The One Who Gets Tired

When I got home from the bakery, Braulio was on the stairs practicing being out of breath. He leaned on his knees and hauled air through his mouth. Behind him, the youngest was copying him, though with the addition of a small, unnecessary scream.

“What happened?” I asked.

He straightened. “Does it look real?”

“It did until she started.”

“She’s not coming running with us.” He waved our sister back upstairs. “They keep saying I’m letting them win.”

“Are you?”

“I waited halfway up yesterday.”

I set down the bag of unsold rolls. I’d been on my feet since four, and a piece of sock had folded itself beneath my heel. Braulio, sixteen and incapable of exhaustion, looked particularly offensive against the stair rail. He had grown taller than me over the summer without, so far as I could tell, experiencing any inconvenience.

“Agree on a longer route for you before you start,” I said. “Then run it properly. Or play cards.”

“I like running.”

“Longer route, then.”

He considered this while taking three rolls. Our smallest sister reached into the bread bag with both hands.

“Leave some for me,” I said, but Braulio was already calling up the stairs to tell the twins they were wrong: he didn’t have to stop running with his friends.

I liked that part. They argued for hours, then asked me, and something could happen. Sometimes I continued explaining after the useful bit was over, just to keep their attention a little longer.

In the kitchen my mother was fastening a bracelet with one hand and pinning the seven-year-old’s sleeve to the table with the other. He had got his cuff in the jam. Celso took my workbag, kissed the flour above my ear, and nudged a chair out for me with his foot.

“Eat before they find the cheese.”

To our neighbors they were Nélida and Celso: seven children, too much laundry, a loose tile above the entrance that my stepfather said he would fix. Under their older names, Mamaquilla and Inti, there were still people who worshipped them, and they still held authority over moon and sun. Mother could lay moonlight across her palms. Celso could make the courtyard burn white with his presence. They had to take care when they quarreled in it.

Their six children had inherited enough power to make pretending to be ordinary difficult. I had my mother’s eyes in moonlight, and my human father’s need for eight hours of sleep. A mere demigod, Braulio had called me once during an argument about who should fetch something from the roof. Celso made him fetch it himself.

A row of small toothmarks ran down one edge of the cheese. I cut that bit off and took the rest.

Zulema appeared carrying a pillow.

“Can we do sleeping now?”

“After I eat.”

“I’ll get the blanket.”

She was nine. She had been invited to spend the night at a school friend’s house, and the permission slip from Mother had scarcely interested her. What she needed was a convincing performance after the lights went out. My siblings slept occasionally, like people taking up a hobby. Zulema couldn’t remember the last time she had done it.

I took my bread to the sofa. She arranged the pillow, pulled off my shoes, and tucked the blanket around my feet with a briskness she had learned from watching Mother. For half a minute I was grateful without reservation.

“Your eyes,” she said. “Do they stay pointed forward?”

“I don’t know. I’m asleep.”

“Can I look?”

“No. Lie down.”

She lay on the other cushion and squeezed her eyes shut. All her front teeth showed.

“Less face,” I said. “You’re resting. Nothing hurts.”

Her forehead smoothed. A stripe of pale light beneath her lashes faded when I touched her wrist. She already knew how to hide it; she forgot whenever she concentrated on something else.

“That’s good. Now stay there.”

For a while there was only the kitchen tap and Celso asking who had put a wet spoon in the sugar. Zulema’s feet pushed against mine under the blanket. I chewed the last of my bread and let my head sink.

“Leonor?”

“Mm.”

“Is that the noise I make when somebody talks to me?”

I opened one eye. She opened one too.

“You can just not answer.”

She settled back. I watched her trying not to smile, and we both began laughing. When I tried to settle her again she made my sleepy noise back at me, and I had to hide my face in the pillow.

I might have had twenty minutes if the twins hadn’t come through looking for hair clips. One wanted the other to braid her hair; the other wanted to finish watching a trailer on my phone. The trailer belonged to the film Papa and I were going to see that afternoon, an old adventure they were showing again. We had watched it on his small television so often that I knew when the courier would lose his hat between the carriages. I wanted the train to be huge for once. Papa wanted to hear it.

The twin with my phone let out a noise at the jump from the moving train. Braulio came back downstairs. The seven-year-old fitted himself between the sofa and my knees.

“You can come,” I said.

All four faces turned toward me. Zulema sat up.

“Really?”

“If your parents take you.”

“That’s us, apparently,” Celso told Mother from the kitchen.

She looked at the clock. “If everyone has lunch and gets dressed without a fight.”

There was immediately a fight about whether the youngest could wear her new boots. I said she could sit next to me if she put on the comfortable ones, and for this promise she pressed a wet kiss against my nose. I let her watch the jump twice more. By the time I remembered to put my own shoes on, I’d missed the chance to lie down again.

Papa and Mother had divorced when I was five. Celso had been in my life since I was six, carrying me uphill, coming to school meetings, once sitting patiently through a very long explanation of why he was not invited to my wedding when I grew up. I loved him. I still liked going places with Papa where nobody needed that explained.

I could have sent Papa a message about the children. Instead I went upstairs to find the youngest’s other comfortable shoe.

Outside, Cusco had warmed in the sun while the shaded side of the street stayed cold. Celso carried the youngest down the steps to the bus stop. She kept asking to be put down, then protesting when her feet touched the pavement. I went ahead with the twins, who wanted a photograph together until one decided the other was standing in her light.

On the bus Braulio offered me a seat. I was already waving Zulema into it before he finished asking. She grinned her thanks, and I spent the journey holding the overhead rail and being jostled into a man’s shopping bag.

Papa was waiting outside the cinema with two bottles of water. His shirt was freshly ironed, his hair still wet at the temples. He saw me and raised a bottle; then the youngest ran around my legs and took it out of his hand.

“Hello, Eusebio,” she said, offering him the cap to unscrew.

“Hello.” He opened it for her. “Everybody came.”

“They saw the trailer.”

“Ah.”

Celso shook his hand, Mother kissed his cheek, and for a moment we blocked both doors. I moved us toward the queue. Papa stayed beside me until Braulio took my elbow and pulled me back to look at something on his phone.

“I asked someone to come too,” he said quietly.

The message had gone out an hour earlier: We’re going to the film this afternoon. Want to come? Under it was the reply: Maybe. I’ll ask.

“Someone from running?”

He nodded.

“Have you heard anything else?”

“That’s why I’m showing you.”

“You could send the time.”

“I sent the time.” He scrolled down. He had also sent the name of the cinema, a picture of the poster, and a second question mark.

“Then leave it for now.”

“What if he comes and can’t find us?”

“We’re right by the doors.”

He looked at them. I hadn’t made him happier, but he stayed in the queue.

There were ten seats together in the matinee. While Mother bought the tickets, I took the youngest to see the cardboard train in the lobby. She stood with her face in the hole meant for the driver, ordered us all aboard, and demanded a photograph of every passenger. Papa took the pictures. In his, Braulio had one foot off the ground and his coat held out behind him, fleeing an imaginary pursuer. I doubled over laughing while he complained that Papa had caught him before he was ready. We made him do it again.

At the snack counter, Celso bought three tubs of popcorn and tried to put everything else on the same tray. Chocolate softened where he held it against his chest. He noticed my stare and passed the bars over before he could melt them completely.

“I forgot.”

“Use your jacket.”

He folded it over his arm to carry them. When I was little he used to warm my pajamas between his hands. Later, when Mother said he was spoiling me, he did it only on the coldest nights, which I learned to claim before he checked the weather.

I gave the twins the first popcorn tub. One wanted caramel and the other salted, so I held a fistful of napkins while they sorted a mixed portion with great suspicion. The seven-year-old wanted to carry his own drink. I showed him where to grip it below the lid, then caught myself explaining again when he already had it right.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“I know.”

I was still hovering.

Papa stood at the entrance holding his ticket between two fingers. He had offered to take something three times. I gave him my bag, then took it back because Zulema had put her cardigan in it and was cold.

Inside, I arranged myself where I thought I would be most useful: Braulio on one side, Zulema on the other. The youngest had abandoned her claim on me to sit with Mother, who had the chocolate. They sat at the far end with our seven-year-old brother. Beyond Braulio and the twins, Papa took the aisle seat; Celso lowered himself into the one beside him. I could see them talking as people filed in. Whatever Papa said made Celso laugh.

I leaned across Braulio. “What?”

Papa turned toward me. “The fellow upstairs from my shop brought in a fan. Said it only worked when he shouted at it.”

“Leonor, do we get more if this runs out?” asked a twin.

“No. What was wrong with it, Papa?”

He began to answer, but Zulema had unfolded the cardigan over her head and was asking me whether sleeping under a blanket was allowed at her friend’s house. By the time I had pulled the wool away from her face, the lights were going down. Papa settled into his seat. I had popcorn salt on my hands and had eaten none of it.

For a good twenty minutes I forgot to mind. The cinema filled with the knock and rush of the train, far bigger than it had ever sounded in Papa’s room. When the courier ducked beneath a carriage, Zulema seized my arm. I knew he would roll clear on the other side; she didn’t. I watched her watching, her fingers tightening, then her open-mouthed delight when he emerged still clutching his parcel. Braulio laughed so hard at the lost hat that I missed the next line. I had wanted them to see this. They were seeing it.

Then the youngest needed the toilet. Mother took her out. Our seven-year-old brother, left in his seat, began trying to attract my attention past Zulema. I leaned over, thinking he was frightened.

“Can I have her popcorn while she’s gone?”

“Ask her when she comes back.”

He slumped, thwarted. I sat upright in time to see the courier standing somewhere I couldn’t account for. The train had apparently reached a town. I had missed the arrival, though I knew it perfectly well, and this irritated me much more than losing something unfamiliar.

Zulema laid her head on my arm. “Check me.”

“You’re fine.”

“You didn’t look.”

I looked. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful. I gave her two pats. She began breathing so carefully that each breath ended with a pause to consider the next.

On my other side, Braulio’s pocket lit up. He took out his phone and held the bright screen low against his stomach.

“Not in here,” I whispered.

“It’s him.”

“Put it away.”

He tilted it toward me. The boy couldn’t come. He was at his cousin’s. Braulio had already typed You should have said and wanted me to inspect it.

Behind us, somebody shushed. On screen the courier had found the ladder beside the mail van. My favorite sequence was coming. I pushed the phone down; Braulio pulled it back, and Zulema raised her head to ask what was happening.

“Come outside,” I said to Braulio.

I led him past the twins, Celso, and Papa, whispering apologies. Zulema followed, clutching her cardigan. I nearly told her to go back, then thought of the additional journey past everyone’s knees and kept going.

The lobby was bright enough to make my eyes water. Behind the snack counter a machine kept turning fresh popcorn through its own steam. Braulio stood beside the cardboard train and held out his phone again.

“So should I send that?”

“I don’t care.”

He lowered it.

“Send it. Don’t send it. Can you decide one thing without asking me?”

Zulema stopped winding the cardigan around her wrist. Braulio looked toward the counter, where the young man serving popcorn had glanced up.

“You didn’t have to say it like that.”

“I want to see the film.”

“So do I. You brought me out here.”

“Because you wouldn’t put the phone away.”

“Fine. It’s away.” He pushed it into his pocket. “You said we could come. Now everything I do annoys you.”

I had an answer ready. It involved all the things he’d done since breakfast, which I could recall with a completeness I never managed for anything useful. Then Mother came out of the toilets with our smallest sister, who was drying her hands on Mother’s skirt.

“What’s the trouble?”

“He’s upset because his friend wouldn’t come, and he keeps—”

Braulio stepped back from me. I stopped. I’d brought him out here to spare the other people in the cinema his conversation, then given it to the lobby.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“You need some sleep.” Mother reached to feel my forehead. I moved before she touched it, and her hand stayed in the air for a moment. “Shall Celso take you home?”

“I don’t want to go home.”

Zulema leaned into Mother’s side. The youngest wanted to know why we were all standing around when her popcorn was inside. Mother told her to wait.

Papa came through the auditorium door. He looked at Mother, then at me.

“I thought you might be sick.”

“No.”

“Sit down a minute, then.” He pointed to a bench beneath the posters.

I sat. My feet throbbed as soon as I took the weight off them. Papa lowered himself beside me, leaving a small space. I wanted to lean on him, and resented the space, although I was the one who had put four people between us.

“I wanted to watch it with you,” I said.

He nodded. “That’s what I came for.”

“Just us.”

“I’d have liked that.”

The youngest was pulling Mother toward the auditorium. Braulio stood by the cardboard train, picking at the seam between two sections. I had been pleased to have everyone following me down the street. Even in the cinema, I’d found myself a place with a child at either elbow. Now I wanted Papa all to myself and somebody else to do the disappointing.

“I did want them to come,” I said. “When I asked.”

Papa took a tissue from his pocket and offered it to me. I hadn’t begun crying, but there was flour in the crease of my wrist and melted chocolate on two fingers. I wiped my hands.

“Next time tell me before we get here,” he said.

“I will.”

Mother looked at the closed auditorium door. “I’ll put Celso in your seat. You sit here with your father until you’re ready, then take his place.”

“But she was checking me,” Zulema said.

“I’m here. Show me.” Mother took the cardigan off her wrist and held it open. “Put this on first.”

Zulema thrust one arm into it and began explaining the problem with breathing. Mother listened while guiding the youngest away from the cardboard driver’s hole.

“Braulio,” I said.

He stopped picking at the cardboard but didn’t come closer.

“I’m sorry I snapped. And said that about your friend.”

“He didn’t say he wouldn’t come. He can’t.”

“Can’t. Yes.”

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, annoyed. Then he went to hold the door for Mother. Zulema made a small beckoning motion to me. I shook my head, and she disappeared inside.

Papa waited while I rubbed the place the sock had pressed into my heel. He drank from the remaining bottle of water, passed it to me, and looked up at the posters. I finished the water.

“What was wrong with the fan?” I asked.

“Loose connection. He’d shout, then hit the table. It was the table that did it.”

I could picture him demonstrating this to his customer, solemnly, without once raising his voice. I laughed. Papa smiled at me and got up.

“Come on. You’ll miss the jump.”

Celso was already in my old place when we went back. He caught my eye and lifted the popcorn tub in greeting. Zulema was talking into his ear; he turned his head to listen. His folded jacket lay on the seat beside Papa, and I pulled it across my knees. There was a faint chocolate thumbprint on the lining.

On screen, the woman who kept being told to stay behind had got into the locomotive. I found Papa’s elbow and squeezed it.

“Here she goes,” I whispered.

“Best bit.”

“Better than the jump?”

He nodded firmly. The locomotive shrieked. She leaned out of the window, hair coming loose, and laughed at the men running along the platform after her. Papa laughed too.

I reached for popcorn. Papa held the tub where I could find it without looking down. The salt was sharp on my tongue. Beyond him was the lit strip along the aisle; beyond me, one twin was picking caramel pieces out for the other. I had meant to tell them to stop rustling the tub. I ate another handful instead.

The courier hauled himself onto the roof. I settled against Papa’s shoulder to watch, and he shifted his arm so the seam of his shirt wouldn’t press into my cheek. There was still plenty of time before the jump. First came the bend, then the tunnel, then the long stretch with the river beside it.

When I opened my eyes, names were moving up the screen. Somebody further along the row was arguing about which sister had eaten more popcorn. Papa was still sitting at the same angle.

“Did I miss all of it?” I asked.

“The jump? Yes.”

“Was it good?”

“Very.”

I was sorry. I could hear people getting up, feel each freed seat knock back into place. Zulema leaned out to look at me, caught Mother’s hand, and was led toward the aisle. I stayed against Papa’s shoulder a little longer, until the people had finished passing our knees.