I threw up a few more times and I could see that no one paid the slightest attention.
I had no one left in the world. I didn’t go back to school and just followed my heart.
I sniffed from time to time and dried my face on my school uniform. I’d never see my Portuga again.
Never again. He was gone. I walked and walked. I stopped at the road where he’d let me call him Portuga and let me piggyback on his car.
I sat at the base of a tree trunk and curled up, face on my knees. Suddenly I blurted out, “You’re mean, Baby Jesus.”
“I thought you were going to be good to me this time and you go and do this? Why don’t you like me as much as the other boys?”
“I’ve been good. I haven’t fought, I’ve done my homework, I’ve stopped swearing. I even stopped saying ‘bum’.”
“Why have you done this to me, Baby Jesus? They’re going to cut down my orange tree and I didn’t even get upset about it.”
“I only cried a little bit... But now... now...” My outburst surprised me. A new flood of tears.
“I want my Portuga back, Baby Jesus. You have to give me my Portuga back.”
Then a very soft, very sweet voice spoke to my heart. It must have been the friendly voice of the tree I was sitting under.
“Don’t cry, child. He’s in heaven.” When it was almost dark, Totoca found me sitting on Dona Helena Villas-Boas’s doorstep,
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