Untitled

Original Title
Isabela’s Choices
Cover
Carlos Moura
Image cover
Jussara Santana
Copyright © 2013 Jussara Santana de Oliveira Moura. All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
S232e
Santana, Jussara
Isabela’s Choices [ebook]
/ written by Jussara Santana - Sao Paulo: JSO Moura, 2013.
362KB; Epub
ISBN: 978-85-913199-5-4
Includes index.
1. One. Romance. I. Title.
CDD-B869
CDU-82-31
SUMMARY
PROLOGUE
PART ONE – GROWING PAINS
Chapter 1: “MONSTRUATION”
Chapter 2: THE FIRST KISS
Chapter 3: PASSION
Chapter 4: THE MISTAKE
Chapter 5: THE STEPMOTHER
Chapter 6: FLIRTING
Chapter 7: INTIMACY
SECOND PART: HIGHS AND LOWS
Chapter 8: BETRAYAL
Chapter 9: DISAPPOINTMENT
Chapter 10: THE MEETING
Chapter 11: TRAVEL
Chapter 12: MAYBE
Chapter 13: THE GIRL FROM GUARUJÁ
Chapter 14: THE SHOEBOX
Chapter 15: THE PROMOTION
Chapter 16: CHANCE
Chapter 17: EPILOGUE – ISABELA’S CHOICES
PROLOGUE
Isabela never thought much about how her life would be,
but knew that she would do it differently from her mother and
sisters, although following the last events there were plenty of
reasons to give up. Even if she had thought a lot about it, she
could not have imagined that her life would take the course that
it took.
Her strong, impulsive temperament led her to immediate
regrets and to complicated situations, which were not always
possible to remedy.
She searched in the eyes of Toshi for some explanation,
but he, impatient, only waited for her to get off the motorcycle.
No doubt, it was a horrible way to blow someone off, to
dismiss someone who was no longer wanted.
She did not know that this would scar her so deeply.
From time to time it would torment her like a ghost, forcing her
to look at her footprints in the sand to be certain of her own
existence.
Although life had presented her with a “nightmare,”
there was a life to be lived and her plans went beyond all of that.
There was no place for regrets.
Toshi advanced with the motorcycle out of the ferryboat
and moved on, without so much as looking back.
PART ONE – GROWING PAINS
Chapter 1: “MONSTRUATION”
An excitement takes hold while the kids run over to
climb up the trees. No one wants to wait their turn. The guava
trees are brimming with ripe guavas, attracting more children
from the street. They run around the trees, unbothered by the
sun reaching their thin and pale faces. In a frenzy, they climb up
without caring about having to share space with the ants and
wasps.
Isabela, the smallest of the group, tries to reach a big,
ripe and shiny guava. Skinny as she is, she stretches herself
long, almost lying down, in a very tall branch. She stretches her
arm until she feels her fingertips touch the fruit, and does not
even care when her long wavy hair gets stuck to the branches.
Her determination is so great that she does not even mind
when her legs and arms shred against the tree bark. At last, she
holds the desired guava, which detaches itself from the branch
without much resistance. “Waiting for me!” she blurts out
satisfied and proud.
Still atop the tree, she is about take a bite when she
hears a scream of protest.
“Noooooooo! It’s mine! I saw it first!” yells Ernesto,
shaking his blonde mop of hair at the foot of the tree.
“But I’m the one that got it!” she answers, sitting on
a branch as though mounted on a horse.
“Not fair! Not fair! I asked you!” Ernesto flails his
arms without stopping.
“I thought it was another one. I took a risk for
nothing? I’ll get ya another one.” She tries to make up for
it. “Can you see from there?” she goes on, already biting
into the guava.
“Crap!” Ernesto gestures impatiently. “Then get
that one! Stretch out your arm more! Noooo! Not that
one!” he yells, irritated. “I said theeere!” he complains,
pointing the way with his finger.
Not only do I have to get it, but he also yells at me!
Slacker! She thinks, pretending not to care while she
reaches for the guava.
“That girl either doesn’t know what “there” is or
doesn’t listen. I can’t believe this!” he mutters to himself,
hitting his forehead with his palm.
“That one!” he says, following his movements.
“Now throw!” He says it without much patience, with his
hands open to grab the guava.
Isabela aims and hits the mark, landing it right in
Ernesto’s thin hands.
“Cool!” he lets out relieved, wiping the fruit clean
with his shirt and taking a bite. “Yummy!” he says with
his mouth full, biting another piece without having
swallowed the first one.
“See this, Isa?” Elder shows off, almost standing
up, swaying at the tip of a branch.
“You nuts? You can fall and hit your big fat head!”
complains Isabela. “I’d rather have you in one piece,” she
says, smiling.
They hear the sound of a branch splintering. Isabela’s
heart races as she looks up and sees Elder begin to fall.
“He’s sure gonna hurt himself. Poor thing! His head is
gonna be first to hit the ground,” Ernesto says, hiding his face
with his hands, spying between his fingers.
“With luck he’s only gonna hurt himself…with a lot of
luck,” Ricardo sums it up, all calm.
During the fall, Elder desperately stretches his arm out in
trying to grasp onto all the fine and frail branches within reach,
but is unable to hold onto them. They go on breaking one by
one, leaving him with only a few twigs in hand.
Afraid, Elder lets out a scream, now almost on the
ground, his eyes closed as he waits for the worst. All of a
sudden, he stops falling and hears his buddies chuckling, then
laughing. Lots of laughing.
Frozen, he opens his eyes slowly and sees himself upside
down, hanging by his bermuda.
“Could one of you stop laughing and help me get
down?” He asks visibly disturbed and shaken.
“Pfff! Just now you were showing off to Isa. You handle
it!” provokes Ricardo, not wasting any time.
“Yeah, I’ll watch out for myself,” he answers, swaying
until the branch snaps, and tumbling down. He stands up, upset
about the elastic on his bermuda hanging inside out. He leaves
shaking the dust off his sore body.
“Come back, Elder! Stay here with us!” Isabela asks,
punished.
“Give the guy a rest! He needs to get his steam back.”
Ricardo thinks his leaving is a good idea. In a few seconds the
whole gang regains their rhythm, forgetting all about Elder.
“There! There!” Afonso points, agitated. “
Hey, you blind?! There, I said! That’s it! Now throw!”
He requests holding up his hands. “No! Don’t eat it! It’s mine!”
he shrieks.
“Was yours… Now it’s my belly’s,” provokes Ricardo,
caressing his slender stomach, with a few ant bites already on
display in both hands.
“I saw it first!” Afonso whines, controlling his friend’s
movements.
“But I got it first. Come up here! Don’t just wait there,
dammit!” he complains, hanging onto a really tall branch.
“No, it’s full of ant and wasp!” he justifies, running his
hand over his head, bothered by the ants.
“Don’t be such a wimp!” provokes Isabela, swinging
herself on a branch.
“I’m no wimp!” Afonso retorts, offended. Have you ever
been stung by a wasp?” He complains, shooting Isabela with his
look.
“No!” she answers automatically, without paying much
attention to the question.
“Then shut up! A wasp bite hurts like hell, not to mention
these ants that walk around our bodies,” he grumbles, flicking
another ant off his arm.
“Get up here, dude! You can scare off those lazy ants
later.” Isabela smiles and invites him up without getting
offended by the “shut up.”
“This one any good, Afonso?” Ricardo decides to help.
“That one’s pretty ripe. Go on, throw it!” Afonso
anxiously looks at the guava that is sent down and bites into it.
“Awesome, Ri!” he says satisfied, with his mouth full.
The morning passes quickly; they come down the trees
and disperse separately into small groups. Some play with
marbles, others fly kites.
“Isabela!” Célia, her sister, yells from outside the house’s
gate. “Take a bath! You have school! It’s gotta be a quick bath to
give you enough time for lunch,” Célia insists. She is
responsible for her sister while their mother is at work.
At hearing her sister yell “school,” Isabela’s smile fades.
A sadness invades, and her heart tightens. She does not want to
be far from home.
“Bath!” Célia goes in her sister’s direction yelling,
irritated. “You can’t go to school with the soles of your feet all
black!” she says, holding Isa by the arm. She drags her home,
forcing her into the shower.
“I’m not hungry!” she mutters in her uniform, looking at
the plate.
“Of course!” Célia scolds her, “You ate tons of guavas,
so you can’t even complain that you’re skinny!” She answers
back, annoyed, while closing her fingers around Isabela’s arm to
illustrate her thinness.
“Look what I got for you, Isa!” Célia smiles and changes
the tone, trying to cheer her up.
“Hm,” she murmurs, not touching the food, and looking
up slightly.
Taking it off her back, Célia presents a leather bag with
long straps, fringes and a horse design embossed in the front.
“It’s not new, but you can still wear it.”
“That’s fine. I like it!” Isabela says, examining it.
“Here! Put your notebooks inside. See if they all fit.”
Célia tries to make her smile.
Without answering, she puts her stuff inside the bag and
closes it.
“The fastener is a magnet. Cool! Thanks, sis,” she says
with a lukewarm smile.
Célia lets out a relieved sigh and also smiles. It was a
hand-me-down from her mother’s boss. With its folksy style, it
suits Isabela more than herself.
“Look! I’m gonna put the food in your mouth, so you’ll
eat everything, alright?” Célia suggests, ever worried about her
sister’s thinness. Isabela accepts and scrapes her plate.
Satisfied, Célia brushes her hair and walks her to the gate
just in time.
On the way to school her steps are slow and heavy. She
feels insecure, but doesn’t take her eyes off of the new bag. She
wears it across her shoulders and inhales deeply.
What do I have to do there? she asks herself.
She wants to go back to her tree, climb up and eat the
fruit off it. Her desire is to be free and live like an urchin,
barefoot, in shorts and t-shirts.
Many of her classmates go past her, but she doesn’t even
mind being left behind.
She hears a couple of them talking about Christmas and
immediately a bunch of thoughts swirl around in her mind,
making her remember her last Christmas.
“My doll...my last doll...” she laments as she recalls her
last Christmas present, which she got from the company where
her father works.
“You get presents until you are eight years old,” she
heard from the company’s employees.
“So when I’m nine I’m not a kid anymore?” she
exclaimed, disappointed.
Time goes by, and the distress of going to school lessens,
but at home few things change. Isabela always complains: “Why
can boys do everything? They can hang out in the street, play
with marbles, play soccer, fly kites, spit on the ground, stay out
long. They can even scratch their butts and no one cares! For
girls everything is very ugly and impolite. Dammit!” she gripes,
stomping her feet and socking the air.
She covers her ears in protest whenever she hears
censures.
She really likes playing with toy-cars with Heitor, her
brother, who is two years younger and the only one who pays
attention to her.
Her other siblings, all older than herself, call her a kid
and think of themselves as too “grown-up” to play with her.
The two siblings alternate between playing with the other
neighborhood kids and daydreaming in the spacious backyard,
envisioning a forest in the garden plants, where the cheap plastic
dolls that Isabela wins from her mother’s boss become
passengers in small, colorful toy trucks that both of them push
between the shrubs.
When they are naughty, Isabela runs to her hiding place
and leaves Heitor to fend for himself.
One day, feeling guilty, she decides to take Heitor to her
hiding place. Their father looks for them all over the house, but
does not locate them.
Heitor, finding everything loads of fun, starts to laugh
aloud. Their father traces the laugh to the backyard, looks at the
sea almond tree, and sees the two of them accommodated on a
branch, with Isabela covering her brother’s mouth, trying to
stifle his laugh.
The father forces the two to come down, and under
Isabela’s sad eyes, picks up an axe and chops down the lower
branches. She was never able to climb that tree again. The
branches became too high for her to reach.
The eight-year-old Heitor, who already belongs, has his
own group of friends; Isabela harbors a secret with to take part
in the “boy’s circle.”
One morning, full of courage, she asks Heitor. “Bro!”
she calls out, approaches him slowly and sits next to him,
commanding his attention.
“Hm,” he mutters. He is lying down, reading a comic
book of superheroes.
“I wanna go with you next time.” She closes her eyes,
waiting for an answer.
“Where?” he asks, uninterested, not bothering to look up
at her.
Gathering up her courage again, she takes a deep breath
and finishes the request, holding her breath as she does so: “To
Mrs. Leite’s house.” She shuts her eyes again, and contracts her
neck.
“But there are only boys there. What are you gonna do
there?” Still holding onto the comic book, he looks up at her
without really understanding what she is saying.
“Tch! The same as you, of course!” She opens her arms,
palms up in an exasperated gesture.
“Ahhhh...” He returns to his comic book, totally
uninterested in her request.
“Why can’t I? What’s the reason?” she tirelessly insists.
“Because no! And don’t bother asking me again!” He
answers, smugly stretching himself on the sofa.
“Because yes...Because no...don’t you know that no is an
answer? Duh!” she retorts, irritated.
“Look here: Bug off, it’s better that way!” He gets up to
go meet his pals.
“Leave Heitor in peace, girl!” orders Mrs. Silveira. Boys
play with boys and girls with girls!” the mother says firmly.
At least you stopped hanging from trees like a monkey,
figures Mrs. Silveira, looking at her daughter and wishing she
were sweeter.
“Girls just wanna play house with dolls. I don’t like to
stand there, feeding them and pretending to be a mommy,” she
whines ironically, leaving the room to avoid hearing her
mother’s answer.
At home, the differences bother her.
“Isabela, go wash the dishes! You’re just standing there
like who-knows-what! Do I have to make you!” demands her
mother from inside her sewing room, already annoyed. “And
while you’re at it, come put a thread in the needle for me ‘cause
it broke again!”
“I already washed the dishes yesterday, mom. Tell Heitor
to do it! He’s not doing anything!” suggests Isabela, looking in
her brother’s direction, and seeing that as usual, he’s lying on
the sofa reading a comic book.
He looks at her in silence, signaling “no” with his index
finger.
“That’s a woman’s thing! He’s not a fruitcake. You do
it!” her mother chimes in impatiently.
“Crap! That’s not right, mom! He’s not gonna stop being
a man just because he washes some dishes. If he can eat why
can’t he wash?” she complains, feeling wronged.
“C’mon, girl! Stop whining! It was also this way at my
mom’s and how dare I complain.”
“You’re from the dark ages. Times have changed. You
gotta keep up!”
“Stop talking back and wash the dishes, girl!” orders the
mom. “Come deal with the thread for me! Get over here!” she
says while she moistens the end of the thread with her lips,
smoothens it out and tries, in vain, to slip the line into the
needle.
“Crap! Crap! Major crap! Being a woman is crappy even
at home. I can’t go into the ‘boy’s circle’ because I’m not a boy
and I have to wash the dishes because I’m a girl. So, when is it
actually good to be a woman? Never, I think!” she hollers,
running the sponge on the plates and throwing the utensils at the
sink.
“Isabela, be careful! You’re gonna break the dishes that
way or leave everything chipped,” her mother complains.
“I’m the one who is being chipped by this backward
thinking that boys turn into fruitcakes if they wash the dishes.
Why didn’t God make me a man? Even to pee it’s easier!
Dammit! Crap! Major crap!” she roars, all upset, while she
washes the dishes.
“Then tell this lazybones to slip the thread in for you!”
Isabela answers, disgusted, in a final effort to get her brother out
of his comfort zone.
“Carolina!” calls out the mother. “Slip the thread in for
me!” she asks, stretching her legs and arms as she yawns.
“Ma’am?” Carolina shows her face at the door, turning
her eyes. “That’s all?” she asks, marching into the room to put
the thread into the needle, getting it right on her first try.
So easy. How can she says she doesn't manage it? I think
she lies just to turn us into slaves, Carolina thinks as she gets
ready to go out.
“Trying to get away, eh?” inquires Mrs. Silveira,
returning to her sewing.
“No mom!” she responds, huffing.
“Thinking of going to the beach?” Mrs. Silveira stops
sewing, fixes her long black hair, and looks at her daughter.
“I’m not just thinking, I’m going!” Carolina has made up
her mind and does not want to let the mother intimidate her, but
knowing that some new demand will follow, she waits for it,
upset.
“Go see if the boys also wanna go!” she says, referring to
Isabela and Heitor, returning once again to her sewing.
Since you wanna go, then take two presents with you...
loud mouth! thinks Mrs. Silveira as though she were laughing
inside.
“Look! If you don’t take ‘em, I’ll give this bedspread
that I’m sewing to Isabela and you’ll sleep out in the cold!”
threatens the mother.
“I don’t want bodyguards!” Carolina prepares to leave,
not caring about her mother’s threat.
“Hey, Carolina! Can I come too? I’m almost done with
the dishes, there are only a few cups left,” says Isabela,
grimacing. “Wait for me?”
“Alright, but only if you clean those tennis shoes for
me!” she bargains, pointing to the shoes on the floor.
Carolina knows her mother well: if she does not take
them along, she also won’t be able to go. She knows her mother
starts off with a threat and ends with a punishment.
“Aw, Carol...” Isabela pouts.
“Pouting won’t get you anywhere! Clean it and I’ll take
ya!”
“Carol, can I come too?” Heitor gets excited, already up
on his feet.
“Of course, Heitor. But you’ll have to get me some
guavas,” she bargains again, while rubbing tanning lotion on her
shoulders.
“Thanks a lot! I’ll stay home,” he answers, returning to
his comic book.
“What, is getting some guavas gonna kill you?” asks
Carolina, sitting down on the beach towel while she negotiates.
“No! I just don’t like you sitting on your butt…taking
advantage of us. I’d rather stay home!” he strikes, without so
much as looking at her.
“Come on Heitor! We can play in the sand and bathe in
the sea...with you it’s gonna be more fun. Go get ‘em!” Isabela
tries to convince him, while scrubbing her sister’s tennis shoes.
“I’ll only do it because Isabela’s asking…” He goes to
gather the fruits.
Carolina spends the morning exploiting the two, until
they almost give up.
“Carolina! That’s enough!” He vents, arms closed. “Are
you gonna take us or not? I’m sick and tired of you exploiting
us! Who taught you this trick, huh?” Heitor complains,
aggrieved, looking in his mother’s direction.
“Then why did you get everything ready like you were
just leaving?” Isabela says, disappointed.
“To see if we’d do everything she wanted! We’re both
morons!” Heitor roars.
“Very well, we can go now,” Carolina finally decides.
Elated, when they finally do arrive at the beach, Isabela
and Heitor do not want to leave the water and when it’s time to
go home, it takes a lot of work to convince them.
“Don’t worry, Heitor...” Isabela gently runs he hand
through her brother’s golden locks. “We’ll soon be old enough
to come by ourselves,” she speaks tenderly, while they’re
crossing the street. Only now does it occur to Isabela that the
two years’ difference between them practically does not exist
anymore, because at ten-years-old, Heitor is already her size.
At home they always play together and only separate
when it is time for the “boy’s circle.” When he returns, that is
when Isabela fences him in and asks endless questions.
“What do you all talk about? What do you do? Who else
goes? How old are they? Do you curse? Tell jokes?” she shoots
the questions.
“Why do you wanna know? Foolishness, bullshit, and
crap. We laugh, give each other nicknames, talk about
girls…that kinda stuff. See, now you know. Now lemme hear
this song!” he says, spreading himself all over the couch next to
the turned-on radio.
“What? You stay there all that time and that’s it! You
expect me to believe this?” she protests, hitting her brother’s
foot.
“I’m tellin’ ya, believe it if you want!” He goes on
listening to the song, without minding that Isabela’s in front of
him trying to convince him to reveal the details.
“Dare to introduce me like a boy in disguise?” she asks
in a low voice, her lips close to his ear. “I swear that no one
would know.. Please…please...please…” she implores, bringing
her hands together.
“Tch...Isabela!” He gets up from the sofa, irritated. “Just
beat it, will ya! If the guys find out, I’m screwed for the rest of
my life. The answer is no! You had stopped asking me...are you
starting again?”
“Oh, I get it. You’re all super tight, right? Alright then!”
she decidedly says, turning her back to him, huffing with anger.
Why don’t girls get together like this? All they do is play
feed the baby, taking the baby for a walk, mommy and baby up
and down together, shopping…So lame! And then they grow up,
get married, have kids, get fat like mommy and turn into
housewives, she thinks, irritated, as she enters her room.
“Ugh!” She socks the air and mutters, sticking her
tongue out.
Unrelenting, she goes on insisting to take part in the
boy’s circle with Heitor, until she realizes, finally, that she spent
the last couple of years trying in vain.
Isabela stops insisting with her brother and no longer
mentions the subject. Gradually, she gives up on their games and
develops other interests.
Heitor remains the same: he loves to play and collect
comics. He reads them all and re-reads them many times more.
He never trades, never gives one away, and never sells. He only
buys other ones when he gets ahold of some money for it.
Whenever necessary, he even goes into neighboring
towns to complete his collection.
It becomes difficult to walk into his room with so many
comic books of superheroes lying all over the place.
At thirteen, Isabela has her period for the first time and
gets scared without understanding, thinking she hurt herself
somehow. She doesn’t know much about girls turning into
“women,” but she is aware of the changes in her body. Although
she has older sisters, they never discussed the details with her. In
fact, Isabela’s unaware that girls “bleed.” She changes clothes
several times a day and at each change she shows it to her
mother, to a sister, to another…and another. They all say she is
not hurt, that it will soon go away and that is all.
So, in trying to find out what is happening, she goes into
the bathroom and uses a mirror to search for a possible injury
that does not exist.
Huh! How can I be injured if it doesn’t hurt! My God,
what’s happening? she thinks, worried about the possibility of
bleeding until death.
“Célia, you’re my last hope, if there’s something wrong
you have to tell me!” she says, showing her stained clothes that
she just changed into.
“All the girls here at home are dumb, they don’t know or
are very afraid to tell me.” She sighs. “If you don’t know, I don’t
know what else to do. I already asked mommy, the girls, and all
they say is that it’ll pass, but I wanna know what this is. Am I
gonna die? Do you know what it is?” Isabela makes an effort to
hide the irritation she feels with her sister’s calm manner in the
face of her distress.
“You had your period! You’re a young lady now...silly!
It’s beautiful! Come with me!” Smiling and holding onto Isabela
with one hand and her clothes with another, they go to the little
house in the back of their house, where their older sister Rosa
lives with her husband Maurício.
“Look Rosa, Isabela’s already a young lady! Beautiful,
don’t you think Maurício?” she asks, holding onto the pulse of
Isabela, who at that moment feels her cheeks burning, in a mix
of shame and anger at being exposed in such an embarrassing
way.
“Are you crazy? Lost your head? You drunk?” she yells,
uncontrollably, almost crying. “To expose me like this! So
pissed…sicko…NUTCASE!” tearfully leaves to her room. She
opens and slams the door shut. All worried, her mother, as well
as Carolina and Célia, follow her to the door.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this before?! Dammit,
dammit, dammmmitt!” she yells, stretched out on the bed, with
her face buried into her pillow.
“I never saw a girl, now a young lady,” corrects the
mother, “speak such nonsense! Resign yourself, my girl! Now
you’re going to have your period every month,” she concludes,
sitting next to her on the bed.
“Isa! This is called menstruation and from now you gotta
walk the line otherwise you’ll get pregnant!” Carolina tries to
scare her.
“Don’t talk gibberish to the girl!” scolds the mother, with
a severe look, biting her lips nervously.
“Did I say something silly? She could end up like
Helena, that was a teenage mother who exchanged her doll for a
real child,” she warns. “Yikes! I can’t get over it!” Carolina
vents, looking at her sister lying on the bed, still sobbing.
“Helena was dumb! I told her to watch it. She didn’t
listen to you, mom, she didn’t listen to me, she screwed and got
screwed!” Célia doesn’t hide her disappointment in talking
about her sister. A wrinkle appears when she furrows her brow.
“Shut up!” She sobs. “You don’t have a clue!” she
speaks in bellows, making Célia raise her forehead.
“Who doesn’t have a clue is that dimwit Helena...and
you’re gonna be next if you don’t take care of yourself!”
Carolina insists with her sister.
“Isa!” Célia kneels down next to the bed and says
quietly: “Sweetie, now every month you’re going to have this
illustrious visit called menstruation. Welcome to the world of
women!” Sorry for her sister, she smiles as she caresses her
sister’s long wavy hair.
Poor thing. She never liked being born a girl and now
she’s going to have to live with this load, she thinks feeling sorry
for her.
“Every month? Every month!” she wails, withdrawing
her face from the pillow. “Now this! This is not a menstruation
it’s a “MONSTRUATION!” she revolts. “I feel terrible. What’s
gonna happen to me next? Tell me, mom! See that Célia? See?”
She talks nonstop.
Her mom makes a negative signal with her face, without
worrying about the details.
“What are you,” she roars, biting her lips between her
teeth and getting up from the bed, “doing in my room?” Isabela
tries to push her sister out of the room.
“Your room, as if!” Célia will not be intimidated. “It’s
ours, I also sleep in it!” Without strength, Isabela gives up on
trying to throw her sister out. Her petite body does not respond
to great physical efforts. She cannot make her sister budge a
millimeter from her place.
“You can’t do what she did!” she says, going back to
bed. “She even told Maurício. And you all didn’t tell me
anything, you let be find out this way…this way,” she vents,
sobbing again.
“Stop talking with your mouth full of spit!” scolds the
mother. “Célia!” she calls out, turning towards her. “Go pick up
a towel!” She turns back to Isabela with a soft look on her face.
“Not me!” She refuses, crossing her arms.
“Do it now!” she orders, irritated. Or else…” Turning
herself again towards Célia, she threatens by biting her lips.
Célia runs all over the house and brings the towel to her mother.
“That’s better.” Satisfied, Mrs. Silveira dries her
daughter’s tears and mouth.
“Let me dry it myself!” Isabela speaks, upset, waiting for
her mother to release the towel.
“We didn’t tell you before because you lived in a boy’s
world. I also thought it would come later,” she says, twisting her
lips. “Don’t be like that…it’s over,” she tries to console her.
“It’s over, as if! It’s not over! Pepper in someone else’s
eyes is a refreshment!” she vents, furiously scrubbing a towel on
her red face.
“That’s not how the saying goes, silly. The says is:
Pepper in the ass…of others…”
“Shut your mouth right now, Célia! Knock it off! Let her
be!” the mother interrupts, nervously returning to biting her lips.
As she leaves, she suddenly turns to Célia: “You’re
gonna pay for what you did to Isabela!” she threatens, glaring at
her daughter.
“Yikes, mom! Why didn’t you tell her then?” she
protests, leaving the room slowly, fearing her mother’s reaction.
“I made a mistake. But what got into you, taking her to
Maurício? You moron!” she resumes. As she leaves the room,
she slaps Celia’s head, who remains still, fixing her long mop of
hair. She comes back right after, bringing some rags to Isabela.
“Here, dear!” Her mother stretches her hand to Isabela,
who suspiciously looks at her.
“What’s this?” she asks without touching it.
“I saved the best cloth from the quilt that I’m sewing for
you. For this moment,” she says, holding the bag of rags.
“But mom, what am I gonna do with this?” she asks, still
not understanding. “What are they for?” she picks them up,
examining each one.
“Dear. Now that you’re a young lady,” she says carefully,
“every month you are going to menstruate, you’re going to need
rags so you don’t stain you underwear and clothes, understand?”
The mother frets over her daughter’s difficulty accepting the
situation.
“Like what? Use how?” she asks, with her voice still
constricted.
“You’re going to fold it like this.” Mrs. Silveira grabs a
rag and demonstrates. “Afterwards you place it like this so you
don’t stain your underwear, and no one needs to know that
you’re menstruating.”
“What?” she asks kneeling next to the rags spread on the
bed. “I’ll have to put this thing in my underwear and walk
around with it between my legs? It can’t be…I don’t believe it!
God really is a man. Did He do this to the guys? No, he did it to
us! It’s not possible!” she yells with her hands on her head.
“Talk it away ‘cause I’m not using it! I’m not using it!” she
protests, burrowing her face in the pillow. “Shit! Shit! Crap!”
she screams, stomping her feet and socking the bed, with her
voice stifled by the pillow.
Isabela does not comprehend that Mrs. Silveira, a
northeastern with a thick, characteristic accent and a strong
temperament, wasn’t given any orientation from her mother
who, in turn, also did not receive any from her grandma. She got
used to keeping quiet and just accepting things. At that moment
she takes a deep breath and speaks in a more energetic way to
her daughter.
“Pay attention. I became a young woman when I was
still in Bahia and my mom, poor woman, God bless her,” she
says looking at the ceiling, making the sign of the cross, “she
gave me some rags and explained what they were for.” She
deeply inhales and pauses. “I also got scared, but it’s our
nature.” She goes silent, looking at her daughter. “Every woman
goes through this. Accept it, dear, because revolting only makes
the situation worse.” One more time she looks at her daughter,
who still has her face buried in the pillow.
Signaling for Carolina and Célia to leave the room, Mrs.
Silveira strategically leaves the bag on top of the bed. She
knows that, in the absence of alternatives, she will have to
resign herself to this.
Isabela stays alone with her revolt.
The next morning, Isabela takes a bus to the center of
Guarujá to collect her school records to give to the new school
that she is about to attend. She decides to wear a skirt, without
the little rags that her mother left on the bed. On the bus, she is
surprised by a flux of unexpected blood.
“Darn! I didn’t see this coming!” she grumbles, feeling it
come down.
One stop before hers, Isabela gets up discreetly and runs
her hand on the seat, trying to clean it.
Yuck! It’s really dirty! What do I do? She thinks, worried,
while she places her hand on the seat, and then rubs her hands
together. She decides to get up before it gets any dirtier. She
goes to the door and signals, hoping that the bus stops soon. She
steps out of it and walks to school. Then gets in line with fifteen
people in front of her.
My God! All these people and here I am, bleeding. Oh
no, it’s running through my thigh. In a cold sweat, she runs her
hand along her thigh, trying to be discreet. She leaves the line in
search of a restroom in which to clean herself.
“The keys are with the secretary,” she hears from the
receptionist.
Great! Awesome! She thinks, trying to hide her irritation.
“She’s on the other floor and will be back soon. Can you
wait?” She smiles.
No, but so what? she thinks, irritated. She dons a halfhearted smile, and returns to the line.
This period is messing with me. At home nothing came
down –I had to leave the house for nature’s prank to start! She
thinks, feeling her face redden, dreading that someone will
notice what is happening.
Time passes and Isabela goes on trying to contain her
flux as best she can with her hands. If it doesn’t come down
through one thigh, it comes down through another. She decides
to leave the line again and look for the secretary.
“The woman already came down, now she’s yapping on
the phone and no one tells me,” she whines quietly, picking up
the keys.
Isabela enters the bathroom, turns on the light and
quickly locks the door. She washes her hands and examines the
situation.
“Rays of monstruation! Dammit! Dammit! What a
horrible thing to have!” she puts her hands on her head, shaking
it in the negative. She feels afflicted and uncomfortable.
I’m not gonna hurry. Judging from the slowness of that
line, if I leave here it still won’t be my turn, she thinks more
calmly, trying to clean herself.
When Isabela opens the door she feels like leaving, but
she is forced to get back in line because it’s the last day to gather
her records.
I knew it! That was enough time. Slugs...there are still
three people in front of me, she thinks as she takes her place
back in line.
With her records in hand, she decides to walk home.
I’ll take a shortcut, so at least I won’t run the risk of
staining the bus seat in case the paper I put in doesn’t do the
job, she decides at the last minute.
On the way, she suddenly encounters a fruit that she
always ate with the other kids.
“Lookie, lookie! Apricot! I love apricot!” Not resisting
the tree brimming with small, yellow fruits, the size of golf
balls, she reaches out her hand and plucks one out.
“Really ripe!” she whispers as she opens the fruit with
her hands. Its soft skin almost loosens itself at the mere touch of
her hand.
She sighs as she feels the taste of the fruit in her mouth,
which suddenly makes her remember the good childhood
moments when this was a pleasurable routine. She scrapes the
inside of the skin with her teeth and plays with the seeds in her
mouth. She smiles again.
Three blocks before she reaches her house, a young man
driving a yellow automobile catches her attention. They
exchange glances, he smiles and honks, she looks to the side
thinking that it’s for someone else, but there is no one there
aside from her. Isabela, flattered, smiles to herself.
“At least one good thing today.” She sighs. “I wonder if
he has a driving license. He’s so young,” she whispers.
The driver of the car drives around the block, goes by
real slowly, honks again, and offers her a rise. Worried about the
young man’s intentions, she refuses.
“If he came out of the car for us to talk...” she whispers
while she sees him go around again, give one more honk, a
smile, and leave.
“Ah! Too bad he left...” she laments, smiling. “He flirted
with me and I’m not with my sisters, it was for me. I’m
interesting to someone,” she whispers, self-satisfied.
Isabela arrives home content and swears that no one will
know about her next “monstruations.” It all goes by quickly; the
days, weeks, and she forgets. One night, she awakes groaning,
with painful cramps.
One nightmare after the other! Is it possible? she thinks
when noticing her favorite pajamas dirty with blood, and the
promise that no one is to know about her period goes out the
window. She takes a bath, changes her pajamas, but can’t sleep,
and groans with pain.
“Isabela!” Célia calls out sleepily. “Think about
something else and sleep will come!” She asks in a murmur.
“The pain is too much to bear quietly. I can’t
concentrate, how can I think when I’m in pain? Only in your
empty head!” she roars. “Why don’t you leave to smoke your
stupid cigarette?” she vents angrily, turning herself on the bed.
“Hey! Savage girl! If you don’t watch it you’ll be just
like Rosa. Every month with cramps and vomiting. She only got
better when the first kid was born.”
“Is this a curse? You want to see me all screwed up? You
really like you little sis, eh?” she mutters, intolerant, between
making faces and groaning.
“Just wait and see until it’s time for a kid to be born! It
hurts a lot more,” responds her mother, bringing her a cup of hot
tea.
“I haven’t seen it and I won’t. Having a kid is a choice
and I choose not to have one. I’m not even going to get married,
let alone have kids,” she responds with her face tight. “Bad tea,
mom!” she whines, making a face as she takes a small sip.
“It’s from a rue plant. It sure works for Rosa. Maybe it’ll
work for you too,” she says, sitting on the bed, next to Isabela.
“Marriage without a child is boring Isa, children give life to the
couple, to the house,” she resumes, taking back the cup from her
daughter’s hands.
“But lots of kids bring expenses,” Isabela says,
interrupting her mom.
“And what are we going to fight for if not for our
children?” justifies her mother, running her hand through
Isabela’s brown hair.
“Right, mom.” She sticks her tongue out as she
remembers the tea. “After you went into labor for the third time,
the rest of us were spit out. It didn’t hurt anymore, isn’t that
right? How about me, the seventh down the line, I came out in a
slap, PRULUMMM.” Everyone laughs at Isabela’s comment.
“You mom almost didn’t have a period. Every couple
years someone was born.” Carolina shows her face from the top
of the bunk bed, looking at her mother with pity.
“What courage, I almost didn’t recognize you in your
wedding picture; you were slim, pretty, after eight children you
got chubby, you even forget to put on lipstick …Ew! Crap! Man
don’t have any of that! What advantage they have! Is that fair?”
she objects between groans.
“I’m not vain anymore, that’s all,” she tries to justify. I
got pregnant…what else was I gonna do? Have an abortion? No
way, so you were all born.”
“What you don’t have is time. You work and when
you’re home you’re either sewing or washing dishes.” Célia
agrees with her sister. In silence, the sisters watch their mother
leaving the room.
Isabela fails to grasp the meaning of her mother’s words;
she listens without giving it much importance. She will not
marry and have children, she is sure of that.
I wanna have fun, date, date and have fun. Come to think
of it, I think a lot about dating, but how does dating go? And
what’s harder to know: With whom? I don’t go anywhere except
school. I look around at school, but who? They’re all duds. I
stayed a few years at my last school and knew everyone. No way
I could go out with someone there. The only one I could even
think about flirting with was Marcelo. He was tall, dark, lean,
had a nice smile, but had really bad breath…poor thing. One of
those that when he sneezed, you couldn’t be near him. You had
to slip away quietly, she thinks, sighing for a long time.
“Unfortunately I’m not someone you could really call a
young woman. My body hasn’t changed that much. I look more
like a girl-girl, and boys still look at me like a kid,” she
concludes, still sore but sleepy, lying in bed.
Her night is long and the tea doesn’t help much. She falls
asleep from sheer tiredness between one groan and another.
One day, during lunchtime, Isabela opens up with her
siblings.
“You know what happened today at school?” She huffs
with anger, gesturing with her fork.
“Spill it!” Heitor curiously asks.
“I was in the hallway to talk to the principal and the
inspector saw be from behind and yelled for me to go inside the
classroom. I turned around and he got all awkward, saying he
was sorry for thinking I was little girl. How did that happen? I
was stunned! True that some girls in my class are bigger than
me, but I’m not that small. Am I?” she asks, examining herself.
“Well, you’re pretty short, but at least you’re skinny. It’d
be worse if you were also fat.” They laugh.
“Coming from you, Heitor, who only talks crap and
sometimes shit also, I don’t even care.” She turns around, taking
a piece of meat to her mouth.
“What’s up? Hey, I was just trying to show you the
positive side!” Hector answers, confused.
“Positive side of what? It’d be worse if you were fat!”
she mimics her brother, contorting his lips.
“Hey mom! Did you suck on lemons when you were
pregnant with Isabela?” Heitor shakes his head in a gesture of
reproach.
“No! She didn’t, but when was pregnant with you she
only ate shrimp, because you’re like them: you have shit for
brains,” she responds, leaving the room. “I’m not eating more!”
she abruptly says, abandoning her still-full plate.
“What did I say? This girl is gonna have a hard time
dating someone. Who, in a sane conscience, is going to face up
to this spitfire? She’s very annoying and a major whiner. Poor
guy! Tsk, Tsk.” Heitor shakes his head, forking a last bite.
Isabela, not one to just let things slide, hears and comes
back to answer:
“Worse off is whomever goes out with you. If she
doesn’t read comics, you’ll have nothing to talk about.” She
grimaces, leaving the room and covering her ears with her
hands.
“Isa! Judging from the size of our parents, you aren’t
growing more than this,” Carolina speaks loudly for her sister to
hear.
“Leave her, Carol!” Célia prefers not to upset her more.
In her room, she regrets not being a sexy woman, since
she was born a woman and she can’t do anything about that.
Nature left me with the body of a girl. Now this! Isabela
recalls her classmates: they all have developed bodies and
voluminous breasts.
Not that I want big boobs, but a little more would be
good, she thinks as she looks at herself in the mirror, turning
sideways to observe the angles better.
I wish I could wear a mini-skirt and walk around
showing off my legs to provoke glances and sighs like Maria
José. My legs are short and thin, how am I going to wear a
mini? What’s there to show? She laments in recalling her exclassmate from eighth grade and the boys who sighed when she
showed up in a mini-skirt.
Examining herself in the mirror, from the side, from the
front, the back, at a distance, and up close, she doesn’t like what
she sees. She finds herself “almost” ugly and boring and that
upsets her, making her insecure.
“God at least could have given me a great body, since I
wasn’t born a man,” she vents, leaning her forehead against the
mirror.
She also suffers during gym, running away from the
teacher when she weighs and measures her classmates, who
always gather around the scale to compare each other’s
measurements.
“Who’s left? Ah! Isabela’s missing. Where’s Isabela?”
No matter where she hides, they always find Isabela.
“Whoa Isabela! That’s all? Feather weight, eh?” They
mock her.
Embarrassed, Isabela takes her leave.
“How about the measurements? Slow down, missy! The
teacher is gonna measure you now!” The classmates anxiously
await. “What are they? No way!”
She pretends not to care although she senses her face
burning. In her embarrassment, she feels a mix of anger and
shame.
As far as sports go, she’s only interested in volleyball
and basketball, but she gives up because of her short stature and
mocking from her classmates, and sometimes from the teacher
even.
Slowly her confidence wanes, and she turns into
someone quiet and of few friends.
At school she spends most of her time alone and at home
listening to music on the radio or locked in her room, reading
for hours on end.
Isabela adopted her father’s radio, which as long as she
remembers stood abandoned in the living room. It had the shape
of a shoe-box, with a wooden body and round buttons, striking
for its golden details that are already partially faded.
For some time it had become part of her. She loved
listening to music.
Whenever one of her favorite songs came on, she turned
up the volume and glued her ear to it.
In time, the radio stopped working and her father had to
take it to get repaired, with the promise that he would bring it
back as soon as possible. This did not occur.
“Dad! Daaad!” Isabela calls out, poking his arm.
“What is it, Isabela!” He answers without much patience,
his green eyes still on the television.
“Where’s the radio that you, sir, took to get repaired ages
ago?” she asks with her hand on her waist.
“There’s a piece missing...it’s old...” he resumes, trying
to watch the movie on television.
“Sir, this won’t be the same as what you did to my bike,
right?” Isabela decides to stay in front of the television to gain
more attention.
“Your bicycle? What’s the matter with your bicycle?
Move away Isabela! I’m trying to watch a bit of television in
this house!” he says, shaking his thinning blond hair to turn
away from his daughter.
“You took it to get fixed and never brought it back,” she
insists, still obstructing her father’s vision.
“The bicycle was different, it was all busted, you broke
it,” he answers, now looking at her.
“I broke it? Sir, you gave it to me all rusty...” She
defends herself in a disappointed tone, her hands still on her
waist. “My guess is that you didn’t take it to get fixed, you sold
it…” she says, feeling a knot in her throat.
“I’ll bring it as soon as it’s fixed,” he responds, slowly
raising his heavy body, leaning himself with hands that have
been marked by time on the armchair.
“Promise?” she hopefully asks, following his steps with
her eyes.
“Of course!” He drags himself to his room and locks
himself in to evade her. Mr. Silveira never kept his promise.
Isabela was left without a bike, as well as a radio.