Member-only story
Growing Pains
Papo takes matters into his own hands
I was about thirteen years old when Walter started talking to me. I had heard from him from time to time before, but they were only whispers, murmurs, uncomfortable sounds I could almost hear but faded quickly when I awoke in the night. I’ve never told anyone this, but you asked me about Walter — and why I call him that, so here’s the story.
It was ten years ago, but I remember his exact words, “It’s about time you pay attention to me,” he said. I almost jumped out of bed. I thought I was already asleep. It was the house in Cupey, Puerto Rico — the one we lived in before we moved to Old San Juan. I pretty much grew up by myself in that house. My father worked for the government and my mother, who still lived with us then, taught school.
I slept in my white Granas — they’re like BVDs — and I was lying on my back. It was a warm night and the ceiling fan was making the sound airplanes make in old movies. He was starting to stand up straight, lifting the cotton until he was pressing hard up against it. I was pretty confused and scared, as you can guess. My heart was beating louder and faster than the fan and I started to sweat.
“Just reach in and get me out of here,” he said, and my heart stopped beating for a second. “Come on Papo, you gotta be uncomfortable like that.”
