My Teacher Thought It Was Fiction

The Gold Star

My teacher gave me a gold star for writing about the worst room in our house.

She thought I had made it up.

“Class, listen to this.” Ms. Reyes stood beside the blackboard, holding my yellow pad with both hands. “Nica used very simple words, but she made the place feel real.”

The electric fan clicked every time it turned toward the windows. Outside, someone was selling taho. His call floated through the metal grills, long and sleepy.

I stared at the star she had drawn beside my name. It was big and uneven. One point was much longer than the others.

I should have been happy.

Beside me, Aya whispered, “Wow. Ikaw na. Writer.”

I pinched her elbow without looking at her.

Ms. Reyes began to read.

“There are seven rules inside the house. Do not speak when Tito is angry. Do not eat before he does. Do not open the front door. Do not tell Mama what happens because she is working and worries make people sick.”

A few children laughed at the last line. Ms. Reyes did not.

She kept reading.

“The smallest room has no bed. It has one plastic chair and a window too high for a child. When the door closes, you count the motorcycles outside so you know the world is still there.”

My slippers had a crack near the toes. I pushed my big toe through it, then pulled it back.

“If you are good, the door opens before dark. If you are bad, someone slides a plate of rice through the space below. If there is no plate, you drink from the faucet when they let you use the bathroom.”

The room went quiet.

Even Joel, who usually made fart sounds whenever somebody read, kept his mouth closed.

Ms. Reyes lowered the paper. Her smile had changed. It was still there, but only because she had forgotten to remove it.

“Very imaginative, Nica,” she said.

I nodded.

The lie would have been easy. Thank you, Ma’am. That was all I needed to say.

Instead, I looked at the gold star again.

Nobody had ever given me anything for telling the truth.

“What book inspired you?” Ms. Reyes asked.

Aya was still watching me. She knew I did not finish books. I was the slowest reader in our row, and sometimes I guessed words by looking at their first letter.

“No book, Ma’am.”

“A movie, then?”

I shook my head.

She waited.

The fan clicked. Taho, the man called again, farther away now.

“It’s our house,” I said.

Somebody behind me snorted.

Ms. Reyes placed the yellow pad on her desk. “What do you mean?”

“I only changed his name.”

She looked at the first page, then at me. “Whose name?”

My stomach tightened. Tito Armand always said I had a face that confessed before my mouth did. He could tell when I had taken sugar from the jar or forgotten to rinse the soap from a plate.

I rubbed my palms on my skirt.

“Nica?”

The bell rang.

Chairs scraped the floor. Everyone stood at once, shouting about recess and banana cue. Ms. Reyes raised her voice and told them to walk, not run. Aya squeezed past me, but she glanced back before leaving.

I stayed in my seat.

Ms. Reyes waited until the last child disappeared through the door. Then she pulled a chair beside mine instead of making me stand at her table.

“You’re not in trouble,” she said.

That was what adults said before asking questions that could get children in trouble.

“Does someone lock you in that room?”

I looked toward the corridor. “Only when I’m bad.”

“How often?”

I tried to count. There had been the broken glass, the wet uniform, the missing ten pesos, the time I answered while he was talking, and the Sunday I woke him by dropping a spoon.

“Not every day.”

Her hand moved toward mine, then stopped on the desk. “Does he hurt you?”

My throat felt crowded.

If I said yes, Mama might lose her job from worrying. Tito said that was how it worked. She would come home angry, we would have no money, and Paolo would hate me more than he already did.

“He teaches me,” I whispered.

Footsteps came down the corridor.

Slow. Heavy. Familiar.

Ms. Reyes turned toward the door.

Tito Armand stood there in his clean blue polo, one hand resting on the frame. He smiled at my teacher as if they had planned to meet.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he said. Then he looked at the yellow pad on her desk. “I hope Nica hasn’t been telling stories again.”