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The President is coming to Coacoyula. The mayor has not left the town hall in three days because he wants all the preparativos to be perfect, not a banner, balloon, or flower out of place. For three days he has been reviewing the names of the elementary school girls, trying to find the perfect one to address the President and present him with a bouquet of flowers. No one has agreed to do it: not the daughter of the mayor himself, who would rather hide behind the church with her boyfriend; not the daughter of the only nurse in town, who would rather stand back and criticize whoever steps up to the job; and not the daughter of the principal of the elementary school, whose mother deems it inappropriate for her daughter to be involved in politics. Even though all three of them have recited poems and acted in plays, none of them have spoken before the entire town, and none of them could speak in front of the president. La Maestra Chica calls Itzel to give the speech. She is younger than the girls who have already been asked, but as a Montoya and a top student, she comes next on the list.

“Tienes pluma y papel?” La Maestra Chica asks, and Itzel grabs notebook paper from her bag and a blue pen. The teacher asks her to write: “Señor Presidente, Coacoyula’s children receive you with affection, and with this bouquet of flowers, we give you our hearts.”

Even with all the commotion and the ringing of the telephone, Itzel’s grandfather is skeptical. Papa Beto supports the Institutional Revolutionary Party, but when he talks, he shakes his head or fans himself with his white cowboy hat, confessing his mistrust of all candidates. Because of that, Itzel finds herself hating el PRI. As Papa Beto says, “they have betrayed mi gente for so long, taken all their earnings while the children walk around in torn shoes, their heels bleeding.” But she immediately agrees to give the speech, forgetting all her prejudices.

It will be the greatest honor to welcome the President to Coacoyula, a town that’s not even on the map. Its streets are unevenly covered with rocks and dirt that lift in heavy winds, scaring the superstitious, who think that the whirlwinds announce the proximity of the devil. Advised by the priest, they cross themselves several times while walking through the winds, repeating their Padre Nuestro. They leave their donations for Jesus who protects them, enlarging the priest’s herd of cattle, “an investment for the church.” The roads remain unpaved.

Letters for all the citizens of Coacoyula are sent to domicilio conocido, “known address,” and are then delivered to doña Maria. Every Saturday, people congregate outside her door to receive their mail. She had the telephone booth at her house, too, before telephone lines were installed all over the village. Her great-grandfather was the one who suggested the name “Coacoyula,” giving her family honor and wealth. When her father lost both of these to mescal and tequila, she resolved to keep her influence over the town by volunteering her house for mail deliveries.

The line starts forming at seven o’clock. She parts the red curtains of her window and stretches her neck to see how far the line goes, her hand on her hip. Gladys does not have any mail. She hasn’t had any for three months, even though she comes every week expecting to hear from Luis who went to el norte to find some dolares—perhaps he found someone else, too. And Merced, she got a letter this time, but a brief one; doña Maria could tell after holding it up to the light—all this she would comment to the Mayor’s wife. This Saturday, she also adds, “Gortari’s visit is a blessing from Cristo, Lucia. Imagine. He’s bringing running water to all our houses.”

In the zocalo, people have replaced the skinny, dried sticks with new potted trees. A large banner hangs in front of the church facing the red kiosk for the president to see: “Gracias, Señor Presidente.” Women pass by with bags full of red, white, and green decorations, and those who haven’t been asked to help sit on the cement benches. Children loosen themselves from their mothers’ grips and run up and down the stairs of the church. Itzel chases her little sister around the plaza and then skips over to Papa Beto, who reclines on the stage, waiting for the mayor. He twirls his toothpick in his mouth and makes a sucking noise when he tells her, “I don’t know why, mija, but this guy… he knows what’s good.” The sky is blue and cloudless, and for the first time Itzel notices that beyond the kiosk, beyond the new trees, and beyond the houses, there is a good view of the distant hills that surround the southern part of the pueblo.

When Itzel wakes up the next day she recites her speech a couple of times. She sneaks out to the kitchen area, careful not to wake her sister or her parents. Not looking back, she closes the door and grabs a blue bucket. She is startled to find her mother already awake, cooking. Itzel practices her speech without even saying good morning, but her mother just continues to stir with her wooden spoon. Behind her cooking pot, a bigger pot steams. It’s just water, she decides—ama is getting it ready for my shower. But she rejects the hot water. She has never taken a cold shower, but this is the only opportunity she will have to do it. Soon, she will be able to turn the faucet in the shower and warm water will come out. For the president, for what he will do, she doesn’t mind shivering as she splashes herself with water.

The color guard marches in front of the band as it parades down the street, and people crowd the plaza. The women wear colorful dresses with ruffles around the sleeves and necklines, the hems embroidered with elegant patterns. The men, in their white shirts and cowboy hats, stand close to the stage. Even the kids are well-dressed and bien peinados, not a single hair out of place. Itzel arrives showered and neatly dressed, her hair arranged in a bow.

“¡Viva México!” Gortari yells into a microphone.

“¡Viva!” Coacoyula roars.

The mayor calls Itzel forward. She walks slowly with her back very straight, careful that no one steps on her shiny black shoes. Before she climbs the stairs, someone hands her a bouquet of flowers. No one even whispers. Proudly, she continues up the three steps to the top of the stage, and, smiling, shakes the President’s hand. Gortari defies her expectations, for she has imagined a strong and commanding man. He is shorter than her dad, and skinnier, and he has a funny mustache. Even funnier, he is bald. Itzel maintains eye contact, but she smirks, imagining her classmates calling the President pelón.

“Señor Presidente,” she begins when the mayor gives her the microphone. She slowly turns to look at the President, who smiles and puts one hand on her shoulder. The heat of the sun and the sweat accumulating on her forehead make her nervous. She cannot return the smile but stands perfectly straight and slowly utters, “Gracias por venir.” She pauses. “I represent the children of Coacoyula. These flowers are for you and I also give you our hearts.” Leaving the microphone on the floor, she hands him the bouquet of flowers and wipes the sweat that trickles down toward her eyes. He takes the bouquet of flowers and gracefully holds it up, like a trophy.

A roar of applause ensues. Coacoyula whistles and cheers, and “¡Viva México!” echoes throughout the plaza. Amidst the cheers, Itzel turns to Gortari and hugs him, making him kneel to respond to her hug. Without thinking, Itzel squeezes his face to bring it down, and feels that it is squishier than she expected. His face now tilted downward, she kisses his warm head which sparkles from the noon sun. Then, she throws her arms around his neck, surprising him. “Gracias,” she says one last time. Itzel’s family joins her on stage. Her little sister also hugs Gortari and kisses him on his bald head, inciting another wave of cheers and applauses. Showered with warm applause and cheers, Gortari finishes his term as Presidente de la Republica Méxicana.

Papa Beto frames the front page article in the paper the next day—it mentions Itzel’s name and has a picture of her with her family standing next to the President. The phone rings all evening as Itzel’s classmates start reading the article: the mayor’s daughter asking what it felt to shake Gortari’s hand, the nurse’s daughter suggesting that next time she should smile more, and the principal’s daughter congratulating her for fulfilling the mission that her mother would not let her attempt. She turns to see Papa Beto sitting in the living room, listening, grinning, the silver crown on his tooth shining with the light.

Itzel finally finishes her conversations on the phone and joins her grandfather, sitting down on a chair next to him. His eyes are fixed on the television. She wonders if the news will soon be over so she can watch cartoons. She reaches over for the remote, but her grandfather takes it away.

“Mija, hold on. What’s this about?”

The reporter on television stands in front of the Angel de la Independencia in Mexico City as she announces that the Gortari has taken millions from the national income. Itzel sits up from her reclining chair and turns to see Papa Beto grab his hat from the table and walk out to the back yard. She stands at the door, watching him pace back and forth. He stops and lets his hat fall on the ground. “Chingado!” he says and lies down on the hammock that hangs between the tamarind trees.