Ella Cerón’s “Viva Lola Espinoza” Is a YA Novel That’s “Booksmart” Meets “Pride & Prejudice”

Lola stopped in front of the portrait and tried to imagine knowing this grandfather, whose memorial was far more serious than the crinkly-eyed memories she had of her Papito. Mami rarely spoke about her father either—though Lola had a hunch that tía Coco would tell her stories if she asked. How strange it was to be related to someone you didn’t even know, Lola thought, before realizing that the not-knowing was perhaps her fault for not asking more questions. She searched his face for any resemblance to her own; from certain angles, he looked like a sterner version of tía Paty.

But similarities didn’t tell you how a person’s mood changed when they were tired, or how they preferred their eggs, or what their favorite song was when they were sad. Anyone could be related or look like someone else. It took something more to be close, to be family.

The front of the building was quiet, amplifying the sounds that came from further within the restaurant.

“¿Buenos días?” Lola called out tentatively.

A boy stepped out of a back doorway. He beamed at her the way only strangers can smile at other strangers, his curls partially obscured under a beanie. Several organs in Lola’s body threatened to flip themselves inside out.

“Tú eres la prima de Juana, ¿no?” he asked.

A crash sounded in the room behind him—the kitchen, Lola suspected—but the boy didn’t turn his attention away. He was the most beautiful boy Lola had ever seen up close. He had high cheekbones and dark eyebrows that framed green eyes, which were distressingly locked on Lola.

She gulped away her sudden nerves and nodded. It could barely be considered encouragement, yet it was enough for him.

“¿Qué haces aquí?”

“Lo . . . lo siento,” she offered, trying to avoid his gaze. She didn’t want to risk what would happen if they made eye contact. “Mi español es . . .” The plaster walls bounced her unsteady pronunciation back at her tauntingly.

He only smiled wider. “Ah, she’s an American.”

A beat, and then: “Well, we all are. But you are the kind that calls yourself one. A gringa.”

The comment momentarily snapped Lola out of the shock that a boy that looked like that would talk to her. She glowered before she realized what she was doing, and then immediately wondered if it was possible to disappear on the spot. Hadn’t they invented an app for that yet?

He laughed. “Okay, she doesn’t like ‘gringa,’” he observed, and straightened himself. “Hi, American. I’m Gregorio, but you can call me Río. I’m training you today. Is this your first time at La Rosa?” It was like he could crank his friendliness up at will, and his voice balanced on the tightrope between recitation and sincerity.

“I, uh,” she paused, trying to think about what would sound breeziest.

What would Ana say?

Probably not something that required an inner monologue to coach yourself through.

Answer him, Lola!