“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 up (now without the shorts) and open the stall door with a bang to scare the boys. I find the younger boy pressed against a corner of the bathroom and surrounded by five older kids. They must be around thirteen.
“What’s going on here?” I say, making my voice as serious as I can. I think I can make myself seem like an adult, at least enough to frighten them.
“Nothing!” one of the boys says. At the same time, all of them get away from the younger boy and run out of the bathroom. I am overcome with relief, because walking out of the stall and confronting them was my only plan.
“Thanks, mister,” the younger boy says in a very low voice. His eyes are full of tears, and it breaks my heart.
I smile to show him everything is fine, and also because I think it’s funny that he’s calling me mister.
“You can call me Felipe,” I say, stepping closer to the boy and crouching next to him. “What’s your name?”
“Eddie,” the boy says, still shy. “It’s João Eduardo, but they call me Eddie.”
Eddie is a bigger boy, and his clothes don’t fit him anymore. His old T-shirt is tight, and it lets a good chunk of his belly out.
“How old are you, Eddie?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say.
“Nine.”
I was so close!
“You were brave, standing up to those boys. They’re jerks!” I say, and then regret it immediately, because I don’t know if it’s appropriate to say the word jerks to a nine-year-old.
“They always do that. I’m used to it by now,” Eddie says, then punches the wall.
I can feel the anger in his words, and more than that, I can identify with him in a way I’ve never identified with anyone before. It’s as if, at nine years old, Eddie is already fed up with the world. All of a sudden, I understand how my mom feels when she says she wishes she could keep all her students safe.
I try to change the subject. “Which class are you taking here?”
“Art. With Ms. Rita,” he says, and it makes me happy that I get to help make this kid feel safe for the entire day.
“I’m going to the art class, too! Shall we?” I say, then put my hands in my jacket pockets because I don’t know if I’m supposed to hold his hand.
I think when they’re nine, kids don’t hold adults’ hands anymore. But to my astonishment, Eddie nods and holds out his hand to me.
If you think spending the day surrounded by kids painting canvases and creating Play-Doh figurines is an easy task, you are completely mistaken. These kids are little devils who scream the whole time and run around in every direction, and it’s impossible to get one second of peace in the classroom. But every time a student calls my mom over to show her the piece they’ve created, I can see in her smile that the effort is well worth it.
Some kids get here, stay for half an hour, and then leave, whereas some spend the whole day at the center. Eddie is the type who spends the day here. From the moment we walked out of the bathroom, he hasn’t left my side. He walked around the classroom introducing me to his friends, and all of them seemed fascinated, as if Eddie had made the most incredible discovery of all time.
“Who could imagine you’d be so good with kids, huh, Felipe?” my mom remarks when she sees me sitting in a circle with Eddie and three other children. “Want me to bring my son every week?” she asks them.
And they all start yelling excitedly, jumping on me.
Caio is doing well, too. He has a group of older kids building sculptures with Play-Doh, Popsicle sticks, and paint. Surrounded by so many people, the two of us haven’t been alone for a single moment, but we’ve exchanged laughs whenever a kid says something funny.
By the end of the afternoon, I’m dead tired. We organize a little gallery in the classroom with the paintings and sculptures by all the students, then start saying our goodbyes to the kids, who begin to trickle out. Some are still ambling around the hallways because they simply have nowhere to go.
Caio and I help my mom clean up the classroom before we leave, and when we get to the front entrance, I hear Eddie call my name.
“Mr. Felipe! Hold on!” He comes rushing down the hallway, and when he finally reaches us, he needs a moment to catch his breath.
“I made this for you!” He hands me a piece of paper. It’s a makeshift envelope with something written in a kid’s handwriting.
From: João Eduardo
To: Mr. Felipe
When I unfold the envelope, my smile feels too big to fit on my face.
“Do you like it, mister?” Eddie asks, standing on the tips of his toes so he can see the paper in my hand.
It’s a drawing of me in a Batman costume, flying in a blue sky full of clouds. Technically, Batman can’t fly, but of course I’m not about to tell him that. I love the drawing, anyway. I’m still fat in Eddie’s version of me, but my arms are strong and muscular. It’s one of the coolest things anyone has ever made for me.
“I think it’s awesome, Eddie! Thank you so much. I’ll keep it forever!” I say, patting his head.
He lets out a laugh that rings happily in my ears, and I feel like I should give him something in exchange for the drawing.
I shove my hand in my jacket pocket and find a chocolate bar. I have no idea how long it has been lost in there, but even so, it seems good enough to eat.