Canto Contigo: A Novel

by Jonny Garza Villa

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA LGBT & Pride; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When a Mariachi star transfers schools, he expects to be handed his new group's lead vocalist spot—what he gets instead is a tenacious current lead with a very familiar, very kissable face.

In a twenty-four-hour span, Rafael Alvarez led North Amistad High School’s Mariachi Alma de la Frontera to their eleventh consecutive first-place win in the Mariachi Extravaganza de Nacional; and met, made out with, and almost hooked up with one of the cutest guys he’s ever met.

Now eight months later, Rafie’s ready for one final win. What he didn’t plan for is his family moving to San Antonio before his senior year, forcing him to leave behind his group while dealing with the loss of the most important person in his life—his beloved abuelo. Another hitch in his plan: The Selena Quintanilla-Perez Academy’s Mariachi Todos Colores already has a lead vocalist, Rey Chavez—the boy Rafie made out with—who now stands between him winning and being the great Mariachi Rafie's abuelo always believed him to be. Despite their newfound rivalry for center stage, Rafie can’t squash his feelings for Rey. Now he must decide between the people he’s known his entire life or the one just starting to get to know the real him.

Canto Contigo is a love letter to Mexican culture, family and legacy, the people who shape us, and allowing ourselves to forge our own path. At its heart, this is one of the most glorious rivals-to-lovers romance about finding the one who challenges you in the most extraordinary ways.

 

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Release date: April 9, 2024

Publisher: Wednesday Books

Print pages: 338

Sample

1

I WANT TO GRAB THIS GUITAR by the neck and smash it on the floor. I want to throw it at the wall. To hear it crack and break. To scream and cry in this hospital hallway that’s way too quiet. And the only reason I don’t is because this piece of wood with little bits of metal and string is the only thing keeping me together. As long as I keep a hold on it, I’ll stay anchored, and I won’t break down. Probably. I can squeeze and focus on the pain in my fingers from how hard I’m gripping it. A small but good-enough distraction from how hurt my heart is right now.

“Mi’jo,” Amá whispers, squatting down in front of me. Her hand touches my cheek and all I want to do is lean into her palm. She stays completely still except for when her thumb moves to wipe a tear off my face and then to pick me up by my chin so she can see my sad red eyes. Her other hand holds a bottle of Mexican Coke and a taco wrapped in foil, waiting for me to take them.

My cousin Ángel falls into the chair next to me with three tacos of his own.

“Here. Toma,” Amá says.

“I don’t want anything,” I mutter back.

“It’s going to be a few hours until we get to San Antonio. You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She breathes in and lets out her annoyed huff, patting my leg a couple times before using it to help pick herself up. “You need to. I need to see you eat something. If not, there’s no way I’m letting you go to Extravaganza. ¿Quieres a ir, sí?”

“Sí.” The word comes out a lot less enthusiastically than usual, but I still mean it just as much. No, even more now. “I still wanna go. I have to.”

I can hear her bothered moan and look up to see her scrunched face, like she’s trying her best to hold in everything she wants to say so badly she might explode. “I— No, you don’t have to. Rafael, no one would blame you if you said you can’t. No one in your shoes would be able to right now. No one is expecting you to. They can get Mig—”

“I’m going,” I snap, my voice filling the hallway. And I know it’s taking a lot for her to be this forgiving to me for yelling. On any other day, she’d tell me off in front of every single person in this hospital. But today isn’t just any other day.

This morning—the half an hour I got in a cold room with the sounds of Univision quietly coming from a TV and all the beeps of machines—was the last time I’ll ever see my abuelo alive. In the last few minutes I had with him, I told him I’d still go. I told him I’d bring him back a third first-place trophy. Another Best Vocalist award. I would come back and tell him all about how great we—I was on that stage. Just the thought of going back on any of those promises feels like I’m squeezing my own heart and lungs and guts. “I have to. For him.”

Amá stays standing in front of me, her eyes scrunched all seriously, silently arguing for me to listen to her for once. And mine are on her, saying there’s no one who could convince me to change my mind. Not even her.

She’ll try, though. I know she wants to. I know all the things she’s thinking. All the things she’s told me in the last twenty-four hours. That I’m not in a place to be focusing on performing and singing. That I should take some days to let myself be sad. That our whole heartbroken family—except for the three of us and Apá—is going to be here, and Alma would understand if I need to spend the weekend here too.

Ángel’s hand goes to the back of my neck, rubbing and squeezing, like he could feel me about to start crying again. I can’t. I don’t want Amá to see me do it. I don’t want my getting emotional leading to her being all, Why are you still going? Let’s just stay home.

I’ve got to push through it. If I have to force myself to stand up on that stage tomorrow in my

Mariachi Alma de la Frontera charro, sing like all that’s in my heart is happiness and gratitude, and act like everything is okay, I’ll do it if it means another win at Extravaganza. I’ll do it because I’m an Álvarez and this is what we do. It’s in our blood. And I know she doesn’t doubt I can or that I will, but she’s always going to do her Amá thing and worry about my emotional state. Tell me over and over again that it’s okay if I sit this one out. How “the world won’t end.”

She’s right. It won’t. It already has.

So I don’t have any other choice besides to go and sing and pretend Abuelo’s in the front row of the Tobin Center auditorium, just like he was the two years before, and outshine everyone else there. For him. Because after he wasn’t able to play guitar anymore, after he wasn’t able to sing anymore, I could for him. I can for him still.

I can hold on to all the memories of when he was still able to hug me and pat my back and tell me how proud he is of me. Of him teaching me how to hold a guitarrón and carry a tune. And of every time I’ve strummed a guitar and sung something by Pedro Infante or Rocío Dúrcal, when he’d give me that look that told me how great I am. How I could see in his smile and in his eyes that, when today eventually came, I’d keep our family’s legacy going. I’d take it further. I could even make something of myself doing this.

What I can’t do is stop, especially not now. Not ever.

I told him I wouldn’t. I cried with my head resting on the back of his hand and promised him I would never stop. And I hoped so badly that he could hear me. That he heard me tell him I’m great because of him. Because of every minute he spent teaching me everything he knew, just like he taught my apá and tíos. And I hoped with everything I had that he heard me tell him I’m going to keep being the best, for him. Keep being perfect. Because he doesn’t deserve anything less. And because everyone who sees me perform should know that it’s all him.

So, I take the Coke and then the breakfast taco, unwrap the foil, and force myself to take a bite, chew, and swallow. Amá sighs as her hand grabs on to my shoulder. Ángel’s hand goes from my neck and reaches around my back, coming in for a side hug. I take a deep breath, forcing all the want to cry back down along with the flour tortilla and chorizo and potato.

I can do this. I can do this.

Para ti. Siempre.

---

“¡Rafie, venga!” Miguel’s voice gets louder and higher pitched with every syllable, like I’m not just on the other side of the room from him. Cabrón más borracho. And we haven’t even left yet.

I put on a maroon flannel shirt, leaving most of the buttons undone except for the few at the

bottom, showing off my thin silver chains: one with Abuelo’s crucifix that Apá gave me before we left North Amistad and another with a pearl, shiny against my skin. I take a deep breath, holding on to the cross, letting myself have a solid four seconds of feeling the hurt and letting it go with an exhale. Then I hurry to put on a pair of gray cotton shorts. Going for ready to fall right into my bed after either drinking too much tonight or being so depressed I couldn’t force myself to have fun for a couple hours. Something comfy but still looking way too good for people to assume I’m going through it.

“¡No me apures!” I shout back before rushing into the restroom to gurgle some Listerine and then brushing a hand through my short hair that is not an Edgar cut, no matter how many times Miguel tries to say it is. I put on my tiny hoop earrings that nearly hug the lobes, then actual rings, a spray of cologne on the neck for the boys, and, yeah, shit. I’m cute. I look at myself and can almost believe this Rafie in front of me is fine. Doing great, even. Swear, if Miguel and Ángel weren’t being such perras, rushing me and needing to keep drinking right now, I’d have them take some fit pics for Instagram. Get photographic proof that I actually am holding it together (mostly) and looking puro más sexy while doing it.

Pues, not tonight.

“We’re not going to the same kickback everyone else’ll be at, right?”

“Course not, Raf.” A second after Miguel answers, I hear the sound of two glasses slamming on the table. They really took another shot. How does that pendejo not die doing this shit? And if he gets my freshman cousin wasted, that’s on him. I ain’t taking care of nobody.

“We’re smarter than that,” Ángel answers, coming over to the bathroom and looking through the couple of colognes I brought, sniffing one and then another before doing quick sprays on his wrists and shirt. “It’s like Migs said: You know what happens when we’re with our own group—”

“Their messiness becomes our messiness,” Miguel and I answer together while I walk out of the bathroom and Ángel closes the door behind me.

We aren’t having a repeat of last year, when a couple of our violinists threw up all over some girl from Arizona’s bed, and because Miguel and I were in the same group, we got pulled into it. These two putos? At the end of the day, yeah, I got them, as much as I might say different. I know I’d be there to drag these fools out, just like they would me. As angry as I’ll be about it and as much as I wouldn’t want to or will tell them over and over again that they’re on their own. No one else, though.

“Yeah, not about it. But it’s a good one, right? We aren’t about to walk into some kids playing Dungeons and Dragons?”

“If we do, I’m gonna ask if I can play a dragon named Gustavo.”

I glare at Miguel before slapping his wallet to his stomach, laughing at the loud smack and his “Ya, güey” that comes after.

“I’m joking. It’ll be good. Some guy from Uvalde, I think. Or are they from out of state? Utah? Does Utah have mariachi? Is Utah even a state or am I just making up a word? Maybe. Doesn’t matter.”

He rushes into the bathroom after my cousin’s out, not even closing the door, so we have to hear the stream of pee hitting toilet water and then the sound of the faucet and him washing his hands and yelling, “I think I broke the seal! And—wait a minute. Damn, mira, soy guapo,” while probably giving his mullet he’s been growing out for the last couple months

one final touch-up with his hands.

“You hooking up with anyone tonight?” Ángel asks. His side bumps into me as he takes a seat on my bed.

“I hadn’t thought about it. Why? Are you?”

“Been messaging this girl from Houston on Instagram. She should be at the party we’re going to. See what happens.” He’s got a proud and excited smirk on his face as he starts putting on socks and then his shoes, tying one before stopping to look at me, easily catching me give him a face, like, You’re a fucking freshman; you have zero actual game once you take the phone away. Boy shoots up to five-ten, passing Miguel and me, and starts bulking up from football and thinks he’s all that.

But also, if he gets farther with someone tonight than I have in my whole life (which is nowhere at all), I’m going to be mad.

“You should, though,” he continues. “It’d do you some good. Not even hook up, just, like, make out with someone for a while. Have a couple drinks, and if there’s a dude that seems interested, you should go for it. Really. For all of us, please go for it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That, like, as happy as I am I got the chance to say goodbye, it hurt. And maybe I’m selfish, but I don’t want to think about it anymore today. I don’t want to think about it tomorrow. Which is why I’m here instead of at home. We’re here. So I’m gonna make the best of it, drink to the memory of our abuelo who could outdrink literally anyone in our family and probably still can even from a hospital bed, and hopefully make a memory tonight that I can focus on this weekend when my brain is trying to get me sad. I think he’d want us to try, right? To go on living. I think he’d especially want you to try to make the best of tonight. And I mean that with all the love I’ve got for you, Raf.”

Ignore everything and convince ourselves we’re not pretending to have fun. That’s how I know he’s got that Mexican guy gene that makes us bad at emotion and instead we fill our body with all our feelings like we’re some kind of piñata waiting for that right hit to finally pour our guts out. And it’s always messy.

We’re going through this together, but it’s not really the same. He didn’t grow up having the same relationship I did with Abuelo. I—I know I’m the favorite. I’ve got enough self-control to never say it out loud in front of him, but it’s true. I’m the gifted grandkid. The one every vieja and viejo at church would always say, “You’re just like your abuelo. He’s so proud of you,” to on their way out of Mass. The way I’m feeling everything—have been feeling everything for the last few years—is different than however it’s happening with him or anyone else. I’m here, and as much as I told myself I would, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to sing on the Extravaganza stage knowing that Abuelo won’t be here watching me like he always did. I talk a big game to my parents and to the group, but I know it’s going to be hard tomorrow morning. I don’t know how to prepare for the fact that he’ll never watch me perform again.

Ángel leans over and hugs me. His hands pat my back. “Te quiero, primo. Yeah? Estamos en esto juntos.”

I look to the floor as I nod, sniffing up some mocos. “I—Bueno. Sí. Yo sé.” 

I know that sitting here all chillón isn’t going to get me ready for tomorrow. I know that I don’t want to be here alone. And I know I need to try to not let this keep me from living. That this is one of those rare times when my cousin makes a point. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I lose Abuelo but I don’t think he’d want that on my mind and shoulders right now.

“¿Listos, perras?” Miguel asks, already a foot out the door.

I take a swig of tequila straight from the bottle, grab my wallet, and then follow my cousin out. “Vámonos, putos.”

We let Miguel lead the way, even though he already can’t walk a straight line anymore, Ángel and I trying our best to hold in our laughs as he reaches a hand out to the wall to make sure he doesn’t fully stumble into it. When we get into the stairwell, he lets out an “¡Hotel del Gobernador! ¡El hotel oficial del Mariachi Extravaganza Nacional!” in a voice like he’s a Mexican radio station DJ. Because that’s the only right way to say it. Extravaganza is the biggest mariachi event outside of Guadalajara, and one that North Amistad High School’s Mariachi Alma de la Frontera comes up to San Antonio for every December and has won for the last ten consecutive years. Two of them with me front and center as lead vocalist. And tomorrow, it’ll be three.

Also, the hotel’s pretty nice. A lot better than the La Quintas my family usually stays in, ten to a room.

Miguel sends a text to some number with a weird area code as we stand in front of a door, music and voices muffled behind it, all coming out like a tidal wave of sound when someone opens it and lets us in. The room’s wall-to-wall crowded. Even the beds have at least eight people squeezed on each one—nine when Ángel jumps onto a mattress, wasting no time making himself at home. It’s dark except for the red LEDs they somehow managed to get up on the walls where they meet the ceiling. Looks like Migs brought us to an orgy instead of a party.

We let my cousin get into his own thing, and the two of us somehow squeeze through the room, get drinks, and then find some wall space to lean on and chill for a minute. Miguel’s talking about some guy from a Laredo group who’s blowing up his phone “looking for someone to blow something else.” I’m barely listening, more into taking everything in and everyone dancing and taking shots and making out and— Oh shit. He’s cute.

This guy on the other side of the room. Probably a friend of someone competing. Dark skin, tight curls sprouting from the top of his head, and a fade that nearly hits his skin. A face that’s beautiful even when he looks serious, paying attention to every word of what whoever that girl talking to him is saying, and incredibly kissable when he smiles.

Especially when he smiles at me, even though it’s because he caught me staring. And then staring harder at gorgeous, nearly black eyes that are almost hypnotic the way they catch the light as the LEDs brighten and dim along to the beat of the Weeknd song playing so loud it’s probably about to break someone’s Bluetooth speaker. Wish I could say that it’s one of those quick, no thoughts moments when I catch myself all dead eyed

at nowhere specific. But there are definitely thoughts going through my head as my teeth gently bite into the rim of the Solo cup in my hand while looking his way. And when I realize, Crap, he sees me seeing him, I try to seem cool about it, tipping my cup up to pretend to take a drink. But I go too hard too fast and end up with Malibu and Coke on my shirt and chest.

Pinche madre.

I look up at him; he’s laughing and shaking his head. And as annoyed as I am, I laugh back. If only because if I don’t, I might turn around and spend the rest of the night crying into a wall until I get over the embarrassment and the fact that I got liquor on Abuelo’s crucifix, and while I might not be big on Jesus, this still feels wrong. It feels like something I might get struck by lightning for.

“I’m gonna— I’ll be in the bathroom,” I say right into Miguel’s ear before taking off. When I reach it, my eyes squint from the bright lights that feel like when I go see an early movie and walk out and the sun’s still high and it takes me a couple minutes for my eyes to adjust and stop hurting. A bunch of cusswords come out in English and Spanish as I unbutton and take off my shirt covered in brown Coke stain and smelling a little like coconut from the Malibu. I grab a towel, rubbing a small bar of soap on it under the faucet, first wiping myself down before focusing on the dark spot that seems to be getting less soda-y and more just water as I scrub. Maybe if I rub it hard enough with the dry side of the towel, I’ll get most of it off. At least back in the dark room, it won’t be so noticeable and—

“Chinga tu madre!” My eyes were going from the shirt to the mirror to see if it might not look so bad from another angle, but instead I jump and nearly fall over when I see him. His reflection in the mirror is looking at me while he hangs out in the doorway watching me be all pendejo.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding like he only means it a little. Because most of him is really obviously enjoying how he scared me and how I shouted pinche putz at myself when I almost tripped and fell into the bathtub. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I huff and get back to drying off, trying to seem like he never wrecked my cool. Then, going back to the mirror, I see him, still there. And not just that, but watching the towel wiping away the little bit of Coke I missed that’s getting sticky at the top of my chest, right below where my neck starts.

All right, then.

“It’s whatever. How long have you been watching me?”

“What? Not even. I, uh—I brought you this.” He sets a cup down on the counter. “Looked like you might be needing another one.”

I stare at it for a second before putting the towel down and replacing it with the cup. Malibu and Coke. “How did you know what I’m drinking?”

“Might’ve asked your friend.” He says it with a small, almost nervous smile at the corner of his mouth. Like he doesn’t regret asking, but also wants me

to tell him if that was a weird thing to do.

I smile back and raise the cup. “Thanks.” A short laugh comes out my nose before I take another, longer sip.

“No problem,” he replies, his smirk getting bigger. “And sorry for making you spill your drink. Hopefully this one all makes it into your mouth.”

“You didn’t make me spill it,” I tell him with so much defensiveness in my voice, trying not to think if there was some sexual double meaning about that last part.

He lets out a soft chuckle as he leans against the doorway, arms crossing over his chest. “Okay. I believe you.” And then he slowly walks away, back into the party. I watch as he leaves, biting down on my lip. So happy that the mirror gives me a great view. Think more thoughts like the ones that got me here in the first place.

And after rushing to slip my arms back into my shirt, fastening two of the bottom buttons in hopefully the right holes, and grabbing my new drink, I follow. Something in my heart and brain is speaking to me, telling me not to let him go yet. A quick glance around the room, and I catch him almost in the middle of the crowd, moving along to the beat of some Spanish song I’ve never heard before. We lock eyes as I make my way through bodies, closer and closer until I’m able to let my free hand go to his waist and pull him, taking away that remaining space.

“This okay?” I ask, nearly having to yell into his ear. I’m realizing now that we’re about the same height. I think I got maybe an inch on him if I don’t count his hair.

His hand comes up to the back of my neck and he gets closer to the side of my face as he says, “Yeah.” Whatever cologne he’s got on smells musky, kind of leathery. It’s nice. His hand doesn’t let go as we start dancing. A song by Kali Uchis, then la conquistadora Rosalía, and then some from people I don’t know. I get caught up by his hand on my neck and the other on my arm. On how nice it feels to have mine at his side still. How almost too nice it feels when he grinds against me while we sing along to Bad Bunny’s “Party.” And how, in the dark, the color of his nearly black eyes flecked with the low lights reminds me of my favorite nights at Lake Amistad, under the stars. Feeling limitless.

It’s probably the alcohol talking, getting me all heart eyes for this boy I don’t even know. I wasn’t feeling super hungry at dinner, and now I’m out here being a lightweight and on the verge of clingy.

But I can’t stop looking. At his eyes. At his smile. At him.

After we get tired of dancing, we hang out in one of the corners of the room. We don’t talk a lot, mainly because it’s way too loud for any real conversation.

“You’re from out of town, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. You?”

“Thought so. And no. Here.”

“Cool.”

Mainly, we babysit our drinks, look at each other, and let our fingers flirt for us, like they’re all separate and thinking and gliding and hooking and dancing on their own. My favorite is when his go up and down mine. ...