Here the Whole Time - Vitor Martins Page 0,16

these kids a trade. They spend the afternoon playing with glitter glue and Play-Doh. And let’s be honest, art isn’t paying anyone’s bills, you know? If it did, you would be sleeping in a decent guest room, am I right, Caio?” she jokes, and the three of us laugh. “But I like to think that when they spend the day with me, they’re safe. These kids live surrounded by violence, drugs, and abuse. That’s their normal, and I know I can’t protect all of them, but sometimes art can,” she says, and I can see a tear running down her left cheek.

Caio looks at me as if he doesn’t know how to react, so I grab my mom’s hand and squeeze it tight, because I think it’s the right thing to do, and Caio holds her other hand. She brings both our hands to her lips and gives each one a kiss.

It is a beautiful moment, but it would be better if we weren’t in a crowded bus. And if I weren’t wearing briefs and an old pair of shorts under my jeans. Seriously, why did I think this was a good idea?

After almost an hour on the bus, we finally arrive at the community center. It’s basically a two-story house with a very humble design. As soon as we walk in, we’re welcomed by a tiny woman with a colorful scarf over her hair.

“Good morning, Rita! Your class is already waiting for you,” the lady says, hugging my mom.

“I brought my son along today, Carol,” my mom replies, and Carol looks at Caio right away.

“What a good-looking fellow!” she says, hugging him. Carol is definitely a hugger.

“Ah, no. I’m not her son, just the neighbor,” Caio says, a little embarrassed.

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Felipe,” I chime in, bracing for the hug.

But Carol only offers her hand to shake mine, a tight smile on her face.

I don’t have a lot of time to analyze the situation, because my mom is already pulling us down the hallway. The center is way bigger than it looks from the outside. The hallway is full of doors, and each one has a little sign indicating a different class. Ballet, music, jujitsu, drama … They have everything in this place. But I’m relieved when I find the door I’ve been looking for since I first set foot in this place—the bathroom.

“Gotta go to the bathroom, see you in the classroom,” I say, making my way toward the door with a sign that says BOYS.

“Last door on the right down this same hallway,” my mom says, moving on to her first class of the day. Caio goes after her.

The bathroom is small, but it has what I need. A stall. Putting jeans over my shorts was, by far, the worst idea I have ever had. And I have a pretty big collection of bad ideas.

I go into a stall, drop my pants, and take a relieved breath. I have a heat rash on my legs (sorry to throw this unexpected information at you, but hold tight because this is an important bit of the story), and I just sit on the toilet for a while, trying to figure out how to bring the shorts with me to the classroom and hide them in my mom’s purse. Then I hear the bathroom door open and some boys walk in, making a racket. I sit there in silence because I don’t want to be caught with my pants down. Literally.

“Stop—please! I didn’t do anything to you!” I hear a kid’s voice say. The boy can’t be more than eight. Or maybe ten. I’m not an expert on kids.

“Gonna cry, little girl?” I hear an older kid answer while a group of boys laughs.

“Why don’t you face me yourself, then?” says the younger one, braver than I was when I was his age.

“Because you’re fat! We need more than one to handle all of you!” another older boy answers, and the others start laughing harder. Then one by one they start launching attacks at the younger boy:

“Jabba the Hutt!”

“Tub of lard!”

“Land whale!”

And for a second, it feels as if they’re talking to me. Like I said, I’m used to it, but hearing these words being said to a child, one after the other like a reflex, makes my blood boil.

I’ve never been brave. I’ve always been the kind of person who takes it in stride and pretends nothing ever happened. But this time, I pull my pants