﻿THE MOST TRAGIC STORY EVER TOLD IS THE TALE OF PINOCCHIO. If you've never heard of the story, it is about a talking block of wood carved into a puppet by Geppetto, a poor wood-carver. The wood-carver insisted he only wanted to show Pinocchio love, but the puppet wanted to become a real boy. Pinocchio longed for human adventures and he tried but his wild escapades always ended in disaster, which somehow proved Geppetto's point that he was right in being strict. Maybe you would put the blame on Pinocchio for not staying put, but I don't. I know what it's like to be stuck, to be pulled in only one direction. Like Pinocchio I am forced to heed rules that keep me quiet when all I want is a tiny bit of adventure.
I gaze at Oscar who uses delicate hands to manipulate the strings of an old puppet taken from our archives. The puppet is hunched over and sitting at the very edge of a stage, as if it is weeping. Oscar is so good at what he does you believe in this puppet's sadness. I know I do. I also can't stop staring at Oscar.
"That looks really great," I say. "Maybe lift the puppet's head a little bit."
"No one asked your opinion. Will you get out of the way?"
The person saying this is not Oscar. No, that voice belongs to my older brother Julián and he once again proves my point about Pinocchio. Some families have taco trucks or invest in portable bookmobiles—not us. The Marin family owns the city's only Latinx traveling puppet show, Marin's Magical Teatro of Puppetry. Puppets have been part of my whole life. My father is a puppeteer. So was my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and so on. We are a family that builds and restores puppets. It is what we do best. We bring joy to many, young and old.
But there's one hitch. Although I'm a Marin, I only do the administrative and puppeteering part of the business. I've never been able to be on the creative front like my brother Julián, to share my ideas about new shows and be a showrunner. Whenever I try to, I'm shut down. Men have always been the voice of Marin's Magical Teatro of Puppetry and I'm so sick of it.
"I want to hear what Lili thinks," Oscar says. Unlike my brother and the rest of my family, Oscar is the only one interested in what I have to say. He's really tall with bushy hair and his smile is like when you see a butterfly appear out of nowhere. It is a sweet surprise, a sunbeam hitting a calm river, the first hint of rain, a rainbow, a…
Yeah, another problem of mine. I got it bad for Oscar.
"You just need the right type of music to go with it," I say. "The audience will be filled with sentimientos."
Julián bristles.
"Stop wasting Oscar's time," he says.
"She's not," Oscar says. "She's right. I should hold the puppet's head up. See?" He does the scene again with the new iteration. It looks so much better, so soulful and real.
"I'm the one in charge here, not Lili," Julián says before turning to me. "Don't you have ticket sales to check?"
Julián's latest idea is to create a YouTube Channel. I offered to come up with puppet show episodes for the channel. The scowl Julián gave me then is the same one he flashes right now. I leave them both in the children's outdoor theater, otherwise known as our backyard but embellished with a tiny stage.
I should be used to Julián shutting me down but it still hurts, especially when Oscar is around. Julián and Oscar have been inseparable since kindergarten, and Dad quickly took young Oscar under his wing. He's one of our best puppeteers now. Funny, I always thought Oscar was just my brother's annoying best friend growing up, but ever since he returned from a summer spent in Costa Rica things changed. I couldn't help notice how he let his hair grow out and his long lean muscles—anyone with eyes can see that.
But it was our recent conversations that sealed the deal for me. When he came back from Costa Rica, he no longer spoke to me like I was the bratty younger sister. We talk about everything: our love for puppets, about traveling and seeing more of the world. Oscar never laughs at any of my ideas. Instead he keeps encouraging me to tell Julián and my father how I feel. He sees me in a way no one else does and I think he feels the same way for me that I do for him. I mean, I hope he does.
I enter our house and head to the kitchen where I last left my laptop. Every Saturday morning, Marin's Magical Teatro of Puppetry hosts a show for kids in our backyard. The admittance is only five bucks, but we usually just let the neighborhood kids watch it for free. There was a time when my father owned his own theater downtown. I have fuzzy memories of running around backstage with puppets hanging from the ceilings, but rents became too high and he had to close it down.
"Good morning my petite Lili," Mom says as she sips her morning coffee.
I was named after the movie Lili starring the dancer slash actress Leslie Caron. It is a 1950s classic that no one ever heard of except for my mom and me. If you look at pictures of me when I was a kid I sported the same cute French bob like Leslie did in the movie. I still have a cute bob, but it's more like an homage to the French new-wave actress Anna Karina now. I also have freckles and they're sprinkled across my nose and fair skin like pepper.
"Good morning," I say as I check the online sales, which aren't many.
Our Saturday shows are mainly a tradition Dad would never end. Although he works full-time at the Jim Henson Creature Shop as a mechanic and animatronics specialist, he allocates as much time as he can to running the traveling puppet show. After the theater closed down, he invested in a large van and converted it with a tiny stage. The traveling show visited countless schools and festivals. Now summers are our busiest months, but commercials and contract work is where the real money is—we are hired to do music videos, ads, even puppet film cameos. Julián thought if we did these videos, we could drum up more business. As a showrunner, he gets to direct and order the puppeteers around. Which is great for him, but I know I can do it too.
"How does it look out there?"
"Okay, I guess. Oscar seems to know what he's doing," I say, trying to sound all nonchalant.
Mom's eyebrows go up in response. She's fully aware of my pining although I've never technically mentioned how I feel about Oscar. I refuse to call it a crush because the word makes it sound as if it's destined to fizzle out.
Dad enters from the workshop, a converted garage that houses all of our archives. I try my luck once more.
"Hey Dad, I thought maybe today I can be the showrunner and Julián work backstage?" I say. "It would be good practice for me."
Dad gives me a warm smile and then he lightly brushes a strand of hair away from my eyes.
"Not yet petite Lili," he says. He pours himself a cup of coffee and heads to his private workstation. His answer is always the same.
"Soon," Mom adds, and the discussion ends as quickly as it began.
I stare at my computer's keyboard. If I were anyone else I would slam the laptop closed. That's just not in my nature. Instead, I sigh and do as I'm told because, if anything, I am a dutiful daughter who listens and obeys. I'm almost sixteen years old, only two years younger than Julián, but I will always be petite Lili to my parents. Oscar doesn't treat me like a child. Why can't they?
Eventually I help set up chairs in the backyard underneath a big tent, so the sun won't toast any of the tiny heads in the audience. It's only a half-hour show and we've done it so many times. We should try new things. Incorporate current songs that are popular like a BTS puppet dance or a TikTok challenge with the puppets. I have so many ideas to punch things up. Too bad my list is just that, a list on my laptop that keeps growing and growing.
When the kids are finally settled, I join Oscar and Julián backstage. The stage is a small wooden structure with large curtains concealing what happens. Out front, the children only see the stage and the puppets entering and emerging from behind curtains. Backstage, we stand on small step ladders to be able to maneuver the marionettes. It's a tight squeeze but we manage. Unlike the previous somber show Oscar was trying to create this morning, this show is way livelier with old songs most of the neighborhood kids know by heart.
"They're ready," I say and place myself beside Oscar. Julián presses the button on the sound system and the first song begins. He soon leaves us alone so we can work. I try not to think of the amount of times Oscar presses against me—it's too many to count. Instead I try to concentrate on delivering joy onto the stage through the different puppets—the singing sunflowers, the chirping birds, the comical mariachis.
Towards the end of the show, there is a scene about a young girl who longs to be with the moon and how the moon serenades her until she falls asleep. This is the finale and it's a way of calming the children from the excitement that happened moments before. Oscar plays the moon and I the little girl while Julián hands out tiny puppet moons on sticks to the kids.
"I only want to be with you," I say as the little girl. "Why can't I stay with you?"
"If you look up to the sky, you will see me again," Oscar says as the moon. "I will always return. Look up."
"What if the clouds deceive me? What if the twinkling of the stars confuses me?"
"I am the moon and I will always return. Now be still. Close your eyes and dream."
Oscar inches closer. This part I love more than anything and, although I've performed this scene countless times, I still look forward to it with all my heart.
"I will close my eyes and will dream only of the moon," I say, turning to Oscar who stares back at me. He must feel this between us. He must. "I will dream of you and wait for your return."
Then the lullaby plays that serenades the little girl until she falls asleep.
"I have an idea for the show," Oscar whispers as the song plays. "I think you'll like it."
"Does Julián know?" I ask, nervous for both of us but especially for me.
Oscar shakes his head. "He's too busy with his camera. We can work on it tomorrow."
"He won't be happy if he finds out," I say.
"We're not doing anything wrong. Just working." And I wonder if what I'm feeling is really all in my head. That this is really about work and nothing more.
"Okay, sure," I say and Oscar's beautiful smile makes me think otherwise.
I allow the kids' screaming and applauding to cover the butterflies fluttering inside me.