Disclaimer: I do not own the original story or any of the original characters. I wish I did, though. Hehehe.

A/N: I'm not really fluent in Spanish so please bear with me. It's a shame really, since my favorite character is the one who speaks most of the language. This fic was created since I thought Maria going after Tony right away even though he was the one who killed her brother was a bit…off. I loved Bernardo's character and think he deserved more screen time. :-) Also, who falls in love with someone after a night? This fic will be almost faithful to the original script, but with a few twists and turns (i.e. Maria and Bernardo's background and stuff set in school). Enjoy!

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CHAPTER I: Remembering

June 9th. It's just like any other day for many others. They wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, go home and then sleep. This day is of practically no importance to any of them.

I stare at the ceiling from my bed. I know I have to get moving. Joaquin and Isabel will be awake shortly to get to school. But somehow, I can't find the strength or the will to budge.

June 9th.

I'm not as young as I used to be, but my memory hasn't failed me yet. I may have grown wrinkled, and my once chestnut-brown hair may have already faded into silver, but the images from my past seem more clear to me than ever before. I don't know if it's a gift or a curse that I still remember.

June 9th. The day is a curse in itself.

It is the night I will never forget. The night we were all forced to grow up too soon, too fast. The night I lost everything I held dear.

June 9th.

"Abuela?"

The sound of Joaquin's voice almost makes my heart stop. I was so distracted by my thoughts that I didn't even notice him opening my bedroom door. I see him as I turn my head, his tall form blocking the light from the hallway. He is still in the clothes he slept in and his hair is a mess. If I can see him properly, I'd see his eyes, which have a color my son, Alex, unfortunately didn't inherit from his father. Joaquin's eyes are a clear, ocean blue, which twinkle when he laughs and darken when he's troubled.

Tony's eyes.

"Si, mi amor?"

Since my son's children rarely use Spanish in speaking, I make the most of it when they do show effort. I don't blame them for not using the language more often, since I suspect it will interfere with how they get along with other children. I understand how they feel, probably more than they'll ever understand themselves. They aren't wholly Puerto Rican, after all. They're Americans. Even Alex, my son, I don't consider the same as I am.

"Are you feeling okay? I woke up and when I saw you weren't in the kitchen fixing breakfast or something…" Joaquin says, shifting into English.

"Oh mijo…is Isabel awake already?"

"I don't know…I don't think so. It's too early," My grandson runs a hand through his hair and yawns. At 16 years, he's starting to look remarkably like someone I used to know.

"I'm sorry, Quino, but I don't really feel well today…do you think you and your sister can just eat some cereal for breakfast?" I say to him, giving him an assuring smile.

"What's wrong, Grandma? Are you sick or something?" Joaquin walks over to my bed. In the dark, I can see faintly his worried expression. I don't blame his anxiety. The twins are deathly afraid of losing anyone they are attached to. After all, the only ones they have in the world are their father and I, after their mother died in an accident when they were still young. With Alex constantly out of the country for his job (he's a pilot), the twins have no choice but to stay with me when he isn't around. I suppose Joaquin is now starting to fear that I have some sort of internal disease just because I can't bring myself to prepare breakfast.

"I'm all right, mi amor. I'm perfectly fine. I just…I don't really feel like…I have a lot of things on my mind," I reach out and give his hand a squeeze. "Don't worry."

Joaquin's eyebrows wrinkle and meet at the center of his forehead.

"Something bugging you, Grandma?" he asks.

I give a small laugh. His New York twang and slang is so bitter yet so sweet to hear. My beautiful grandson doesn't realize how much he makes me want to forget and remember what took place so long ago.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm just…feeling a little reminiscent I guess. Don't look so frightened, Quino, it's just one of those days where your Abuela goes back to the 'good old days'," I give a little laugh.

Joaquin doesn't look convinced in the least bit, but he nods.

"Okay, Grandma," he says. "I hope you feel better. You know where to get us if you need us,"

He bends down, gives me a kiss on my forehead then turns to leave.

"Joaquin," I call out. "Don't be late for school, okay? And don't forget to wake up Isabel,"

"Okay, Grandma," he assures me. I watch him as he walks away. It's not his real walk, as he's still half-blinded by sleep, but you can see clearly his confident strut. You can see how proudly he takes each step, knowing exactly who he is and where he is going. You can see how he swaggers and holds his head high, thinking he's got the whole world sitting on his palm. You can see exactly, just from his walk, how immortal he feels.

Bernardo used to walk the exact same way.

Once I'm certain that Joaquin is already out of sight, I let the lump in my throat melt into tears that cloud my vision. I grip the edges of the quilt tightly. Every year, I wish I never wake up for the morning of the 9th of June. Every year, when I still do, I don't know whether I want to keep living or just die.

A giant tear makes its way slowly down my cheek, leaving a trail that I wipe away with a shaky finger.

I sit up in bed, swallowing quickly, and forcing myself to stop crying. I scold myself for still grieving, even after 46 years. I tell myself that no amount of tears can take back what has already happened, that no matter how hard I cry, I will never be able to bring back lost lives taken because of our foolish mistakes.

But perhaps that's also one of the reasons why I'm still crying after all these years.

The ache I feel in my heart is still there and it pains me more today than on any other day. June 9, 1958 is not the same as June 9 during any other year, I always tell myself, but I can never be convinced.

June 9th to me is still the same June 9th I will remember until my dying day and I can never deny it. It will always be a day of loss, of happiness cut short, of childhood destroyed. It will always be a black day.

I pull the bedclothes away from me and reach out to turn on the bedside lamp. My bedroom is suddenly bathe din soft golden light and I am able to see clearly how simple everything really is and how nothing has changed at all. On the chest of drawers are still pictures of Alex as a baby and as a child, as well as new addition: Alex and his twins. The latch of my closet is still broken from when Alex somehow managed to break it as a toddler and the carpet carries traces of stains, both from my son's and my grandchildren's doings. My altar is still there, in its little corner by the window, with a small statue of the Virgin Mary, statuettes of a few saints and a small open Bible. Everything's been the same way.

I find my slippers by the bed, put them on and shuffle towards the chest of drawers. I pull towards me a small, wooden stool I use for such occasions, take a seat on it and gingerly open the bottom compartment.

A smell like that from old books enters my nostrils as I get my first peek of the drawer's contents. There isn't much inside of it since it only carries three things: a tin sewing box, an old album, and a whole yellowed copy of the New York Times. I ignore the newspaper, knowing exactly what the headline states and when it was made, and focus instead on the album and the sewing box. I take the album, my hands trembling, and open it as I have it placed on my lap. I go through pages filled with faded photographs of chubby-cheeked babies and children, then go more slowly as I get to the part where it shows the pair of children through their early teenage years, the boy's arm always protectively over his sister's shoulder. The album doesn't even reach the end when it's finished; in fact, the last page is only halfway through. My breath catches in my throat when I see the final picture: the girl, no longer flanked by her older brother and no longer smiling, in a graduation dress, looking most miserable.

I close the album quickly and put it back inside the drawer. I take the tin sewing box, hold it to my chest then make my way to the altar.

I never open that drawer except for when the time comes, and I always find myself being assaulted by feelings like knives stabbing my chest over and over again. I'm in tears when I get to my altar, only a few steps away from the bureau, and I have a hard time lifting the sewing box's lid. When I finally succeed, I feel as if a vise is tightening around my heart.

The box still smells faintly of roses, even though it's been more than forty years since I put the rose inside of it. I spot the remnants of the rose: a few withered petals, crisp and almost ashen from time. Memories flood into me as I go through each item: a yellowed piece of paper folded many times, a boat ticket, a small wooden swan, a quarter coin and three tattered photographs. One is my final picture with my brother, where we are squeezing each other to death, our mouths clenched into tight smiles; the second a picture of him only, laughing; the last, my only picture of Tony, which I used to kiss goodnight each night until I realized my tears were destroying the paper. In it he's surrounded by the Jets, his gang, his 'buddy-boys'. It's a rare shot of them since they're all smiling and laughing at some sort of inside joke. I don't believe they even knew there was a camera around. Tony grins at me from the front of the group with Riff, his best friend, by his side. I smile faintly back at them.

I take Bernardo and Tony's pictures, give each a kiss and place them on the altar. I am already weeping by the time I kneel, feeling my bones creak with age as I go, and cross myself. I am already weeping by the time I start saying the old prayers for the dead as I hold tightly in my hand my brother Bernardo's black rosary and read from Tony's Bible. I weep for the fact that they couldn't stand to be in the same room, breathing the same air when they were still alive, but now could be beside each other on an altar. They had so many things in common aside from religion, but they never gave each other a chance.

I weep for my brother. I weep for my love. I weep for the rest of us who had to go through the rest of our lives knowing nothing would be the same again.

June 9th. The night I will never forget. The night our childhood came to a sudden end. The night we lost all our innocence. To this day I still can't understand why and how it happened. Then, I had just turned 16. My brother was 18. Tony and Riff were both 18 and the rest of the Jets were either the same age or a year younger, with the exception of Baby John who was younger than I was.

Santa Maria, we were all children.

How were we able to do what we did?

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A/N: Next chapter up soon! Please r/r!