Metamorphose

The following year, already the first day of class, I carried in my bag a poem of four verses that went like this:

It was good for the slaves And seemed like honey I think that she is the sister of God Long live Princes Isabel.

At first, I didn’t have courage to show it to the teacher.

Each time I tried, I froze, my heart already pounding in my throat.

But on the second day of class, during the lesson when she said that I had pretty writing, I pulled the poem from my bag and gave it to her.

She went to the table and sat down with my little paper in her hand. She read and reread. She picked up a pen and scratched out something over my verses and sent Pedro to call the principal.

Immediately it made me want to pee and vomit. Could it be I had done something wrong? And if I had, would I be rapped on the knuckles with her ruler?*

The principal arrived following Pedro.

Mrs. Cacilda gave him the paper. The principal read it. They remained for some time, speaking softly and pointing at something I had written.

After he had left, the teacher gave me back the poem and continued the lesson calmly, without a gesture to explain the virtue or the flaw of the verses. But every little noise made me tremble, eager for a signal, an explanation, as banal as it might be.

This is how I remained until the end of the class, but when my row was leaving through the directory door, the principal exited, searched me out with his eyes, and said:

“Congratulations.”

“It was nothing. Thank you.”

I went home happy. You know the soul rests in the head of the heart.

It must have been the tenth or eleventh day in the month of May.

Just after recess, Mrs. Cacilda said to us:

“On the thirteenth, coming, we’re going to have a party for Princess Isabel, who freed the slaves. Who wants to recite?”

Various children cried:

“Me! Me! Me!”

Poom, poom. . . . my heart started beating again in my throat. It was the hour and time to expose my poem. I couldn’t miss the chance. But how to gather the courage?

“Not like this!” yelled the teacher. “Raise your hands!”

I raised mine, how timidly the blackness shone in the middle of five or six pale little hands waving excitedly.

“You . . . You . . . You . . . “

I wasn’t chosen. So many weren’t possible, she explained to us. But I couldn’t lose the chance. I ran after her, greedily.

“Mrs. Cacilda, I have what I did the other day, what I showed Mrs. and she called the principal and he said congratulations and I’ll make it bigger . . . “

I spoke without breathing, without blinking. Fear didn’t stop me, I squeezed my eyes and tears escaped, as I lost control of my emotions.

I exhausted myself.

“Okay. Tomorrow bring the poetry and the class will assay.”

She touched my face and laughed dryly.

Her hand was like a chicken feather and her lips, smiling, were like the wild tomato skins my mother put in her rice seasoning.

I went home half anxious. I almost regretted insisting. The length and decoration of the poem were nothing. It was difficult not to shake, not to cry, not to forget the time.

I thought of not going to class for a few days, of inventing a stomach ache. . . . But I couldn’t speak of Princess Isabel. She was so worthy. If it wasn’t her . . .

What sin was worse: to lie that I was sick or to not pay homage to Saint Princess Isabel?

I decided to go and not to stay in sin. Before shaking, before crying, of what to be castigated by God? By God or by Saint Isabel? By both, of course.

She would have to ask his consent to punish me, as he is the Father, the Chief, the boss in all decisions.

There would surely be a meeting in heaven between saints, between angels . . . No. Angels no. Children don...