“Where?” I said into the phone. “I’m here, sitting at a cafe in southwestern Michigan.” Silence stretched through the line, and two minutes later, a faint beep arrived. I knew, at that moment, my friend had turned off the phone. I slammed the phone down in frustration, raving at the world. As I started drinking my latté that I’d ordered five minutes ago, I slowly calmed down. The door creaked open, and I heard the sound of footsteps creaking against the wooden floor. The sound of footsteps was soft at first but gradually grew louder and louder as the footsteps got closer to where I was sitting and suddenly, out of nowhere, the creaking stopped.
“María,” a voice said. Slightly intrigued, I turned around and saw my friend standing there dressed in her still recognizable daily school outfit — dark blue jeans, a neon pink T-shirt and a pair of blue and white sneakers. She had a tiny, melancholy smile, probably remembering the last time that we had seen each other. I smiled back shyly, not knowing what to say, and then gasped, realizing that I was feeling the nostalgia of seeing her again after the chaotic graduation.
At 12:01 pm, the cheering and chattering started to get louder at our graduation ceremony on June fourth. It was a bright, sunny, and cheerful Saturday which celebrated the achievement of the Class of ‘21 and honored the memories our class had together. The days of dancing in the sun during lunchtime, the times I sprinted with my classmates to the top floor of the J building for our Techniques of Film & Video: Year I class. The moments when we shared deep and meaningful thoughts on racism in US History and discussed topics that mattered to us. The memories that we would cherish forever — from going to Ludington State Park for a weekend camping trip to weekly field trips to local museums and festivals.
Sitting there, remembering moments that had occurred during the last few years, I felt that I had really flown as a result of being ambitious since freshman year. I started to write for the school newspaper, joined the school’s jazz and chamber band as a clarinet/saxophone player, and participated in the girls varsity water polo and swim teams in the fall and spring respectively. I did so much and never backed away from a challenge but never actually treasured those moments.
Thirty minutes later the speeches from the class valedictorian and chosen students started again with Violet going first, and bam, the crowd got silent. Suddenly, three minutes later, the sound of something exploding came. Chaos arrived. Five hundred students and their parents starting running towards either the exit to the right (the one that I would have gone through if I wasn’t stuck all the way at the back) or the exit to the left (the one that I was supposed to go through), but in the end, I stayed to lead others outside to the courtyard and outside of the school. As I finally arrived outdoors, I smelled the ever-intense smoke and the loud fire alarm screeching its terrible noise.
“Violet?” I yelled, scared that something had happened, not seeing her anywhere. “Where are you?” I ran around and around, until another friend found me and grabbed my shoulders and told me that everything was going to be alright. (Later I found out that Violet had gone through the safest way and didn’t even think to tell me which . . . well . . . it led to the tension that we currently have now.)
“Earth to María,” my friend said. “It’s Violet. Come on. Are you with me? Or are you drifting off again into the past?” I slowly came back to the present, first opening my eyes to see Violet’s smiling, concerned face and then to the wider image . . . the only barista of this café serving the old, wrinkled but smiley-faced women, the young woman sitting in the corner of the café typing away furiously at her computer, the couple sitting together, hands interlocked and staring into each other’s eyes.
“Sorry, Violet,” I said, fully in the present now. “I was remembering our graduation.” I stared behind her, to where two new customers had walked in, and immediately frowned. Violet sat there, confused, until she saw who I was looking at.
“Simon and Elinda,” she said slowly. “I remember that couple. Weren’t they big news during both Homecoming and Prom? And Elinda . . . she was voted Queen of Hoco and our class president?” I nodded, and wished that for once they weren’t in the same location as I was. Violet started mumbling and ranting about how Elinda had taken away so much of our valuable class time by going on about how canceling the school’s initially planned spirit week was so unfair and how the school’s admin was bad at managing the class rivalries. Not knowing what else to say, I finished drinking my latté and stared into the distance.
“María,” a voice said. Slightly intrigued, I turned around and saw my friend standing there dressed in her still recognizable daily school outfit — dark blue jeans, a neon pink T-shirt and a pair of blue and white sneakers. She had a tiny, melancholy smile, probably remembering the last time that we had seen each other. I smiled back shyly, not knowing what to say, and then gasped, realizing that I was feeling the nostalgia of seeing her again after the chaotic graduation.
At 12:01 pm, the cheering and chattering started to get louder at our graduation ceremony on June fourth. It was a bright, sunny, and cheerful Saturday which celebrated the achievement of the Class of ‘21 and honored the memories our class had together. The days of dancing in the sun during lunchtime, the times I sprinted with my classmates to the top floor of the J building for our Techniques of Film & Video: Year I class. The moments when we shared deep and meaningful thoughts on racism in US History and discussed topics that mattered to us. The memories that we would cherish forever — from going to Ludington State Park for a weekend camping trip to weekly field trips to local museums and festivals.
Sitting there, remembering moments that had occurred during the last few years, I felt that I had really flown as a result of being ambitious since freshman year. I started to write for the school newspaper, joined the school’s jazz and chamber band as a clarinet/saxophone player, and participated in the girls varsity water polo and swim teams in the fall and spring respectively. I did so much and never backed away from a challenge but never actually treasured those moments.
Thirty minutes later the speeches from the class valedictorian and chosen students started again with Violet going first, and bam, the crowd got silent. Suddenly, three minutes later, the sound of something exploding came. Chaos arrived. Five hundred students and their parents starting running towards either the exit to the right (the one that I would have gone through if I wasn’t stuck all the way at the back) or the exit to the left (the one that I was supposed to go through), but in the end, I stayed to lead others outside to the courtyard and outside of the school. As I finally arrived outdoors, I smelled the ever-intense smoke and the loud fire alarm screeching its terrible noise.
“Violet?” I yelled, scared that something had happened, not seeing her anywhere. “Where are you?” I ran around and around, until another friend found me and grabbed my shoulders and told me that everything was going to be alright. (Later I found out that Violet had gone through the safest way and didn’t even think to tell me which . . . well . . . it led to the tension that we currently have now.)
“Earth to María,” my friend said. “It’s Violet. Come on. Are you with me? Or are you drifting off again into the past?” I slowly came back to the present, first opening my eyes to see Violet’s smiling, concerned face and then to the wider image . . . the only barista of this café serving the old, wrinkled but smiley-faced women, the young woman sitting in the corner of the café typing away furiously at her computer, the couple sitting together, hands interlocked and staring into each other’s eyes.
“Sorry, Violet,” I said, fully in the present now. “I was remembering our graduation.” I stared behind her, to where two new customers had walked in, and immediately frowned. Violet sat there, confused, until she saw who I was looking at.
“Simon and Elinda,” she said slowly. “I remember that couple. Weren’t they big news during both Homecoming and Prom? And Elinda . . . she was voted Queen of Hoco and our class president?” I nodded, and wished that for once they weren’t in the same location as I was. Violet started mumbling and ranting about how Elinda had taken away so much of our valuable class time by going on about how canceling the school’s initially planned spirit week was so unfair and how the school’s admin was bad at managing the class rivalries. Not knowing what else to say, I finished drinking my latté and stared into the distance.