Here the Whole Time - Vitor Martins Page 0,5
of all the mess, like an alien in the center of a Renaissance painting (and this is probably the worst comparison you’re going to read today).
He’s definitely noticed me standing here. It’s kind of hard not to notice someone my size. But even so, he doesn’t look at me. He’s concentrating on the book, his bangs falling slightly over his left eye. It makes me want to lick his face.
I wish I could sit next to him and see where he is in the book. Ask what he thinks about the story so far. I want to know if he’s the type who watches the movie and then reads the book, or the other way around.
I clear my throat, exaggerating the volume a little so he’ll realize I have something to say.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say.
He looks up at me, deep into my eyes, and I can’t tell if he’s mad or feels sorry for me. I don’t like either option.
“It’s okay,” he says dryly.
Caio lowers his head and continues to read.
Wow, what a conversation. Nice work, Felipe.
Dinner is even weirder. We eat in the living room, watching a rerun of a reality show about wedding dresses. Me, my mom, and Caio squeeze onto our tiny couch, eyes glued to a bride who’s panicking because the wedding is three days away and the dress won’t zip all the way. I could never lose enough weight in three days to fit into a dress, so I eat my dinner sending positive vibes to the bride on TV.
My mom forces small talk with Caio, and it’s almost insufferable how nice he is about it. They chat about a prime-time soap opera that my mom doesn’t even watch, and yet she knows everything that’s going to happen in the next episode. Caio compliments her food, and despite the fact that it’s the same rice, beans, beef, and french fries from lunch, the compliment sounds sincere.
“For real, Rita! Your food tastes amazing. My mom is so neurotic about what we eat at home. I already told my dad she’s taking it too far. She won’t even put salt in our food,” Caio says between bites.
“Don’t even think about telling Sandra that you ate fries here! She’d never let you come back,” my mom says, giggling.
And while the two of them talk as if they are best friends, I’m on the other end of the couch listening. Just listening and never speaking.
I know this will sound ridiculous, but I’m kind of jealous. Jealous of Caio, because my mom is only focused on him and paying no attention to me. And to make matters worse, I’m jealous of my mom. Caio barely got here and he’s already praising her cooking. I’m jealous because I wish he would talk to me. About food, about his mom, about soap operas—about anything at all.
When the TV show about wedding dresses ends (the bride loses the weight, the dress is gorgeous, everyone cries, fin), my mom gives me a light tap on the shoulder, and I know it means the dishes are my responsibility. Looks like she’s not done punishing me for today’s events.
While I organize the kitchen, my mom says good night to Caio (all smiles, of course), and I do my best not to freak out when I realize that in a few hours he and I will be sleeping in the same bedroom. Inches away from each other.
Our apartment is small, and we’ve never had a guest room. But my bed is one of those that you can pull a handle and ta-da! there’s another mattress hidden underneath. My mom chose this one thinking of all the friends I might invite for a sleepover. I can’t remember the last time the extra bed was used by anyone other than my great-aunt Lourdes.
Sharing a room with Caio for fifteen days could result in an unlimited series of disasters. In the time it takes me to wash three plates, I am able to come up with a list of fifty-four disasters that I might cause just by sleeping in the same bedroom as him. The majority of the list is pretty gross (hello, night farts), but some are natural and inevitable (like morning wood).
Jumping to the worst-case scenario is my specialty. But I decide to stop thinking this way when I come up with a hypothetical situation in which I’m a sleepwalker (for the record, I’m not) and I attack Caio in the middle of the