Furia(34)

I smiled at them, and three of them returned the smile feebly. One just stared, but Lautaro beamed at me.

A few seconds later, a girl rushed in, breathless.

“I’m sor . . . sor . . . sorry I’m . . . I’m late!” The newcomer took a spot at the table opposite the boys, who leaned away as if she were infested with cooties. The priest and the girl ignored them, and I assumed this behavior wasn’t out of the ordinary.

“Welcome, Karen,” Father Hugo said. “Se?orita Camila will help you with your schoolwork from now on. Please, let’s treat her with the respect she deserves.” He scanned the whole room when he said this, but Karen’s cheeks flushed bright red as if the warning had been directed mostly at her.

Then Father Hugo left me alone with my students. Karen looked me up and down, taking stock of me, deciding how much respect I deserved. My soul was instantly attracted to her.

A smattering of freckles covered her white skin. Karen was rod thin and tall, and her hands were rubbed raw. Her pale lips were chapped from the cold, but her brown eyes were bright and wise. Finally, she said, “Welcome to El Buen P . . . P . . . welcome, se?orita.” A wave of protectiveness overtook me when the boys snickered.

“Thank you,” I said.

After wiping my sweaty hands on my skirt, I took a seat next to Karen and tried to emulate appropriate teacher behavior. “Do you want to show me what you’ve been working on?” I asked.

The boys silently challenged each other to be the first. Karen opened her notebook and pushed it in my direction. I browsed through the thin pages. Everything was in English. The neatness of her handwriting, the correctness of her grammar, and the breadth of her vocabulary rendered me speechless. She mistook my silence for lack of understanding, and with badly concealed pride, she explained, “I am . . . am . . . am writing a translation of Alfonsina Storni, la po . . . la poetisa? Her po-poems. She lived in Rosario when she was very young. Did you know that?”

Karen’s eyes shone. She had an infection, the hunger. I knew that the only cure was to feed it, and I hoped that I could help Karen like Coach Alicia had helped me.

Miguel groaned. “Not again with la poetisa!”

“La se?o might n-not know,” Karen shot back.

“They always fight about this,” Lautaro told me with a shrug.

“La se?o won’t care about your stupid poems, Caca,” Javier said.

The change in Karen’s face was instantaneous. The brave, spunky girl was consumed by a shadow. She moved her lips like she wanted to speak, but no words came out.

I rounded on Javier and snapped, “What did you call her?”

Javier’s dark face was mottled with embarrassment, and I exhaled to calm myself down. The last thing these kids needed was another person who yelled, who put them down. I placed my hand on his arm, but he snatched it away as if my touch had burned him.

“I’m sorry, Javier,” I said, but Javier turned his face away from me.

Lautaro explained, “Karen stutters. That’s why some people call her Caca. When she’s nervous and she tries to say her name it sounds like Ka-Ka-Ka!” The boys tried to stifle their laughter, but Karen’s face hardened. The glassy shine in her eyes made my skin break into goose bumps. There was a little fury inside this girl, and I had the impulse to hug her, to tell her everything would be okay, but I had no right to make this promise when her life was already a hundred times harder than mine.

“Listen,” I said. “I won’t tolerate name-calling of any kind. I can’t tell you what to do when I’m not here, but you won’t call Karen any names in my presence. Claro?”

“Claro,” Lautaro said quickly.

“Gracias,” I said, and all the boys’ faces softened, even Javier’s.

After such a rocky start, the class felt uncomfortably tense. Karen worked in silence, shielding her writing with her arm. There was no need, though. None of the boys were on her level.

An hour in, I went over a pronunciation guide with them, and they all repeated the words with care. All except for Karen, who seemed to listen with her whole body, staring down at the worn table, moving her lips soundlessly.

Finally, the clock on the wall announced it was five.

“It’s merienda time. Will you stay with us, Se?o? Today is pan casero day,” asked Miguel.

My stomach rumbled embarrassingly loudly. The boys laughed as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Lautaro said with a little smirk on his face.

Karen glanced at me and gathered her notebook and pencil as if they were the most precious things in the world. I waited for her to finish. Her thin shoulders were folded in on themselves, a glorious butterfly hiding her colors.

My students and I walked out to the courtyard, where there was a round brick-and-mud oven. White smoke leaked from the metal door that hid the pan casero cooking over coals. Lured by the mouthwatering smell of fresh bread baking, streams of little ones came out of several doors that lined the courtyard and joined me and my class.

We all waited in line behind Sister Cruz, the round-faced nun, who served mate cocido, ladling the steaming tea into metal mugs. When Sister Cristina opened the oven, the kids cheered. With perfect coordination, the nuns passed a cup and a slice of bread, fragrant and warm from the oven, to each of the children waiting patiently.