Here the Whole Time - Vitor Martins Page 0,4

to my room without being seen. I wrap a towel around me, play the Mission: Impossible theme song in my head, and take three long strides to my bedroom.

And when I open the door …

I.

Want.

To.

Die.

Caio is sitting there with a book in his hands. He looks at me, startled, and tries to say something, but I speak first. Yell, actually.

“GET OUT OF MY ROOM! NOW!”

Frightened, he gets up and leaves. I slam the door, lock it, and immediately start to cry. It’s not a loud and dramatic cry, the kind where you lean your back against the wall and slide down to the floor. It’s just a single tear, running down my face, and I can’t help but feel ashamed. Ashamed because I’m all wet, naked under a Star Wars towel that doesn’t even fit around my whole waist. Ashamed because Caio saw me like this. And I screamed at him. And this is only day one.

I hear the doorknob turn, but the door is locked.

“Felipe, is everything okay? What happened? Come have lunch!” my mom says on the other side of the door.

By the tone in her voice, I can’t tell if she’s worried about or mad at me. Maybe both.

“I’ll eat later. I’m not hungry,” I lie.

I open the closet to get dressed and start my usual ritual. For a few seconds, I look in the mirror, naked, and take stock of every single detail that bothers me about myself. Some days I like to notice the small things, like a new zit or a red stretch mark running up the side of my stomach. Other days, I prefer to analyze my whole body, looking from side to side and wondering what it would be like if I were thin.

But today I don’t waste too much time in front of the mirror. Even though I’m locked in here, having Caio in my house makes me feel more exposed than ever. I put on a random T-shirt, which falls uncomfortably around my still-wet body, and a pair of shorts.

My pride keeps me from leaving the bedroom. I lie in bed, eat half a sleeve of cookies that I found in my backpack, and kill time on my phone. I don’t want to be alone. I want my mom to come talk to me. I want her to give me advice and a plate of food because, honestly, half a pack of cookies? Who am I kidding? I need a real lunch!

But my mom doesn’t come.

Two hours go by, and I finally decide to tiptoe stealthily into the kitchen. My mom is painting a new canvas, and the apartment is silent.

“There’s a plate for you in the microwave,” she says as soon as she sees me coming. I can tell she’s annoyed.

I try to mutter a thank-you, but she only lets out a long sigh—the kind that comes right before a lecture.

“Felipe, my son, I’m not stupid. I am your mother. I know you well and I know why you yelled at Caio,” she says softly, probably because Caio is in the living room. “But you’ve never raised your voice to anyone, and you’re not about to start now. I know you like peace and quiet, and to be left alone. I understand all of that. But this is just for fifteen days, and I need your help. You’re not a child anymore. I’m not going to take you by the hand and make you apologize to your friend. But you will finish eating, put a smile on your face, go into the living room, and apologize to Caio.”

I roll my eyes.

“And just for that, you’ve earned the privilege of doing the dishes afterward,” she concludes with a satisfied smile.

I’m standing in the middle of the living room, hoping a meteorite will hit me and put an end to all this awkwardness. Or that a black hole will open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole. I’m not picky.

Caio is sitting on the couch, reading the same book he had with him this morning in the elevator (The Fellowship of the Ring by Tolkien—one of my favorites, by the way). Everything seems so out of place. It’s a little surreal to see him sitting on our old, floral-patterned couch, surrounded by all my mom’s unfinished paintings and a framed photo of a ten-year-old me wearing an indigenous outfit for a school play—which, besides being super embarrassing, is also pretty offensive.

He sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle