Free The Valeditztorian by Alli Curran Page B

brilliant gold leafing.
    “Wow,” I say to Grace . “You were right about this place. It’s stunning.”
    Sorry, Great Grandma.
    After spending some time studying the intricately sculptured walls and columns that fill the gilded church, we exit and continue roaming the side streets. Thousands of tchotchkes and some beautiful African art pieces are for sale in numerous, closet-sized tourist traps, but I’m too poor to buy anything valuable.
    “How about a bathing suit?” asks Grace inside a clothing store . “This one would look nice on you,” she says, holding up a beaded brown bikini.
    “It’s a bit small, don’t you think?”
    “Not by Brazilian standards,” says Grace.
    “Okay, I’ll give it a try,” I say, trying to be brave.
    The itsy-bitsy brown bathing suit is, by far, the teeniest bikini I’ve ever dared to wear . When I model it for my companions, Paula says something, and Grace immediately cracks up.
    “I know… .I look totally ridiculous,” I say, wrapping my arms protectively around my midriff.
    “No, you look great,” says Grace . “But Paula says the suit is too American.”
    “What do you mean, ‘too American’?”
    “She means there’s too much material . It covers too much of your body.”
    “If it showed any less of my body, I’d be naked.”
    I’m still smiling when I purchase the suit.
    Under a blood red setting sun, our group grabs a table adjacent to a bandstand in a central crossroads of the Pelourinho. Since it’s dinnertime, and I’m starving as usual, I assume we’re going to eat a big meal. Instead, a few paltry appetizers are quickly devoured by our group of six people, and I’m left with a familiar gnawing feeling in my stomach. Even on special occasions, lunch is apparently the only big meal in Salvador. Nonetheless, copious amounts of alcohol soon make up for in calories our lack of actual sustenance.
    “Aren’t you going to drink?” Luciano asks, downing his second beer.
    “No , I’m not,” I say.
    “Come on, Emma,” says Peter . “You should celebrate.”
    “N ot with alcohol,” I say.
    “Why not?” asks Grace, who’s already looking tipsy after a couple of caipirinhas.
    “In my body, alcohol is poisonous.”
    “What do you mean?” asks Luciano .
    “Whenever I drink , I get sick,” I say.
    “You mean you start throwing up?” asks Grace . “That only happens to me if I drink too much.”
    “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. Alcohol is really bad for my immune system. Even if I drink just a little, I usually come down with a cold the next day, and nasty cold sores start popping out all around my mouth.”
    “Ew w,” says Grace. “Emma has cooties.”
    “Herpes, Grace . I have herpes, not cooties.”
    “That’s even worse than cooties,” says Grace.
    “At least I only get them around my lips,” I say.
    “That’s the way to look on the bright side, Emma,” says Luciano, raising his glass and taking another swig .
    “I try to be optimistic.”
    The herpetic cold sores, acquired during my very first sexual encounter, are fairly annoying, but thankfully nothing more than that. Though I already understood the basics of pregnancy, back in kindergarten I was blissfully unaware of the threat of herpes.
    “Hey , Emma,” said Matthew Perry, the six-year-old boy who lived across the street from my family during my grammar school days. “Wanna practice kissing with me?”
    My five-year-old brain was intrigued by this proposal.
    “Okay,” I said.
    The two of us held hands and skipped to the glider in my backyard. Snuggling close to one another on that mild spring day, Matthew brushed his lips against my cheek.
    “How did that feel?” he asked.
    “Nice,” I replied.
    At that tender age, physical closeness with a boy already felt warm and exciting.
    “Let’s try kissing on the lips,” he said. “You go first.”
    “ Alright.”
    Tentatively, I planted a tiny kiss on Matthew’s lips.
    “Was that good?” I asked,