March 17, 2013
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Licence
I don’t know how to write myself out of the story. It still focuses on me. I thought I was older than that by now. But I look at the clock, exhausted by 8:30 and wonder if I can stay up until 9pm. The sun has burnt my arms and I feel the skin tighten across my nose in the pink fashion when I crinkle it. Even my toes, that I had painted a sick cotton candy pink are too far away to reach or complain about. I will paint over them tomorrow.
And what of visiting children and hearing stories and who knew Vera would end up with Marcio and they want to get married next year and of course I am invited. Isac is playing for Nautico, the soccer team in Recife? Well, I am now a devoted fan. And Cesar, who I wished beyond wishes to see, is living at ome again with his mother, who threw him out when he was younger.
Cesar has always been my favorite, when I shouldn’t play favorites. His birthday was January 7, but I am always late–as he knows–but I always come–as he hopes: “I still have the card you gave me last year.” He says. I still have the card he gave me three years ago, when he thanked me for helping him, when we both used to meet at Living Stones every day.
“I am 15 now,” He says proudly, “And in 6th grade.” He says in a lower voice, because he has flunked and is now three years behind. I hope, realistically, that he will make it through middle school.
The motorcycle driver began his crush on me once he heard I was American, but simmered down when I told him my boyfriend was coming to visit. “So there weren’t any Brazilians around?” He asked. “Not for me.” I reply, and he mumbles something grumpily. He dropped me off at Leandra’s house, who turned 16 today. She giggles when I tell her that this is when American teens get their drivers licence. She doesn’t know anyone with a licence. Her curls are perfect and she basks beautifully in “her” day.
