Young Writers Society

“Viva Mexico!”

“Viva!”

“Viva Mexico!”

“Viva!”

The cries continue, shouting the names of every Independence hero. The Niños Héroes, Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, José María Morelos y Pavón, Josefa Ortiz de Domínguez, Ignacio Allende, Guadalupe Victoria, Agustín Iturbide. The list of names seems to go on, though in reality six names being shouted out by the governor and answered by a chorus of “Viva!” from the crowd is not long. In fact, the whole Grito probably only took a few minutes. Not that it mattered how long it took. I actually wish it had taken longer. I wish I could have stayed huddled on the wall. Crying peacefully to myself. I wish I didn’t have to get up and pretend to watch the pirotécnicos, a big tower of fireworks. One firework was lit, causing a wheel to spin and set off more until the whole tower was on fire. It finished with one big explosion. But I didn’t see it. Not really. At least, I can’t remember it anymore. I just remember staring through the haze of tears at all the people standing around. Celebrating. Smiling. Kissing. Not crying. I was possibly the only girl in the zócalo who didn’t want to celebrate. No one else wanted to go home and curl in a ball and cry. No one except me wanted to leave the festivities.

Someone touched my shoulder and I turned to see my friend, who was the guy in charge of making sure I didn’t get kidnapped. He informed me that there had been a pigeon sitting atop a firework when the tower was lit. I wondered if it managed to escape or if there was now a dead bird somewhere. At least a dead pigeon was more fitting to my mood than the lively people surrounding me.

Another friend came up beside me and instantly noticed my red eyes. Or maybe it was my smeared makeup. Or the fact that my lip was a little bit swollen from where I had bit it to try and keep from crying. He raised his eyebrows in question, but I couldn’t speak. He knew some of it, anyway. He’d seen me talking. Trying to listen as the boy that broke my heart pleaded for a second chance. And he had to have heard something. Maybe he heard the boy say, “Ask me if I love you.” And maybe he heard my silence. My refusal to ask the question. To hear the answer.

I realized my group was leaving me, and started along behind them. My legs felt unsteady, shaky. As I pushed through the bodies, my friend put his hands on my shoulders, guiding me through the chaos. I remember feeling so glad to have him there, helping me walk. Because, at that point, I couldn’t have walked alone. Even with him behind me I almost tripped a few times.

We came to a place with less people and no canopy of trees above us. From there we could see the real fireworks exploding above an old colonial building. Flashes of red and yellow and green, a loud clap of thunder, and cascading raindrops of ash. After each firework I watched the colors fade into pieces so small you could barely see their outline against the dark sky. Pieces as small as my heart.

The rest of the large group arrived, and our small six person grew joined into a group of about twenty teens. I tried to hide my tears, but my sister noticed. More people gave me curious glances, and that just made my tears fall even more. As we began the long walk back to the car I walked between my sister and her friend, letting them lead me up the cobblestones. They exchanged glances, both wondering what had happened. Both assuring me they would listen if I wanted to talk.

They wanted so much to know why I was crying. What could I say, though? I didn’t want to explain how much I had liked the boy. How many hours we had spent together, daydreaming about the future. And I couldn’t tell them about the sound of my heart shattering when he told me he was done. Told me he had chosen soccer over me. They wouldn’t understand the taste of my tears as they fell over and over again, refusing to let me heal. And they couldn’t know that when he told me he was stupid, I wanted more than anything to agree. When he said he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, I knew he was right. There were no words for how I felt when he said he liked me. When he turned my pile of shredded leaves into the shape of a heart. How was I to explain what when on in my own heart? I was supposed to stand up, tell him he was a jerk. Slap him. Tell him I was over him. Say if he wanted me back it was his problem. Assure him I didn’t want him back. But I did. Just like I had since the day he ripped my heart. Crushed my dreams. I wanted more than anything to accept his apology. To fall into his arms and stay there forever. Not his forever, which lasted less than a year. The real forever, the one that would never end. I wanted to risk having my heart broken again. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. So I just sat there in silence. Wishing my tears would stop pushing their way through my eyelids. Holding my leg to keep it from shaking.

Again the question came, “are you okay?” I shrugged, flashed a fake smile, and continued walking. In silence.