few heads turned when the last judge called out my name for third place. I was nearly at the podium when she nervously explained that my name had been read in error, could I please take my seat. I turned, numb with horror, but not before I glanced at the judge’s fono array, listing the exhibitors. She had accidentally arranged it in reverse order — I wasn’t third from the top, but third from the bottom. Forty-seventh out of fifty. I ran out of the auditorium; at least now I wouldn’t have to sit beside my papai’s quiet disappointment.
I didn’t go far, just up the stairs to the roof of the exhibition hall. Gil found me a few minutes later, a gesture so unexpectedly generous that my tears dried on my cheeks.
“I was terrible,” I said. “At least you admit it.”
Gil smiled. “Nothing about June Costa is terrible.” I liked the way my name tasted on his lips, as if I were a sweet and juicy fruit, rarely in season.
“But I wasn’t any good. Not like your mamãe.”
He stepped closer to me, and across a bridge of centimeters, I noted how his angles were already rounding, his muscles filling to match his height, the awkwardly broad planes of his forehead and cheeks subtly transforming into something that would be beautiful. But he was already the most beautiful person in the world to me just then.
“I think you’re good. I mean, that gravestone was a little …”
I gave a shaky laugh. “Too much? Sometimes I wish I could make music like my papai. Real art.”
Gil caught my hand and twirled me left, then right, then caught me against his chest. We laughed in tandem.
“What you do is real art.”
“He doesn’t think so. He loves Maria Bethânia. I thought he’d appreciate …”
“He will, June. He loves you.”
For a moment, I believed him. If I tried hard enough, if I made myself good enough, if one day I won the prize instead of running out of the auditorium …
“The best artist in Palmares Três,” I repeated for him, loving the peppery audacity of the words. Believing them just enough to make anything possible.
I never told you this, but I can feel my death. I’ve felt it since that first night, when they knelt me before the altar and I drank the wine, ate the sacred wafer, the body and blood of Jesus and Yemanjá, marrow and gristle and bone and nanobots. The Holy Communion roared behind my eyes, and the doctor said I wouldn’t feel a thing (the only place in the body with no nerve endings: the brain), but I did. The bots spoke to me then like the city speaks to me now. They said move, move, move, which meant die. Did I know that then? I’m not sure.
The knowledge that I would die was like açaí, rich and bitter, and all I could think was that I wanted more.
Mother is waiting for me when I stumble back home. My clothes are wet and my hair is like a nest of seaweed, and I’m almost sad that Auntie Yaha isn’t there with her, since it makes her crazy when I don’t “look my best.”
Mother has crossed her arms and legs. Her lips are pursed and I think about how Mother is always like that now, careful to not openany part of herself. Papai hated that side of her. And I will never be like her, no matter what.
“It’s almost two in the afternoon,” she says.
I shrug, standing awkwardly in the vestibule, dripping on the tiles. I want to take off my clothes, but I don’t dare in case Mother notices the smeared paint and guesses at what I’ve spent this day doing.
“And there was a storm,” she says. “But then, I see you already knew that.”
“I took a walk,” I say finally, because there’s no getting away if I don’t pretend to have this conversation.
“You missed school.”
“It’s the day after the election. Enki’s going to the verde with the Queen in a few hours. Do you think anyone’s in school?”
“The responsible wakas are. I’m sure Bebel —”
“I’m sure Bebel is perfect as ever. Unfortunately, you have me.”
Mother’s lips are
I didn’t go far, just up the stairs to the roof of the exhibition hall. Gil found me a few minutes later, a gesture so unexpectedly generous that my tears dried on my cheeks.
“I was terrible,” I said. “At least you admit it.”
Gil smiled. “Nothing about June Costa is terrible.” I liked the way my name tasted on his lips, as if I were a sweet and juicy fruit, rarely in season.
“But I wasn’t any good. Not like your mamãe.”
He stepped closer to me, and across a bridge of centimeters, I noted how his angles were already rounding, his muscles filling to match his height, the awkwardly broad planes of his forehead and cheeks subtly transforming into something that would be beautiful. But he was already the most beautiful person in the world to me just then.
“I think you’re good. I mean, that gravestone was a little …”
I gave a shaky laugh. “Too much? Sometimes I wish I could make music like my papai. Real art.”
Gil caught my hand and twirled me left, then right, then caught me against his chest. We laughed in tandem.
“What you do is real art.”
“He doesn’t think so. He loves Maria Bethânia. I thought he’d appreciate …”
“He will, June. He loves you.”
For a moment, I believed him. If I tried hard enough, if I made myself good enough, if one day I won the prize instead of running out of the auditorium …
“The best artist in Palmares Três,” I repeated for him, loving the peppery audacity of the words. Believing them just enough to make anything possible.
I never told you this, but I can feel my death. I’ve felt it since that first night, when they knelt me before the altar and I drank the wine, ate the sacred wafer, the body and blood of Jesus and Yemanjá, marrow and gristle and bone and nanobots. The Holy Communion roared behind my eyes, and the doctor said I wouldn’t feel a thing (the only place in the body with no nerve endings: the brain), but I did. The bots spoke to me then like the city speaks to me now. They said move, move, move, which meant die. Did I know that then? I’m not sure.
The knowledge that I would die was like açaí, rich and bitter, and all I could think was that I wanted more.
Mother is waiting for me when I stumble back home. My clothes are wet and my hair is like a nest of seaweed, and I’m almost sad that Auntie Yaha isn’t there with her, since it makes her crazy when I don’t “look my best.”
Mother has crossed her arms and legs. Her lips are pursed and I think about how Mother is always like that now, careful to not openany part of herself. Papai hated that side of her. And I will never be like her, no matter what.
“It’s almost two in the afternoon,” she says.
I shrug, standing awkwardly in the vestibule, dripping on the tiles. I want to take off my clothes, but I don’t dare in case Mother notices the smeared paint and guesses at what I’ve spent this day doing.
“And there was a storm,” she says. “But then, I see you already knew that.”
“I took a walk,” I say finally, because there’s no getting away if I don’t pretend to have this conversation.
“You missed school.”
“It’s the day after the election. Enki’s going to the verde with the Queen in a few hours. Do you think anyone’s in school?”
“The responsible wakas are. I’m sure Bebel —”
“I’m sure Bebel is perfect as ever. Unfortunately, you have me.”
Mother’s lips are
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