” And I want everyone to let me be. I want to be me, I want to be me, I just want to be me.
She swung forward with all her might.
When the Gifts came back, when Mirabel brought the magic back, the first thing Isabela did was throw down balls of pollen and let them coat her dress. She emerged from the explosion of colour with her dress stained bright blue, with splashes of yellow, green and orange. She ran her hands through her hair and an orange anthurium appeared where her orchid used to be; streaks of blue and green ran through her hair. She waved her arm and a vine curled around it like some strange bracelet.
Better, Isabela thought with a grin. Much better.
She stomped her foot and the back wall of the courtyard was coated in her strange, spiky plants. A huge cactus sprouted from a nearby flower pot, which Luisa set aside. Isabela could feel the magic in the air, the magic thrumming through her veins, stronger and brighter than it had ever been.
Mariano was dancing with Dolores, both of them looking smitten. Tia Pepa was dancing with Tio Félix in a shower of hail, laughing delightedly. Mirabel was standing next to Tio Bruno and both of them were cheering Pepa on.
Mirabel caught her eye and grinned, waving. “It looks great!” she called, pointing to the wall.
Isabela’s grin widened. She stepped out of the shadows and, with a stamp of her feet and her arms spread wide, the courtyard was quickly covered in plants: vines and sugar flowers along the pillars, houseleeks and cacti in flower pots, and passion flowers of all colours and sizes along the walls.
Mirabel’s smile widened and Isabela strode over, arms swinging. No more skipping, no more prancing.
“Love it,” Mirabel said, giving the courtyard a nod of approval.
Tio Bruno caught her eye and winked.
Isabela cupped her hands and a small, fat cactus appeared, dotted here and there with tiny blue flowers.
“Want a cactus?”
It would be a long while before she grew something pink or pastel again. For now, the mere idea made her stiffen and chafe at imagined bindings.
But for now, Isabela was happy to experiment with something new. She wanted to be bright, to be bold.
She would laugh loudly; she would slouch and stomp. She would make a mess without panicking over it. She would snap and argue; she would raise her voice and stubbornly carry on, regardless of what other people said or thought. Isabela would be herself and take her time to discover just who she was beyond expectations of beauty and perfection.
She wanted to know just how far she could rise.
Goodbye, Señorita Perfecta; I won’t be missing you.
