Here the Whole Time Read online

  For anyone who has ever gotten into a pool with their shirt on

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Before

  Day 1

  Day 2

  Day 3

  Day 4

  Day 5

  Day 6

  Day 7

  Day 8

  Day 9

  Day 10

  Day 11

  Day 12

  Day 13

  Day 14

  Day 15

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I AM FAT.

  I’m not “chubby” or “husky” or “big boned.” I’m heavy, I take up space, and people look at me funny on the street. I know there are plenty of people in this world who have much greater problems than I do here in Brazil, but I can’t think about other people’s suffering when I have my own issues to deal with at school. High school has been my own personal hell for the last two and a half years.

  Sometimes I feel like the list of nicknames for fat people is endless. That isn’t to say that this list is especially creative, but I’m always impressed with the sheer number of nicknames that guys at school come up with, when it would be so much easier to just call me Felipe.

  Ever since I broke a chair in geography class at the beginning of the school year, people have sung “Wrecking Ball” whenever I pass by them in the halls. Two weeks after, another kid in my class broke his chair, but no one sings a Miley Cyrus song at him. You guessed it—he’s skinny.

  I’ve always been fat, and living in this body for seventeen years has made me an expert at ignoring comments from others. Which isn’t to say that I’m used to it. It’s hard to get used to it with daily reminders that you’re a piece of demolition equipment. I’ve just gotten used to pretending that they’re not talking about me.

  Last year, without telling anyone, I bought one of those teen magazines that come with boy band posters inside. I like boy bands (more than I have the courage to admit), but what made me buy it was a burst on the cover that said, “Insecure about your body? Get over it, girl!”

  According to the magazine, an overweight teenager who wants to be cool and have friends has to make up for their weight somehow. Basically, if you’re really funny, or super stylish, or very likable, no one will notice that you’re fat. I thought for a moment about how I compensated for it. I couldn’t come up with anything.

  I mean, I consider myself a funny guy. People love me online (543 Twitter followers and counting). But when I try to socialize in real life, I’m a big loser. I totally fail the likability test. And my style? Ha-ha. I’d define it as sneakers, jeans, and a reasonably clean gray T-shirt. It’s hard to have cool clothes when you’re a size XXL.

  I flipped through the rest of the magazine, took the “Which celebrity would be your BFF?” quiz (I got Taylor Swift), and then threw it out. I didn’t want to be reminded that I have nothing to offer.

  But today everything will be different. It’s the last day of school before winter break—the day I’ve been looking forward to since the school year started. Winter break lasts twenty-two days. Twenty-two glorious days free of fat jokes, nicknames, and ugly looks.

  I jump out of bed early to make sure I’m on time for school, and when I get to the kitchen, my mom is already up, painting a canvas. Three years ago, my mom quit her job at an accounting firm to become an artist. And it’s been three years since our kitchen last resembled a normal one, because there are canvases, paint, and clay everywhere.

  “Good morning, my angel,” she says with a smile that should be impossible for someone who’s been awake since seven a.m.

  My mom is gorgeous. For real. She has big, animated eyes; her full hair is always tied up; and she’s slim. Which means that before he walked out on us when he found out my mom was pregnant with me, my father made it a point to leave me with the fat gene. Thanks a lot, Dad.

  “Good morning. You have paint on your chin. But you look beautiful, anyway,” I say hurriedly as I grab a cheese sandwich and look for my keys.

  “Felipe, I’m not sure if I told you, but this afternoon—”

  “Sorry, can’t talk—already late! See you later, love you, bye!” I answer, closing the door behind me.

  To be honest, I’m never running late, but my anxiety makes me believe that the sooner I get to school, the sooner I can get it over with. Which, unfortunately, makes absolutely no sense.

  I press the elevator button three times more than I have to as I finish my sandwich. And when the door opens, there he is. Caio, my neighbor from apartment 57. I swallow the dry piece of bread that’s still in my mouth, rub my hand over my chin to make sure there are no crumbs left on my face, then step inside.

  I whisper a “Good morning” so low that even I can’t hear it. He doesn’t respond. He’s wearing earbuds and focusing on a book. I wonder if he’s really listening to music while reading, or if he’s the kind of guy who puts earbuds in so he won’t be bothered. If option two is the right answer, I can’t say I blame Caio from apartment 57. Because I always do that, too.

  The elevator takes about forty seconds to go from the third floor, where I live, to the ground floor, but it feels like forty years have passed by the time the doors open again. I just stand there, not knowing what to do, and Caio walks out without even noticing that I was there. I wait three minutes in the hallway before leaving the building.

  The last day of classes drags by. I only have to turn in a history paper and take a philosophy exam. And when I finish the test before everyone else, I’m desperate to get out of there.

  “Already done, Butterball?” I hear someone say as I get up awkwardly from my tiny desk.

  Mrs. Gomes, the teacher, collects my answer sheet and says, “Have a great vacation, Felipe,” looking deep into my eyes. It feels like a look of compassion that says, “I know you can’t take the other students’ picking on you anymore, but stand your ground. You’re strong. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being fat. I know it’s inappropriate to say this because I’m your teacher and I’m fifty-six years old, but you’re quite the catch.”

  Or maybe I’m not that good at interpreting sympathetic looks and she really is just wishing me a great vacation after all.

  When I get to the hallway, I see some girls saying goodbye to each other and (believe it or not) crying. As if winter break didn’t last only twenty-two days. As if we didn’t live in a small town where all you have to do is poke your head out a window to see half the school right there on the sidewalk. As if the internet didn’t exist.

  If my life were a musical, now would be the moment when I’d cross the school gates, singing a song about freedom, and people in the streets would dance in a tightly synchronized choreography behind me. But my life is not a musical, and when I walk through the gate, I hear someone yell, “Butterbaaaall!” I just lower my head and keep walking.

  My apartment building is close to school. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk, and I like to do it every day so I’ll have something to say when my doctor asks if I exercise regularly.

  The only problem is all the sweating. After my obvious self-esteem issues and my absolutely lovely classmates, I think sweat is the thing I hate the most in life.

  By the time I get home, I’m melting like a wax figure. My mom is in the same spot as when I left her. Except now she has a lot more paint stains on her clothes, and her painting is almost done. Today she painted a lot of blue circles (she’s been in a blue phase for the past few months) that, if you look at them from just the right angle, appear to be two dolphins kissing. I think.

  Besides the usual mess, there are pans on the stove, and the apartment smells like lunch. Actual lunch, not yakisoba lefto
vers from last night’s takeout. The idea of starting the break with a proper lunch excites me.

  “Hello, boys. How was school?” she asks, without lifting her eyes from the painting.

  “Last time I checked, you only have one son, Mom.”

  “Ah, I thought you’d come home together. You and Caio, from 57.” She turns around and gives me a kiss on the forehead.

  I’m confused, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice, because she doesn’t add anything else. I go to my room to put down my backpack, and I’m startled when I realize it’s been cleaned. My mom changed the sheets, organized my shelf, and picked up the crumpled socks from under the bed.

  “Mom! What did you do to my room? Where are my socks?!” I shout.

  “In the drawer! Imagine how embarrassing it would be if the neighbors’ son came into your room to find eleven pairs of socks all over the place!” she yells back.

  Eleven? Whoa. Impressive.

  I go back to the kitchen so I won’t have to scream. “What was that about the neighbors’ son?”

  “I told you, didn’t I? He’s coming today. He’s staying with us for fifteen days. His parents are going to a conference on penguins. Or a second honeymoon. Who knows. Anyway, Sandra asked me to keep an eye on Caio while they’re away. I was a little surprised because he’s old enough to stay by himself, no? But it’s not a big deal, and he’s a good kid.”

  The more my mom talks, the more shocked I become.

  “You didn’t tell me! I can’t have a houseguest right now, not during winter break—and for fifteen days! I have plans!”

  “Internet and bingeing Netflix?” She rolls her eyes. “Really big plans you have, Felipe.”

  She knows me well.

  “But … but … doesn’t he have any relatives? Can’t he stay by himself? You and his mom aren’t even friends! What kind of a person doesn’t trust her own teenage son to stay home alone but trusts a complete stranger?”

  “Well, no, we’re not exactly friends-friends. We chat in the hallway sometimes. She always holds the elevator door for me. And we used to talk a lot when you and Caio played in the pool when you were younger. Good times, those. But that’s beside the point. Help me organize the kitchen and set the table. He’ll be here any minute!”

  I just stand there in disbelief. My face is sweaty, terrified, immobile. Like a painting my mom would make on a bad day.

  You’re probably thinking, Calm down, dude, it’s just the neighbor kid! Maybe it’s time I told you about Caio, the neighbor kid from apartment 57.

  Our apartment complex has a large recreation area with a tennis court that no one ever uses (because, honestly, who plays tennis?), a little playground that’s falling apart, and a pool that’s neither big nor small but is always crowded on hot days.

  When I was a kid, that pool was my very own private ocean. I spent hours swimming from one end to the other and re-creating scenes from The Little Mermaid. And it was in that pool that I met Caio. I can’t quite recall the day, or how we started talking. We were pool buddies, and I can’t remember what my childhood was like before that.

  If you’re a fat eight-year-old boy, no one calls you Butterball. Everyone thinks you’re cute, pinches your cheeks, and always makes it very clear how much they want to eat you up. In a sweet way. Weird, but still sweet.

  When I was eight, I didn’t feel embarrassed about running around wearing nothing but a Speedo, or jumping into the pool and splashing water everywhere. Because when you’re eight, it’s okay. And that’s how Caio and I became friends. We never went to the same school (Caio goes to a private school on the other side of town). But when we were younger and it was a hot day, I knew all I had to do was go downstairs to the pool, and Caio would be there, ready to swim with me. Rainy days were the worst.

  We never talked. Kids don’t really talk when they’re at the pool. We would scream and dive and compete to see who could stay underwater the longest. We didn’t have time to talk because, at any moment, Caio’s mom could stick her head out the window, yelling his name, and the fun would be over just like that. His mom was always that type. The type who yells.

  Somewhere in the middle of all the fun and no talking, I had a day I’ve never forgotten. I must have been around eleven, and after almost an entire afternoon playing sharks and pirates (I was the pirate, Caio the shark), I suggested without an ounce of fear, “Do you wanna play mermaids?”

  None of the other kids in the building knew that I loved to play mermaids. It was something I did just for me. I was afraid of what the other boys might think of me if they found out that when I went underwater, in my head I was Ariel. And that deep at the bottom of the pool, I kept my imaginary collection of forks, mirrors, and thingamabobs.

  Caio just smiled, crossed his legs to form a tail, and dove underwater. He didn’t care to know how to play. He didn’t say he’d play only if he could be a merman. He merely went along with my silly fantasy and we swam like mermaids until dusk. It was the best day ever.

  After that, everything went by in a blur. As I grew up, the shame of wearing a Speedo in front of Caio grew with me. I didn’t quite understand what I felt, exactly, but I know that when I was twelve, I started wearing a shirt whenever I went to the pool. And after I turned thirteen, I never set foot in the pool again.

  At thirteen my body began to change, hair started growing everywhere, and I had this urge to kiss someone on the lips. And I wanted that first person to be Caio.

  It was ridiculous how hard I had fallen for Caio. But he’s way out of my league. It’s like being in love with the lead singer of your favorite boy band: All you can do is watch from afar and dream.

  Now do you understand my despair? Fat, gay, and in love with a boy who won’t even acknowledge my Good morning in the elevator. Everything could go wrong. Everything will go wrong. And I don’t even have time to come up with an exit strategy, because the doorbell is ringing. And my mom is opening the door. And I, of course, am covered in sweat.

  So it begins.

  “COME IN, COME IN!” my mom says, pulling Caio inside while fixing his bangs.

  Boundaries, Mom. Boundaries.

  I was expecting him to arrive with his mom and a laundry list of instructions. But here he is, all by himself.

  “My parents got on the first flight to Chile this morning,” he explains to my mom.

  The two must get about two minutes of conversation in while I’m just standing here, watching. Doing all I can to sweat less and act normal.

  “Help him with the suitcase, son!” my mom says, snapping her fingers in front of my face and bringing me back to reality.

  A reality in which I’m wheeling a huge leopard-print suitcase full of clothes that belong to my hot neighbor—who, by the way, is spending the next fifteen days with me—into my room. I take a deep breath and put the suitcase in a corner, between the closet and my desk. Then another deep breath, just to be on the safe side.

  “Sorry about the giant suitcase. That was all my mom,” Caio says, appearing out of nowhere in my bedroom door and scaring me a little, which I try to hide with a tight smile.

  I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. I want to show that I’m funny, but out of the three jokes that I can come up with, two require knowledge of specific episodes of Friends, and the other, I’m almost sure, would be offensive to Caio’s mother.

  “Boys! Lunchtime!” my mother shouts, rescuing me from the embarrassing situation.

  “I’m going to take a quick shower and then I’ll be right there!” I yell back, running to the bathroom and leaving Caio behind.

  When I step into the shower, I’m finally able to breathe. The water relaxes me, and I can think about the situation more calmly. I know how to talk to people, I’m kind, I’m pleasant (maybe). He’s just a guest.

  It’s like when my great-aunt Lourdes comes to visit every year on All Souls’ Day. Her husband is buried here in town, and when she comes to visit his grave, she always spends the whole week w
ith us. Great-Aunt Lourdes cooks everything with green peppers and uses her spit to fix my eyebrows. Caio won’t be doing any of that (I hope), so this should be even easier.

  When I get out of the shower, I feel calmer and more confident that everything is going to be fine. It was just another one of the thousands of times in my life when I was being overdramatic for nothing. I should be used to it by now. I can almost laugh at myself, but the laughter doesn’t come. Because I suddenly realize that I didn’t bring any clean clothes to the bathroom. All I have with me is a towel and a pile of sweaty clothes.

  I need to think fast, because I don’t want Caio to think I’m taking too long in the shower. You know what they say about boys who take too long in the shower. Well, there you go.

  I press my ear against the door and hear voices in the kitchen. My mom is there and Caio must be eating his lunch. I think I can go down the hallway really fast and get to my room without being seen. I wrap a towel around me, play the Mission: Impossible theme song in my head, and take three long strides to my bedroom.

  And when I open the door …

  I.

  Want.

  To.

  Die.

  Caio is sitting there with a book in his hands. He looks at me, startled, and tries to say something, but I speak first. Yell, actually.

  “GET OUT OF MY ROOM! NOW!”

  Frightened, he gets up and leaves. I slam the door, lock it, and immediately start to cry. It’s not a loud and dramatic cry, the kind where you lean your back against the wall and slide down to the floor. It’s just a single tear, running down my face, and I can’t help but feel ashamed. Ashamed because I’m all wet, naked under a Star Wars towel that doesn’t even fit around my whole waist. Ashamed because Caio saw me like this. And I screamed at him. And this is only day one.

  I hear the doorknob turn, but the door is locked.

  “Felipe, is everything okay? What happened? Come have lunch!” my mom says on the other side of the door.

  By the tone in her voice, I can’t tell if she’s worried about or mad at me. Maybe both.