Marina once said: "let's make a pact to do everything together". Well, she didn't use those exact words, we were in 6th grade after all. If it was something like "you do all things with me and I do all things with you". But the message was the same, and so was the breakdown of it.

What evokes the image of this memory now is the familiar agitation of the Professor of Portuguese. He paces back and forth, coughs, says, unsays and repeats. Head up and glasses pressed very close to his eyes, no expression on his face.

Following the usual script, the old man's repetitive monologue drags into some ways that I don't like. Knowing how this ends, I'm already starting to pray to whoever is the patron saint of the shy and desperate. But it's useless, since my prayers fail pretty badly.

The Professor walks to the end of the room and, in large letters, draws in chalk on the blackboard the name of misfortune, calamity, terror of the shy and unsociable:

GROUP WORK.

Student goes, student comes. They carry and drag the tables like brutes. They laugh and speak loudly.

I check to see if Valentina already has a group and bump into the helpless reality. Had it been a pair work, the parasite would already be leaning over my desk, yearning for my help.

The minutes pass slowly and agonizingly, until the Professor looks down at me and notices that I am without a group, alone on my lonely desk.

Again.

In the distance, I can see him sigh with pity and I can still hear him mumble how frustrating it is to have to teach a nuisance like me.

In reality, this is all a figment of my imagination, as the Professor does not say or do anything. The man barely blinks, his serious expression so indifferent to reality that I theorize he is an android whose main function is to discourage young people from pursuing an academic career.

“I'll put you in some group, young lady,” he says, without a hint of emotion in his voice. This guy doesn't pass reCAPTCHA.

Slowly, the man looks around us.

Amazed, I realize that Lara's group only has three people: she, Maria Vitória and Guilherme.

I cross my fingers, hoping the Professor will put me there, resorting to luck and superstition, since Catholicism hasn't helped me very well.

“You can join Sócrates' group,” the man says, and I feel like I've just been thrown cold water.

I look at the trio and feel my wish to finish high school dissipate through the air. They are all sloppy at the back of the room, as if they had already given up on everything a good few years ago.

I think pair work has always bothered me less. The troublemakers form a line and almost slap each other to pair up with me. In group work, no. No one cares if you have three idiots together, because everyone always has some smart friend to balance it out. In Sócrates' group, Kris is that person.

Sócrates glances in my direction, just as the teacher-android repeats the Dantesque sentence. The boy doesn't look enthusiastic about the idea. Well, it's reciprocal.

Sad, I drag my school desk to the back of the room.

Gossip has it that Socrates' group is the perfect definition of giving up.

Starting with Sócrates Júnior himself, who did not inherit the striking characteristics of the player with the same name and even less those of the philosopher with the same name, but rather inherited those of his father: lazy and irresponsible. Sócrates is the guy that no one knows how he got to the last year of high school. A famous tourist, he shows up to class every other month. Recognized by the faculty for always being in a fight.

Kris, on the other hand, is the most promising person in the group, the savior among the lost: smart, responsible, and kind.

And finally, Rebecca.

How do I even begin to explain Rebecca?

Well...

She is the most annoying girl at the school. No joking.

I would add "ugly", but that would be a lie. Rebecca is pretty as hell — unfortunately.

With nothing else to do, I fit my desk in front of hers, next to Kris's. The moment I sit down, I feel the entire trio turn their heads in my direction and stare at me like I'm some weird goo stuck to the chair.

“What's up, nerd,” Rebecca says.

Nerd? I thought she got over that silly nickname in eighth grade.

“We're going to do a powerpoint, Sofia,” Kris says, kind of blasé. Their hands grip a sheet on the table and they slide it towards me.

Realism.

I look at Kris's neat handwriting quickly, because I've already heard everything I need to know from the Professor's mouth.

In theory, it seems very simple and easy: just research the selected literary school and explain it to the rest of the class.

But presenting a quasi-seminar to the whole class is a nightmare. And having to do it in a group with Rebecca and Socrates seems even worse to me.

I move on to consider the option of dropping out of school.

Nowadays there are a lot of jobs for those who didn't finish their studies, right? Or is it the other way around?

If the android-professor can read minds, he should be proud of this masterstroke.

When I lift my eyes from the page, I notice that Rebecca is examining my face from top to bottom, as if she were looking for a specific defect in me.

"Hey, could we go to your place?" she asks, not really questioning, a rhetorical question, a self-invitation.

“Didn't we go to your house?” Socrates snarls at her.

“I don't know, dude, it would be better if we could go somewhere else, you know? What's up, nerd?”

I don't know what comes over me, if it's the exhaustion of the day, if it's a brief moment of courage, if it's just automatic, by pure reflex, but out of my head, I say:

“I have a name.”

Four little words. A sentence accidentally spit out of my mouth.

Wow.

Didn't even know I was capable of that.

Rebecca gives me a sharp look. And then she shrugs, as if the importance of the topic has drastically diminished between one moment and the next.

"There's a problem with the word 'nerd'?" she asks nonchalantly. I nod shyly, the sudden courage leaving me.

“Hey, can't we call a nerd a nerd anymore?” Socrates mocks, as if to say ‘I have nothing to do’.

I shrink into the chair.

“Man, I think nerds don't like to be called nerds,” Rebecca retorts, looking at me.

Socrates laughs, teeth sharp as a shark's fangs.

“Geez, y'all are a piece of shit, huh,” Kris mumbles, giving me a condolence look. Rebecca rolls her eyes.

“Dude, answer me, we can go to your house or not…” She looks at me, pauses briefly. “Nerd.”

The emphasis on the word nerd pisses me off so much that I can't even waste time describing it.

Courage has gone out of me, so all I can do is consent to my home.

Between looking at the two annoying ones and the word "yes", a heat rises through my body. Everything is already really tense, I'm already shaking, what difference does it make to shake a little more?

“My name is Sofia…” I say with a voice… completely shaky.

Damn it.

Okay, if I knew I was going to say it like someone who's just cried so much, I would have kept silent and the rest of my dignity.

I want to run out of here and stick my head underground like a cartoon ostrich.

Sócrates does not forgive, he opens a malicious smile at the same time. Now he's going to make fun of me until I want to move to a cave in the mountains of another country.

Rebecca, on the other hand, seems to feel sorry for me. Honestly, this is even worse.

When she glances up at mine, I look down at my desk, where someone has used a stylus to write a declaration of love to one Arthur from 9th B.

"Oh, c'mon, guys!" Kris grumbles impatiently. "Sofia, can we go to your place? It's okay if you don't want to or can't, okay? We don't intend to invade or anything. I can barely jump a window".

I nod my head, my mouth filled with a samba heart. I think Kris understands my fluffy yes, because they nods in agreement.

Rebecca is staring at me, an expression so impassive it would make our Professor feel envy—if robots has feelings.

I look at the declaration of love to the lucky Artur from 9th B, who has someone to cross his name with the stylus in my desk.

The bell rings. Students drag their desks, the android teacher calls for calm, that the world is not ending. Kris collects things on the table. Rebecca... Well, Rebecca looks away from me, takes the untouched backpack and stands up.

I am saved by the bell.

･*･ ｡ . ⡀｡⠐* ･ ｡ ⡀･ *･ ｡ . ⡀｡⠐* ･ ｡ ⡀･ *

"You sunbathed a lot today, didn't you, honey?" Grandma Mellie makes a baby voice when she speaks. "I'll get you out of there, don't worry."

Taking the pot in her hands, she carries the plant to the opposite side of the yard, in which a huge shadow is now hovering.

Benjamim and I stayed motionless on the wooden bench in the garden, listening to her conversation with the other plants. Grandma asks how each of them's day was, congratulating one, scolding the other and even passing on the hot gossip of the day next to boldo, who is the garden's favorite, even if grandma denies it. The old woman is beaming, the loving tone of voice she's never used with me or Ben or any other grandchild.

"What is this, grandma?," my brother asks, pointing to a plant with white flowers and long leaves.

“Orchid,” she replies, barely looking at the boy.

I look down and contemplate the orchid with some admiration. Last time I saw its, it hadn't bloomed yet.

"Was that the seedling you stole from Dona Antonieta?"

“I took it from her,” she corrects, as if there's a big practical difference. "And it grew up to be a beauty, oh! It is huge and beautiful!"

Grandma has the proud smile that a mother would give to a straight A report card.

Ben asks something else and it goes unanswered because Grandma's mind has gotten lost in her private jungle. The green of the leaves and the black of the vases take over the place, the vines cover the walls and the colors of the flowers paint the ground. It's all very beautiful and soothing.

Mother and I tried to start a humble garden once. Half a dozen flowers withered in this process and we even managed to kill a dragon-tail plant, a plant that grandma said wouldn't die even if you really wanted to.

We entered the kitchen, Tim Maia's voice invading our ears. As Ben and I sit, Gran hums the occasional snippet of music before it is replaced by the flat voice of the radio announcer.

Camargo, the boring announcer, announces a lost ID, amends the summary of the soap opera and the horoscope of the week between one song and another. According to my sign, I will have health and work problems, but my flirting will work out. On the other hand, Fábio, from the eight o'clock soap opera, will be successful in all areas, except with his beloved Teresa.

From time to time, grandma checks the cornmeal cake through the glass in the oven, sits down at the table, looks at us, gets up, checks the cake again.

“How are you?” she asks Ben on the way back.

“I'm good,” the boy mutters, melting with boredom.

Then the conversation die.

She shakes her head, makes a noise with her mouth, and turns to me. Her gaze flickers between the table and my hands, never reaching my face.

”Any news?”

“No,” I mumble.

So we are at the mercy of silence again, what's result of wasting gossip on a ridiculous foot of boldo.

Grandma Mellie shakes her head in dismay, piles some breadcrumbs on the table and goes to check the cake, as if she hadn't just done that.

This boring atmosphere is her response to my coming out as pansexual a while ago. In reality, I came out just for her and she even escaped unintentionally. She was saying that so-and-so was a gay man, but now he was seeing women, I suggested that he liked the both, just like me, that I'm pansexual, she said "what? Do you like women?", I said "too". She hasn't looked me in the eye since.

At least, she didn't tell anyone else. I'm not ready for more judgment yet.

Grandma's steps stop midway when a calm international song with a romantic air starts. Ben whistles the melody according to the rhythm.

“Take the notebook and write the name of this song that is playing, sweetheart” she asks, signaling for me to hurry up.

Responding to the request, I run to the living room in search of grandma's lilac notebook.

When I bring it into the kitchen, I listen to the radio, waiting for Camargo to repeat the name of the song.

“Are you going to learn English too?” Ben asks innocently.

“No. Grandma is too old for that,” she says. I think about refuting her, but, looking at the top of my head, she adds: “Google has the lyrics in Portuguese, right, Sofia?”

“There's everything there, grandma,” I try to sound friendly. My grandmother doesn't even seem to notice.

“So, then we'll see if…” she starts and stops herself. “Oh…”

The announcer says the name of the song and I write down what I understand, combining my bad English with his bad English.

HERE IS YOUR PARADAISE.

“Did you write it?” Ben asks, getting so close to the notebook that he looks like he wants to get inside it.

I nod, Grandma thanks me softly and smiles before turning her attention back to the oven.

Since she went back to school, she has been asking me to write things that she wants to read in the future, when she completes EJA.

The idea for the notebook came from Grandpa Tito, and he was the one who wrote down most of the things for her, in a thin and somewhat illegible handwriting.

“It's ready,” grandma announces as she picks up the mold with the cornmeal cake.

Benjamim runs after the plates and cutlery, while I take care of removing the jug of juice that we put to freeze earlier, since only grandma likes coffee.

Céu Azul by Charlie Brown JR starts playing on the radio just as my cell phone vibrates on the table. My first guess is that Mom forgot to say something earlier and just remembered now. I realize I've messed up when I get a glimpse of the message's contents through the notification bar.

Deep breath.

It's Rebecca, the annoying girl.

With no other option, I open her five messages. Interacting with this girl is always exhausting.

"Good afternoon nerd. How are u?

so nerd, we decided not to go to your house anymore

we go to the library after class

*nerd

Do you agree, nerd?"

Father once warned me: "the more you pay attention to a silly nickname, the more it sticks out".

That's how my uncle went from Fernando to Eggplant. And, by the way, that's how I'm going to stop being Sofia to be Nerd.

Mentally, I write a text asking her to get over our old childhood fight. I don't even get it out of my head, because of my shyness and the Father's advice.

With annoyance, the grandmother asks me to put down the cell phone and eat the cake. She orders my nose more than I do myself, so I obey her and simply send a thumbs up emoji to Rebecca, avoiding any trace of discussion and a possible prolongation of the conversation. Perhaps that prevents the nickname from succeeding. I turn off the phone and take a bite of the unfinished piece of cake on my plate, because I don't feel like listening to my grandmother rant about how the current generation is dependent on technology.

When Chorão repeats that no one is going to ruin his day, I sigh. Positivity be damned, my day is over.