Free The Valeditztorian by Alli Curran Page A

baggy, which is probably due to my limited food supply for the past month. Avoiding heels as usual, I shove my feet into an old pair of sneakers.
    We’ve barely finished getting dressed when someone knocks at the door.
    “I’ll get it,” says Grace. “Hey, tudo bem,” she calls from the living room.
    “Who is it?” I ask from the bedroom.
    “It’s Paula ,” says Grace, “and you’ve gotta see what she’s wearing.”
    Catching site of Paula in our doorway, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. The woman is all legs in a pair of five-inch, shiny black stilettos and miniscule black leather shorts. A diamond piercing sparkles against her bare, muscular midriff, reminding me of that line from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet :
    “ …It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
    Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear… .”
     
    Except my version would read, “Like a rhinestone on a Brazilian’s belly button.” Topping the outfit, a tight, yellow cotton half-shirt hugs her shapely breasts. If ever an outfit declared “Queen Bee” status, this is it. Beyond looking incredible, it’s amazing that the woman can walk.
    Grace gushes in Portuguese, roughly, “Paula, you look fabulous!” 
    “I know,” says Paula confidently.
    At least I think that’s what she said.
    Following a cramped drive with Grace, Peter, Soelia, Paula, and me packed into his car, Luciano finds a parking spot a few blocks away from our destination. Strolling together toward the Pelourinho, we pass a churchyard square, and the scene there takes me by surprise. Gathered around a central fountain are a number of individuals suffering from elephantiasis, a disease I’ve only read about in medical textbooks. Each person has at least one massively enlarged leg, thickened to the size of a small tree trunk. Witnessing the disease on the street, en groupe, is nothing less than shocking.
    Milling about the square are also two disabled young men, probably teenagers, afflicted by a different disease that I can’t name . Sitting on skateboards, their abnormally short, deformed legs are tucked under their torsos like frogs’ legs. I watch in amazement as the men use their thickly muscled, powerful arms to propel the skateboards around the square by pushing off the ground. Skateboards, not wheelchairs. Wow.
    “Hey, Emma,” Grace yells, from somewhere up ahead , “are you coming?”
    With my attention focused on the square, I ’d inadvertently stopped walking. Hopefully I wasn’t gaping too rudely. While running to catch up with my companions, I silently thank God for each of my extremities.
    As we enter the Pelourinho, the late afternoon sun is descending, brightly illuminating rows of historic buildings. Like beads on the string of a candy necklace, the stately facades form a pattern of alternating pastel colors.
    “This place always remind s me of Easter eggs,” Grace remarks.
    “That’s a coincidence,” I say, as we walk along the cobblestoned streets.
    “What is ?” she asks.
    “I was just imagining girls lined up in their Easter dresses.”
    “Would you ladies like to take a break from the Easter parade and check out the São Francisco church?” asks Luciano.
    “Where is it?” I ask.
    “Straight ahead,” says Luciano, pointing out the massive church dominating the square in which we’re standing.
    “What do you think?” I ask Grace.
    “I’ve been there already, but I’d love to go back again. The inside is a real treat.”
    Cr ossing over São Francisco’s threshold, I can almost hear my Great Grandma Sophia—who lived to be 104-years-old and was particularly narrow minded when it came to religious tolerance—yelling in my ear, “Emma, how can you walk inside a church? If you get married in one of those places, I’m not coming to the wedding!”
    Luckily Sophia ’s posthumous scolding quickly dissipates as my eyes feast upon the Igreja’s magnificent interior, nearly all of which is covered in finely detailed,