Kathia

Her name was Kathia.

The kind of girl who wore rimmed glasses and four braids decorated with colored beads that clicked when she moved.

She wasn’t particularly animated. Quiet, reserved. She kept to herself.

A good student and, to my third-grade eyes, a little boring.

But her drawings were killer.

Especially in science class. She always got A’s and praise. Even when we knew her father did them.

When the teacher praised her, she responded with a sheepish smile, a little guilt around the edges. I could tell.

I didn’t have fine colored markers. Or a father who could draw my homework.

Something needed to be done.

I layered the digestive system under the sheet and traced the lines slowly, with determination. Careful not to match them exactly. As I drew, I moved the book slightly so that, in the end, my drawing and the original couldn’t possibly match.

A’s followed. Then praise.

“Oh, Víctor, you are so good at this.”

“You are such an artist.”

Praise was sugar. My secret kept it sticky.

I smiled. A little guilt around the edges.

The traced lines became a life skill. The fear never left.

Fifty years later, when praise comes, I hear her beads click, and I smile, just like Kathia.