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It doesn’t matter how bad I read. My mother always tells me she’s so proud of how hard I work. She’s patient. Not just with me, but with Tomas too. She’s never mean. Not even when we make a mess in the family room, or spill grape juice on her favorite rug. She doesn’t yell, and she never hits us. Not even with her hand.
“Then why did the teacher call to say you still can’t read?” Tomas taunts. “You’re an embarrassment to the family.”
The butterflies in my stomach are twirling faster and faster. It’s making me dizzy.
Papai will be so mad the teacher called. I shamed our family. I’m going to get it, unless Tomas helps me. I glance at my big brother. He doesn’t care what happens to me. He’s not going to help me. But I have to try.
“Tell him you couldn’t find me,” I beg. “He’s going to give me a beating, Tomas. He’ll listen to you.”
“Probably.” He shrugs. “But I’m not using my pull with him to save your sorry ass.”
I know it’s a big sin to hate anyone, especially your brother. But sometimes I hate Tomas. Even when I don’t hate him, I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me either.
On the way to the office, I look for my mother, but she must be upstairs. I’m kind of happy she’s not here. She would be so worried—and sad. Besides, there’s nothing she can do to protect me. My father is too tough. Mamã’s afraid of him. I can tell. She never relaxes when he’s around.
When we get to Papai’s office, the leather strap is laid out on the desk, waiting for me. My heart thumps so hard, it feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest and onto Papai’s nice rug.
The strap has a handle with three long leather legs that whoosh when they fly through the air. It’s the devil. Thump, thump, thump.
“Bom dia, Papai,” I say respectfully. Can he hear my heart pounding? Do I smell like fear? He would hate that.
“What did I tell you would happen the next time your teacher called? You shamed our family, again. What do you have to say for yourself?”
My father is big, so much bigger than me, and his face is scrunched up and red, and his voice is angry. Really angry.
I don’t say anything, not because I’m being cheeky, but because I’m too afraid to talk. I might start to cry if I do. Everyone hates a crybaby.
Tomas stands with Costa, my father’s second-in-command, near the closed door. My brother gives me a small, evil smile when Papai grabs the strap and comes around the desk.
I shake, inside and out, when he stops near me.
“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to this family,” he barks. “A huge disappointment. Nothing but a fuckup.” My father flicks his wrist, and I cover my face and head with my arms.
I’m wearing thin shorts, and the leather stings my thighs so bad. I want to scream, but I don’t because he’ll call me a coward and hit me harder.
I close my eyes, as the whoosh happens again, and again. The sounds come so quickly I don’t have time to brace myself. After a few more lashes, I lose my balance and fall to the floor.
“Maldito,” my father spits in a disgusted voice, cursing me while he yanks me up by the arm to reach better.
I try to think about happy things, like my teacher taught us when we were sad that Luis’s dog died. I think about the beach at Nazaré. I pretend I’m jumping over the big waves with my friends. If I concentrate really hard, I can smell the salt water.
After a little while, I’m hot and sleepy, and I can’t hear my father’s voice, or even feel the strap so much. I still hear the whoosh, but it’s soft and far away.
When Papai’s done, he tosses the leather strap on his desk and shoves me at Costa. “Take the little bastard to the attic.”
No! No! Not the attic. But I don’t beg, because I need to show I’m brave. My father hates cowards.
Costa is big, like my father, and mean, too, and he doesn’t talk, even when he pulls me up the stairs and shoves me into the dark attic.
My stomach does a big somersault when the door slams. The lock clicks before my eyes adjust to the dark.
The attic is scary. So scary. It’s hard to be brave when I’m up here. Even if I concentrate hard, I can never smell the beach.
Tomas told me that bats and ghosts live in the eaves. I’ve never seen the bats, but I once saw a ghost. Mamã said it was only a shadow. But I don’t think so.
Mamã cries when my father’s guards bring me to the attic. My chest hurts when I think about her crying—for me. It’s not right. Women aren’t supposed to protect men. Men are supposed to protect women. My cousin Antonio told me.
Soon I’ll be a man, and I’ll be able to protect myself. I’ll protect Mamã, too. Then she won’t have to worry.
