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“Isabela,” Abuela says to her one day as they walk through the Encanto. “You are the definition of perfect.”
To disagree would be an imperfection, so she just smiles and nods and thanks her Abuela for the compliment.
At some point they pass a mother and her young daughter, and the daughter says, “Look, mama! It’s Isabela! She’s so perfect!”
“She is,” the mother replies, and Isabela has to stop herself from crying at her next words. “But it must take a lot of work to be perfect. Too much for those of us without gifts. Don’t ever feel like you need to be just like her, alright? To me, you’re perfect just the way you are.”
And Isabela wishes that could be her the woman is talking to. It’s too much for her, even with a gift.
That child, with nothing but wonder in her eyes for the world around her, is perfect.
The next day, Isabela finds a little plant on the footpath that has been crushed by shoes and donkey hooves. Her duties for the day (in the town, at least) are done, so she carefully pulls out the plant, roots and all, and carries it back to her room in Casita.
She tucks the plant into the topmost corner of her bed curtain so no one else will see it (especially Abuela; Isabela can’t imagine how badly she’d react if she found out Isabela was going behind her back and hiding an imperfect plant), using her gift to give it a bit of a boost, and stares lovingly at the little pop of green in an ocean of pastel pink. There is dirt on her dress, which makes her imperfect, so she changes and brushes her hair before leaving once again.
That little plant, surviving despite being trampled on, is perfect.
One day, when Isabela is growing roses in the town, something catches her eye. A royal blue blossom has grown in one of her rose bushes, bold against the pale pink.
It’s not perfect, but Luisa likes blue, right? It would make a nice gift for her, Isabela thinks, but Abuela gets there first and picks the flower and throws it away. Isabela watches as someone steps on it, and she can’t help but feel as if they are stepping on her heart.
Abuela reminds her, “Pink flowers only, mi flor,” and her words feel like a slap in the face. But her hurt is an imperfection, so she smiles and desperately hopes it doesn’t look too fake.
That blue flower, for the short time it lived, had been perfect.
Isabela can’t sleep that night and stays up late designing flower dresses on one of her many topiary figures of herself. Her hands move on their own, and soon Isabela finds herself staring at a pale blue gown dotted with white flowers. The hem is grass-stained, somehow, and Isabela loves it; it reminds her of a drawing she (or maybe one of her sisters?) made as a child.
But Abuela likes her wearing violet, so she lets the blue flowers wither and forces herself to use lavender-coloured blooms in perfectly planned patterns. She can’t afford to be imperfect.
That sparks a thought. Isabela looks down at her feet, then steps back and lets blue and orange flowers grow where her feet had been.
No.
She lets the flowers wither, glancing behind her. The door is still closed, but the voice in her head is right.
She can’t risk anyone seeing that she is any less than perfect.
So she makes sure she looks perfect the next day, makes sure her movements are as graceful and her smile as beautiful as anyone can possibly be. This is supposed to be the life of her dreams, after all. She should at least pretend to enjoy it.
Anything less than perfection, and she is a failure.