building. “If he gets fresh with you I’ll poke him with my sewing needle.”
“Do it,” Emília said, her cheeks hot, “and I’ll throw your saints in the outhouse.”
She walked away from her sister and entered the crowd at the classroom door. Emília had always admired Professor Célio’s hands. She did not think they were clammy and cold like a frog’s skin. They weren’t marked with scars or rough from calluses, and she’d often imagined what it would feel like to have those soft things press against her face, her neck. Emília calmed herself and smoothed her dress. It was her best one, copied from a pattern in Fon Fon. It had a low waist and tubular skirt meant to fall midcalf, but Aunt Sofia would never have allowed it. Emília cut the skirt to fall at her ankle. She and Luzia each had three dresses: one housedress made of coarse bramante and two outside dresses made of sturdy gingham and cotton. Emília begged Aunt Sofia for a ream of low-grade crepe or linen, but she wouldn’t allow it. When Aunt Sofia was Emília’s age, she and her older sister could never go into town together. One of them had to stay locked in the house with their baby brother because they had only one dress and one set of shoes to split between the two of them. “And that dress was made out of sewing scraps,” Aunt Sofia chuckled, but Emília never thought the story funny.
When the doors opened, Emília walked into the hot classroom and sat in her usual station—machine 16. Luzia sat facing her, at 17. Professor Célio did not greet them. He examined each station thoroughly, ripping away loose threads and straightening chairs. A piece of his hair fell into his eyes. He removed a metal comb from his breast pocket and brushed it back. When he reached Emília’s station, he dusted her Singer and smiled. Emília’s face grew hot. A giggle rose within her and she covered her mouth to stifle it. Beside her, Luzia sighed loudly and riffled through her sewing bag.
Professor Célio knew how to take apart the sewing machines and put them back together. He knew how to read and write, and spoke with a São Paulo accent that bore no resemblance to their Northeastern twang. He did not cut off the ends of words—he let his o ’s and s ’s, linger on his tongue, savoring them, before releasing them into the world. During classes, he sat behind his desk and read while the women sewed. He was unfazed by the clatter of the machines. Periodically he walked around and helped the women with their work, teaching them how to adjust the pedals, how to pull sheer linens through the falling needle without ripping them, how to prevent the thread from clumping as it made its way down into the machine’s base. He helped all of the women, especially Luzia, who crossed her arms and slid her chair away from the machine while Professor Célio gave advice.
The room was hot. Emília’s leg grew stiff from pumping the machine’s pedal. Luzia fumbled with the bobbins on the base of her machine. She leaned across the Singer at odd angles, using her Victrola arm to keep her cloth taut and her good one to slowly push it through the needle. Her foot tapped the iron pedal. Her knees bumped against the underside of the sewing table. Emília liked to watch Luzia when she thought no one was looking. She didn’t like to see her sister struggle; she liked the moments when the struggle ceased, when Luzia found a clever way to prop her arm or move her body in order to accomplish her task. Luzia’s face changed when this happened. It softened, revealing a hint of womanliness, a break in her fierce pride. Once, Emília had caught her dancing alone in their room. Luzia had positioned her arms before her, the Victrola arm permanently bent on her imaginary partner’s shoulder, the straight one holding his hand. Her good arm had flopped and her hips had moved so awkwardly that Emília couldn’t help but giggle. Luzia had stopped and stormed from their room. Emília
“Do it,” Emília said, her cheeks hot, “and I’ll throw your saints in the outhouse.”
She walked away from her sister and entered the crowd at the classroom door. Emília had always admired Professor Célio’s hands. She did not think they were clammy and cold like a frog’s skin. They weren’t marked with scars or rough from calluses, and she’d often imagined what it would feel like to have those soft things press against her face, her neck. Emília calmed herself and smoothed her dress. It was her best one, copied from a pattern in Fon Fon. It had a low waist and tubular skirt meant to fall midcalf, but Aunt Sofia would never have allowed it. Emília cut the skirt to fall at her ankle. She and Luzia each had three dresses: one housedress made of coarse bramante and two outside dresses made of sturdy gingham and cotton. Emília begged Aunt Sofia for a ream of low-grade crepe or linen, but she wouldn’t allow it. When Aunt Sofia was Emília’s age, she and her older sister could never go into town together. One of them had to stay locked in the house with their baby brother because they had only one dress and one set of shoes to split between the two of them. “And that dress was made out of sewing scraps,” Aunt Sofia chuckled, but Emília never thought the story funny.
When the doors opened, Emília walked into the hot classroom and sat in her usual station—machine 16. Luzia sat facing her, at 17. Professor Célio did not greet them. He examined each station thoroughly, ripping away loose threads and straightening chairs. A piece of his hair fell into his eyes. He removed a metal comb from his breast pocket and brushed it back. When he reached Emília’s station, he dusted her Singer and smiled. Emília’s face grew hot. A giggle rose within her and she covered her mouth to stifle it. Beside her, Luzia sighed loudly and riffled through her sewing bag.
Professor Célio knew how to take apart the sewing machines and put them back together. He knew how to read and write, and spoke with a São Paulo accent that bore no resemblance to their Northeastern twang. He did not cut off the ends of words—he let his o ’s and s ’s, linger on his tongue, savoring them, before releasing them into the world. During classes, he sat behind his desk and read while the women sewed. He was unfazed by the clatter of the machines. Periodically he walked around and helped the women with their work, teaching them how to adjust the pedals, how to pull sheer linens through the falling needle without ripping them, how to prevent the thread from clumping as it made its way down into the machine’s base. He helped all of the women, especially Luzia, who crossed her arms and slid her chair away from the machine while Professor Célio gave advice.
The room was hot. Emília’s leg grew stiff from pumping the machine’s pedal. Luzia fumbled with the bobbins on the base of her machine. She leaned across the Singer at odd angles, using her Victrola arm to keep her cloth taut and her good one to slowly push it through the needle. Her foot tapped the iron pedal. Her knees bumped against the underside of the sewing table. Emília liked to watch Luzia when she thought no one was looking. She didn’t like to see her sister struggle; she liked the moments when the struggle ceased, when Luzia found a clever way to prop her arm or move her body in order to accomplish her task. Luzia’s face changed when this happened. It softened, revealing a hint of womanliness, a break in her fierce pride. Once, Emília had caught her dancing alone in their room. Luzia had positioned her arms before her, the Victrola arm permanently bent on her imaginary partner’s shoulder, the straight one holding his hand. Her good arm had flopped and her hips had moved so awkwardly that Emília couldn’t help but giggle. Luzia had stopped and stormed from their room. Emília
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