all of her talent. She has us walking on eggshells around her because of her papai, and I’m done!”
“Stop talking about Papai!”
“Why, June? I lost him too.”
The blood rushing past my ears sounds like the ocean, that noisy quiet with my heartbeat buried inside. I feel Gil’s hands on my shoulders. He guides me away from the table. My feet follow.
I don’t know where we’re going. I can’t think. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my papai, sometimes his face blurs in my memory. I can’t remember if he had a mole in front of his left ear or right, or how long his mustache was. But sometimes I hear his voice. He tells me not tocare what others think. He says, “Find your own fulfillment, June,” and usually this makes me happier, only now I can’t stop shaking.
Gil has taken me outside, to our tiny garden that a woman from the verde comes to weed and water twice a week. It’s not near as nice as Gil’s, but anything is better than that dining table and its wax-burning candles.
Gil doesn’t say anything. He just holds me as we look across the bay. The sun has mostly vanished, but in its lingering glow we can see the humps of the four siblings like sleeping gods. I imagine how they will look when Enki and I are done with them, and something in me manages to smile. They’ll be worthy of Papai. He would be proud of me, I’m sure of it, the opposite of Mother and her endless opprobrium.
Gil looks at me. He pulls at the end of one of my curls and flicks off the crusted salt.
“Feel better?”
“I hate her.”
“I know, menina.”
“I told you they don’t love me.”
Gil just sighs, and I wonder why he’s so sure they do.
“Have you thought of telling them why you’re not doing anything for the Queen’s Award?”
“Yaha is an Auntie . The whole point of this is to create the art before they can stop me, and then reveal everything in the fall.” I plan to make a big splash in the middle of the year, and then build on it publicly until the end.
“I know. But if you ask her, I bet Auntie Yaha won’t tell the others. And it would make your mother feel better.”
I snort. “Because I really care about that.”
Except, I do, sometimes. I remember the way that we used to be before Papai died. We were never as close as Papai and I, but we didn’t hate each other. I didn’t sometimes imagine what it would be like if she chose to kiri and feel this terrible satisfaction.
I don’t want her to die, I’m almost sure I don’t.
“It’s okay to cry,” he says.
“Gil, you know I hate it when you sound like an agony auntie.”
He laughs. “Am I wrong?”
“It’s fine for you to cry. You’re a beautiful boy.”
“So girls don’t cry? June, I never knew you were so conventional.”
I’ve cried in front of Gil before, but not since Papai died.
“You know,” I say, “Mother taught me to paint? She’s not that good, really, but she saw how I loved to smear my fingers in anything, so she bought me one of those child-safe kits and a big canvas. We painted food. Is that strange? I don’t know, but I thought there wasn’t anything more beautiful than the bright red of a shrimp in a vatapá stew. The green of that cilantro. I tried to paint the smells too. I’m sure it just looked like blobs of paint, but she swore she loved them. Papai was sad because he’d thought I might do music like him, but Mamãe …” Could it be that, once, her interest in my art wasn’t about Papai? Only about helping me find myself?
The moment the sun completes its descent, the lights of Palmares Três switch on, bathing the bay in their gentle white glow.
Then they blur, and I’m not surprised or ashamed.
I’m called June because I was born on the first day of June, though that’s not much of an explanation since I’m called June, not Júnia or something. English names aren’t unheard of. There are still some English families in Palmares Três, ones who came here during the great
“Stop talking about Papai!”
“Why, June? I lost him too.”
The blood rushing past my ears sounds like the ocean, that noisy quiet with my heartbeat buried inside. I feel Gil’s hands on my shoulders. He guides me away from the table. My feet follow.
I don’t know where we’re going. I can’t think. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my papai, sometimes his face blurs in my memory. I can’t remember if he had a mole in front of his left ear or right, or how long his mustache was. But sometimes I hear his voice. He tells me not tocare what others think. He says, “Find your own fulfillment, June,” and usually this makes me happier, only now I can’t stop shaking.
Gil has taken me outside, to our tiny garden that a woman from the verde comes to weed and water twice a week. It’s not near as nice as Gil’s, but anything is better than that dining table and its wax-burning candles.
Gil doesn’t say anything. He just holds me as we look across the bay. The sun has mostly vanished, but in its lingering glow we can see the humps of the four siblings like sleeping gods. I imagine how they will look when Enki and I are done with them, and something in me manages to smile. They’ll be worthy of Papai. He would be proud of me, I’m sure of it, the opposite of Mother and her endless opprobrium.
Gil looks at me. He pulls at the end of one of my curls and flicks off the crusted salt.
“Feel better?”
“I hate her.”
“I know, menina.”
“I told you they don’t love me.”
Gil just sighs, and I wonder why he’s so sure they do.
“Have you thought of telling them why you’re not doing anything for the Queen’s Award?”
“Yaha is an Auntie . The whole point of this is to create the art before they can stop me, and then reveal everything in the fall.” I plan to make a big splash in the middle of the year, and then build on it publicly until the end.
“I know. But if you ask her, I bet Auntie Yaha won’t tell the others. And it would make your mother feel better.”
I snort. “Because I really care about that.”
Except, I do, sometimes. I remember the way that we used to be before Papai died. We were never as close as Papai and I, but we didn’t hate each other. I didn’t sometimes imagine what it would be like if she chose to kiri and feel this terrible satisfaction.
I don’t want her to die, I’m almost sure I don’t.
“It’s okay to cry,” he says.
“Gil, you know I hate it when you sound like an agony auntie.”
He laughs. “Am I wrong?”
“It’s fine for you to cry. You’re a beautiful boy.”
“So girls don’t cry? June, I never knew you were so conventional.”
I’ve cried in front of Gil before, but not since Papai died.
“You know,” I say, “Mother taught me to paint? She’s not that good, really, but she saw how I loved to smear my fingers in anything, so she bought me one of those child-safe kits and a big canvas. We painted food. Is that strange? I don’t know, but I thought there wasn’t anything more beautiful than the bright red of a shrimp in a vatapá stew. The green of that cilantro. I tried to paint the smells too. I’m sure it just looked like blobs of paint, but she swore she loved them. Papai was sad because he’d thought I might do music like him, but Mamãe …” Could it be that, once, her interest in my art wasn’t about Papai? Only about helping me find myself?
The moment the sun completes its descent, the lights of Palmares Três switch on, bathing the bay in their gentle white glow.
Then they blur, and I’m not surprised or ashamed.
I’m called June because I was born on the first day of June, though that’s not much of an explanation since I’m called June, not Júnia or something. English names aren’t unheard of. There are still some English families in Palmares Três, ones who came here during the great
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