“I think it’s safe to say that Padua has signed Catalina because of her many talents,” Patricio answered.
The truth. If also a runaround answer, given his secret compulsion to write this album on his own, thus proving himself to his father.
“Ay, you really know how to make a girl blush.” Catalina nudged him playfully with her elbow; then her cheeky grin softened as she addressed the reporters. “Honestly, everything that has happened since Mariachi Las Nubes won the Battle is a dream come true. I’m thrilled to be part of the tour.”
The lone female reporter, who looked to be in her early twenties, held out her cell, making it clear that she was voice recording the interview. “Social media is buzzing with clips of your performances together. You share sensational chemistry. Now you’re writing music and making secret appearances. Your fans would love to find out if the two of you might be . . . y’know . . . hiding a more personal secret.”
A sly smile on her lips, the girl jiggled her cell back and forth between Patricio and Catalina as if it might entice them to reveal her misguided innuendo.
He was experienced enough to not make a big deal out of her blatant info digging. A seasoned pap, or one hungry enough, could sniff out a story from even the slightest whiff of nervous sweat.
Catalina, still new at the paparazzi game, released his arm like it was a live electrical wire, her hazel eyes silver dollar wide. “No! There’s nothing—I mean, I don’t—uh, we don’t . . .” Her tan cheeks darkened with a soft blush, and she held up both hands as if to ward off the young journalist’s nosiness.
“Look, I get that part of your job is to ferret out a good scoop,” Patricio chided. “But all that’s going on here is a mutual respect for each other’s talent.”
“El Rey is known for his tour romances. You can’t blame us for wondering if this might be a case of the apple not falling far from the tree,” the young reporter persisted.
“That’s enough,” Patricio warned, not bothering to temper the anger sharpening his tone. He was used to intrusive speculation about his personal life, but the insinuation was disrespectful to Catalina, who was just getting started in this business and didn’t warrant the negative press.
Before he could cut the interview short, Catalina stepped forward, one hand fisted on a hip, her expression icy. “Questions and comments like yours are why women in our industry continue to have doors closed in our faces and hurdles put in our way.”
The girl swallowed, but she still held out her phone, clearly not backing down.
“I’m damn good at my craft,” Catalina said. “I am great at my job. Hard work and dedication—that’s what my parents taught me. That’s what earned me my deal with Padua and my spot on this tour. Gentlemen”—she dipped her head at the others in the group—“it’s been a pleasure chatting. I hope your stories focus on the kids and Nuestros Niños. Maybe also on the need for more female mariachi whose names are in lights at the top of concert venue marquees.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she eyed Patricio expectantly. “If you’re ready to go, I have a video chat dinner date with my familia. Casa Capuleta House Rules say latecomers get dish duty. And believe me, my sisters will hold me to it the first night I’m back home.”
With a diva toss of her hair, Catalina strode away.
Aware of the cameras, Patricio silently cheered her righteous indignation as he bid the journalists goodbye. Then he followed behind her, admiring the saucy shake of her hips and the are you coming or what expression she sent him as she pushed open the gymnasium door.
Chapter Nine
Cat awoke in her hotel room Thursday morning to the stutter-stop of something vibrating on the nightstand. Rolling over, she squinted at the sliver of sunlight streaming through the crack where the thick blackout curtains didn’t quite meet. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes to peer at the hotel’s digital clock. 8:35 a.m. glowed in bright block font.
Her phone vibrated again, then stopped. Vibrated, then stopped.
It couldn’t be social media notifications. Those had been turned off since the morning after the first concert, when a picture of her and Patricio had been posted on his fan club’s Instagram account. By midday, her number of followers had ballooned from a few thousand to more than twenty-five thousand and climbing.
It was great exposure for a newcomer. But even she, who thrived in the spotlight, had been taken aback.
The quick vibration-stop-vibration-stop pattern started up again, and she stretched out an arm to grab her cell. A little red circle with the number forty-seven stamped her text message app.
Forty-seven? ¿Qué carajo?
She bolted upright, repeating her initial “what the hell” as she watched the number increase to forty-eight. Palming her hair out of her face, she opened the app. A long string of new messages from friends and acquaintances greeted her. She scrolled through them, scanning the opening words that were visible on the app’s home screen. All of them seemed to be some combination of “Felicidades, girl . . .” or “Way to go . . .” or, from one of her high school friends perpetually on the manhunt, “You snagged a real . . .”
What was going on? Her joining the tour and signing with Padua was weeks-old news. These new notes of congratulations over the past few hours made no sense.
Warily she eyed the top of the list, where the most recent messages sat waiting to be opened: three from George Garcia, four from Alberto, twenty-one in her “Battle Champs” sister thread, and, directly below, one from Patricio.
While she dithered over which to read first, her thumb accidentally tapped Patricio’s name. The screen shifted as his message opened.
Ignore the headline. They’re digging where there’s no treasure. Instead, show them what you’ve got tonight onstage.
Headline? Digging for treasure? What did he—¡Madre de Dios! She slapped a hand to her forehead as realization struck.
The fucking interview yesterday. The young blonde eager to get a scoop or, at the very least, write an article with the potential of going viral. Even if it skirted the truth.
Cat’s stomach clenched with dread as she tapped over to George’s thread. No doubt the producer had shared the link.
Sure enough, the second of his three “this will blow over” messages included a link to a page in the Entertainment section of Pa’ la Gente, an online magazine. Based on the article’s title, “The 4-1-1 on Patricio Galán’s Newest ‘Partner’ (wink),” For the People didn’t concern itself with truth as much as with chisme.
A quick skim of the article mostly proved Cat’s point. Sure, the young woman mentioned Nuestros Niños, and there were a few sentences about Mariachi Las Nubes and Casa Capuleta’s Community Center. But most of the limited word count focused on her background—her birth mom’s deportation and tragic death, her unaccounted-for birth father, the years she and Blanca had spent in the system before landing on Arturo and Berta’s MI CASA ES SU CASA welcome mat. The genesis of Las Nubes. Her reputation as an ambitious, often labeled “brash,” mariachi clawing her way to the top by any means. Even a mention and link to a copy of the feminist rant video Cat had posted, then taken down during the Battle. And, more damning, a photo of her and Patricio holding hands during yesterday’s meet and greet at Nuestros Niños, along with a mention of “how close” they seemed.