Here the Whole Time - Vitor Martins Page 0,1

the dry piece of bread that’s still in my mouth, rub my hand over my chin to make sure there are no crumbs left on my face, then step inside.

I whisper a “Good morning” so low that even I can’t hear it. He doesn’t respond. He’s wearing earbuds and focusing on a book. I wonder if he’s really listening to music while reading, or if he’s the kind of guy who puts earbuds in so he won’t be bothered. If option two is the right answer, I can’t say I blame Caio from apartment 57. Because I always do that, too.

The elevator takes about forty seconds to go from the third floor, where I live, to the ground floor, but it feels like forty years have passed by the time the doors open again. I just stand there, not knowing what to do, and Caio walks out without even noticing that I was there. I wait three minutes in the hallway before leaving the building.

The last day of classes drags by. I only have to turn in a history paper and take a philosophy exam. And when I finish the test before everyone else, I’m desperate to get out of there.

“Already done, Butterball?” I hear someone say as I get up awkwardly from my tiny desk.

Mrs. Gomes, the teacher, collects my answer sheet and says, “Have a great vacation, Felipe,” looking deep into my eyes. It feels like a look of compassion that says, “I know you can’t take the other students’ picking on you anymore, but stand your ground. You’re strong. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being fat. I know it’s inappropriate to say this because I’m your teacher and I’m fifty-six years old, but you’re quite the catch.”

Or maybe I’m not that good at interpreting sympathetic looks and she really is just wishing me a great vacation after all.

When I get to the hallway, I see some girls saying goodbye to each other and (believe it or not) crying. As if winter break didn’t last only twenty-two days. As if we didn’t live in a small town where all you have to do is poke your head out a window to see half the school right there on the sidewalk. As if the internet didn’t exist.

If my life were a musical, now would be the moment when I’d cross the school gates, singing a song about freedom, and people in the streets would dance in a tightly synchronized choreography behind me. But my life is not a musical, and when I walk through the gate, I hear someone yell, “Butterbaaaall!” I just lower my head and keep walking.

My apartment building is close to school. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk, and I like to do it every day so I’ll have something to say when my doctor asks if I exercise regularly.

The only problem is all the sweating. After my obvious self-esteem issues and my absolutely lovely classmates, I think sweat is the thing I hate the most in life.

By the time I get home, I’m melting like a wax figure. My mom is in the same spot as when I left her. Except now she has a lot more paint stains on her clothes, and her painting is almost done. Today she painted a lot of blue circles (she’s been in a blue phase for the past few months) that, if you look at them from just the right angle, appear to be two dolphins kissing. I think.

Besides the usual mess, there are pans on the stove, and the apartment smells like lunch. Actual lunch, not yakisoba leftovers from last night’s takeout. The idea of starting the break with a proper lunch excites me.

“Hello, boys. How was school?” she asks, without lifting her eyes from the painting.

“Last time I checked, you only have one son, Mom.”

“Ah, I thought you’d come home together. You and Caio, from 57.” She turns around and gives me a kiss on the forehead.

I’m confused, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice, because she doesn’t add anything else. I go to my room to put down my backpack, and I’m startled when I realize it’s been cleaned. My mom changed the sheets, organized my shelf, and picked up the crumpled socks from under the bed.

“Mom! What did you do to my room? Where are my socks?!” I shout.

“In the drawer! Imagine how embarrassing it would be if the neighbors’ son came into your room to find eleven pairs of socks all over the