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Miguel: [finishing his opening narration] Sometimes I look at de la Cruz, a-and I get this feeling, like we're connected somehow. Like… if he could play music… maybe someday, I-I could too! [Cuts to him at the plaza revealing he's actually talking to a mariachi guy.] If it wasn't for my family. Mariachi: [impatient] Ay, ay, ay, muchacho. Miguel: Huh? Mariachi: I asked for a shoe shine, not your life story! Miguel: Oh yeah, sorry. [shines his shoes] I just can't really talk about any of this at home, so... Mariachi: Look, if I were you, I'd march right up to my family and say, "Hey! I'm a musician, deal with it!" Miguel: I could never say that. Mariachi: You are a musician, no? Miguel: I-I-I don't know. I mean... I only really play for myself. Mariachi: Nah! Did de la Cruz become the world's best musician by hiding his sweet, sweet skills? No! He walked out onto that plaza and he played out loud! [spots something] Ah, mira, mira! They're setting up for tonight! The music competition for Día de Muertos! You wanna be like your hero? You should sign up! Miguel: Uh-uh, my family would freak! Mariachi: Look, if you're too scared, then, well...have fun making shoes! [pauses] Come on, what did de la Cruz always say? Miguel: "Seize your moment"? Mariachi: [showing his guitar] Show me what you got, muchacho. I'll be your first audience. [Miguel takes the guitar and is about to play when...] Abuelita: [in the distance, furious] MIGUEL! Miguel: Ah! [gives the guitar back and Abuelita is stomping up the street with Rosa and Berto following.] Abuelita! Abuelita: What are you doing here?! Miguel: Um... oh... uh... Abuelita: [thrusts her shoe in the mariachi's face] You leave my grandson alone! Mariachi: Doña, please! I was just getting a shine! Abuelita: I know your tricks, mariachi! [to Miguel] What did he say to you? Miguel: He was just showing me his guitar. [Berto and Rosa gasp] Berto: Shame on you! Abuelita: [pushing her shoe further] My grandson is a [childishly] sweet, little angelito, perrito, cielito! [furiously, pushes him off the bench] He wants no part of your music, mariachi. You keep away from him. [The marachi crawls away and takes his hat with him.] [to Miguel, childishly] Ay, pobrecito! [hugs him] Estas bien, mijo. [kisses his head; furiously] You know better than to be here in this place! You will come home, NOW.

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