Translated by Larissa Helena

 Originally published in Brazilian Portuguese in 2017 as Quinze Dias

by Globo Alt.
Text copyright © 2017 by Vitor Martins
En­g lish translation © 2020 by Larissa Helena
All rights reserved. Published by PUSH, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.,
Publishers since 1920, by arrangement with Agência Página 7. PUSH
and associated log­os are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of
Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-­party websites or their content.
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the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic
Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York,
NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are e­ ither the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficti-
tiously, and any resemblance to ­actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Martins, Vitor, 1991– author. | Helena, Larissa, translator.
Title: Here the whole time / Vitor Martins; translated by Larissa Helena.
Other titles: Quinze dias. English
Description: First edition. | New York, NY: PUSH, 2020. | “Originally
  published in Brazilian Portuguese in 2017 as Quinze Dias by Globo
  Alt.” | Audience: Ages 14–up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. |
  Summary: When Felipe, who is very insecure about his weight, is
  forced to spend winter break with his long-term crush, Caio, he
  must face his unresolved issues head-on.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020022252 (print) | LCCN 2020022253 (ebook) |
  ISBN 9781338620825 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781338675948 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Overweight persons—Fiction. | Self-esteem—Fiction. |
  Gays—Fiction. | Mothers and sons—Fiction. | Single-parent
  families—Fiction. | Brazil—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M3742 Her 2020 (print) |
  LCC PZ7.1.M3742 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022252
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022253
10 ​9 ​8 ​7 ​6 ​5 ​4 ​3 ​2 ​1 20 ​21 ​22 ​23 ​24
Printed in the U.S.A. 23
First edition, November 2020
Book design by Baily Crawford
For anyone who has ever gotten
into a pool with their shirt on
I am fat.
I’m not “chubby” or “husky” or “big boned.” I’m heavy,
I take up space, and ­people look at me funny on the street. I
know t­ here are plenty of p
­ eople in this world who have much
greater prob­lems than I do h
­ ere in Brazil, but I ­can’t think
about other ­people’s suffering when I have my own issues to
deal with at school. High school has been my own personal
hell for the last two and a half years.
Sometimes I feel like the list of nicknames for fat p
­ eople is
endless. That ­isn’t to say that this list is especially creative,
but I’m always impressed with the sheer number of nick­
names that guys at school come up with, when it would be so
much easier to just call me Felipe.
Ever since I broke a chair in geography class at the
­beginning of the school year, p
­ eople have sung “Wrecking
Ball” whenever I pass by them in the halls. Two weeks
­a fter, another kid in my class broke his chair, but no one
sings a Miley Cyrus song at him. You guessed it—­
he’s
skinny.

1
 I’ve always been fat, and living in this body for seventeen
years has made me an expert at ignoring comments from
­others. Which ­isn’t to say that I’m used to it. It’s hard to get
used to it with daily reminders that ­you’re a piece of de­mo­li­
tion equipment. I’ve just gotten used to pretending that t­ hey’re
not talking about me.
Last year, without telling anyone, I bought one of ­those
teen magazines that come with boy band posters inside. I like
boy bands (more than I have the courage to admit), but what
made me buy it was a burst on the cover that said, “Insecure
about your body? Get over it, girl!”
According to the magazine, an overweight teenager who
wants to be cool and have friends has to make up for their
weight somehow. Basically, if y­ou’re r­eally funny, or super
stylish, or very likable, no one w
­ ill notice that ­you’re fat. I
thought for a moment about how I compensated for it. I
­couldn’t come up with anything.
I mean, I consider myself a funny guy. ­People love me
online (543 Twitter followers and counting). But when I try
to socialize in real life, I’m a big loser. I totally fail the lik­
ability test. And my style? Ha-ha. I’d define it as sneakers,
jeans, and a reasonably clean gray T-­shirt. It’s hard to have
cool clothes when y­ ou’re a size XXL.
I flipped through the rest of the magazine, took the
“Which celebrity would be your BFF?” quiz (I got Taylor

2
Swift), and then threw it out. I d
­ idn’t want to be reminded
that I have nothing to offer.
But ­today every­thing ­will be dif­fer­ent. It’s the last day of
school before winter break—­the day I’ve been looking for­
ward to since the school year started. Winter break lasts
twenty-­t wo days. Twenty-­t wo glorious days ­free of fat jokes,
nicknames, and ugly looks.
I jump out of bed early to make sure I’m on time for
school, and when I get to the kitchen, my mom is already up,
painting a canvas. Three years ago, my mom quit her job at
an accounting firm to become an artist. And it’s been three
years since our kitchen last resembled a normal one, ­because
­there are canvases, paint, and clay everywhere.
“Good morning, my angel,” she says with a smile that
should be impossible for someone who’s been awake since
seven a.m.
My mom is gorgeous. For real. She has big, animated eyes;
her full hair is always tied up; and she’s slim. Which means
that before he walked out on us when he found out my mom
was pregnant with me, my ­father made it a point to leave me
with the fat gene. Thanks a lot, Dad.
“Good morning. You have paint on your chin. But you
look beautiful, anyway,” I say hurriedly as I grab a cheese
sandwich and look for my keys.
“Felipe, I’m not sure if I told you, but this after­noon—”

3
 “Sorry, c­ an’t talk—­already late! See you l­ater, love you,
bye!” I answer, closing the door b
­ ehind me.
To be honest, I’m never r­unning late, but my anxiety
makes me believe that the sooner I get to school, the sooner
I can get it over with. Which, unfortunately, makes absolutely
no sense.
I press the elevator button three times more than I have to
as I finish my sandwich. And when the door opens, ­there he
is. Caio, my neighbor from apartment 57. I swallow the dry
piece of bread that’s still in my mouth, rub my hand over my
chin to make sure ­there are no crumbs left on my face, then
step inside.
I whisper a “Good morning” so low that even I c­ an’t hear
it. He d
­ oesn’t respond. He’s wearing earbuds and focusing
on a book. I won­der if he’s ­really listening to ­music while
reading, or if he’s the kind of guy who puts earbuds in so he
­won’t be both­ered. If option two is the right answer, I ­can’t
say I blame Caio from apartment 57. B
­ ecause I always do
that, too.
The elevator takes about forty seconds to go from the
third floor, where I live, to the ground floor, but it feels like
forty years have passed by the time the doors open again. I
just stand ­there, not knowing what to do, and Caio walks out
without even noticing that I was t­here. I wait three minutes
in the hallway before leaving the building.

4
 *
The last day of classes drags by. I only have to turn in a his­
tory paper and take a philosophy exam. And when I finish
the test before every­one ­else, I’m desperate to get out of ­there.
“Already done, Butterball?” I hear someone say as I get up
awkwardly from my tiny desk.
Mrs.  Gomes, the teacher, collects my answer sheet and
says, “Have a g­ reat vacation, Felipe,” looking deep into my
eyes. It feels like a look of compassion that says, “I know you
­can’t take the other students’ picking on you anymore, but
stand your ground. Y
­ ou’re strong. And ­
there’s absolutely
nothing wrong with being fat. I know it’s inappropriate to
say this ­because I’m your teacher and I’m fifty-­six years old,
but ­you’re quite the catch.”
Or maybe I’m not that good at interpreting sympathetic
looks and she ­really is just wishing me a g­ reat vacation
­a fter all.
When I get to the hallway, I see some girls saying goodbye
to each other and (believe it or not) crying. As if winter break
­didn’t last only twenty-­two days. As if we ­didn’t live in a
small town where all you have to do is poke your head out a
win­dow to see half the school right ­there on the sidewalk. As
if the internet ­didn’t exist.
If my life ­were a musical, now would be the moment when
I’d cross the school gates, singing a song about freedom, and

5
­people in the streets would dance in a tightly synchronized
choreography ­behind me. But my life is not a musical, and
when I walk through the gate, I hear someone yell,
“Butterbaaaall!” I just lower my head and keep walking.

*
My apartment building is close to school. It’s only a fifteen-­
minute walk, and I like to do it ­every day so I’ll have something
to say when my doctor asks if I exercise regularly.
The only prob­lem is all the sweating. ­A fter my obvious
self-­esteem issues and my absolutely lovely classmates, I think
sweat is the ­thing I hate the most in life.
By the time I get home, I’m melting like a wax figure. My
mom is in the same spot as when I left her. Except now she
has a lot more paint stains on her clothes, and her painting is
almost done. T
­ oday she painted a lot of blue circles (she’s
been in a blue phase for the past few months) that, if you
look at them from just the right a­ ngle, appear to be two dol­
phins kissing. I think.
Besides the usual mess, t­here are pans on the stove, and
the apartment smells like lunch. ­Actual lunch, not yakisoba
leftovers from last night’s takeout. The idea of starting the
break with a proper lunch excites me.
“Hello, boys. How was school?” she asks, without lifting
her eyes from the painting.
“Last time I checked, you only have one son, Mom.”

6
 “Ah, I thought you’d come home together. You and Caio,
from 57.” She turns around and gives me a kiss on the
forehead.
I’m confused, but my mom d
­ oesn’t seem to notice, b
­ ecause
she d
­ oesn’t add anything e­ lse. I go to my room to put down
my backpack, and I’m startled when I realize it’s been
cleaned. My mom changed the sheets, or­ga­nized my shelf,
and picked up the crumpled socks from ­under the bed.
“Mom! What did you do to my room? Where are my
socks?!” I shout.
“In the drawer! Imagine how embarrassing it would be if
the neighbors’ son came into your room to find eleven pairs
of socks all over the place!” she yells back.
Eleven? Whoa. Impressive.
I go back to the kitchen so I ­won’t have to scream. “What
was that about the neighbors’ son?”
“I told you, ­didn’t I? He’s coming t­ oday. He’s staying with
us for fifteen days. His parents are g­ oing to a conference on
penguins. Or a second honeymoon. Who knows. Anyway,
Sandra asked me to keep an eye on Caio while ­they’re away.
I was a l­ittle surprised b
­ ecause he’s old enough to stay by
himself, no? But it’s not a big deal, and he’s a good kid.”
The more my mom talks, the more shocked I become.
“You ­didn’t tell me! I ­can’t have a ­house­guest right now,
not during winter break—­and for fifteen days! I have plans!”

7
 “Internet and bingeing Netflix?” She rolls her eyes.
“­Really big plans you have, Felipe.”
She knows me well.
“But . . . ​but . . . ​­doesn’t he have any relatives? ­Can’t he
stay by himself? You and his mom a­ ren’t even friends! What
kind of a person ­doesn’t trust her own teenage son to stay
home alone but trusts a complete stranger?”
“Well, no, w
­ e’re not exactly friends-­friends. We chat in
the hallway sometimes. She always holds the elevator door
for me. And we used to talk a lot when you and Caio played
in the pool when you w
­ ere younger. Good times, ­those. But
that’s beside the point. Help me or­ga­nize the kitchen and set
the ­table. ­He’ll be h
­ ere any minute!”
I just stand t­ here in disbelief. My face is sweaty, terrified,
immobile. Like a painting my mom would make on a bad day.
­You’re prob­ably thinking, Calm down, dude, it’s just
the neighbor kid! Maybe it’s time I told you about Caio, the
neighbor kid from apartment 57.

*
Our apartment complex has a large recreation area with a
tennis court that no one ever uses (­because, honestly, who
plays tennis?), a l­ittle playground that’s falling apart, and a
pool that’s neither big nor small but is always crowded on
hot days.
When I was a kid, that pool was my very own private

8
ocean. I spent hours swimming from one end to the other
and re-­creating scenes from The ­Little Mermaid. And it was
in that pool that I met Caio. I ­can’t quite recall the day, or
how we started talking. We ­were pool buddies, and I ­can’t
remember what my childhood was like before that.
If ­
you’re a fat eight-­
year-­
old boy, no one calls you
Butterball. Every­one thinks ­you’re cute, pinches your cheeks,
and always makes it very clear how much they want to eat
you up. In a sweet way. Weird, but still sweet.
When I was eight, I ­didn’t feel embarrassed about ­running
around wearing nothing but a Speedo, or jumping into the
pool and splashing w
­ ater everywhere. B
­ ecause when y­ ou’re
eight, it’s okay. And that’s how Caio and I became friends.
We never went to the same school (Caio goes to a private
school on the other side of town). But when we w
­ ere younger
and it was a hot day, I knew all I had to do was go down­
stairs to the pool, and Caio would be t­ here, ready to swim
with me. Rainy days w
­ ere the worst.
We never talked. Kids ­don’t ­really talk when ­they’re at the
pool. We would scream and dive and compete to see who
could stay underwater the longest. We d
­ idn’t have time to
talk b
­ ecause, at any moment, Caio’s mom could stick her
head out the win­dow, yelling his name, and the fun would be
over just like that. His mom was always that type. The type
who yells.

9
 Somewhere in the m
­ iddle of all the fun and no talking, I
had a day I’ve never forgotten. I must have been around
eleven, and a­ fter almost an entire after­noon playing sharks
and pirates (I was the pirate, Caio the shark), I suggested
without an ounce of fear, “Do you wanna play mermaids?”
None of the other kids in the building knew that I loved to
play mermaids. It was something I did just for me. I was
afraid of what the other boys might think of me if they found
out that when I went underwater, in my head I was Ariel.
And that deep at the bottom of the pool, I kept my imaginary
collection of forks, mirrors, and thingamabobs.
Caio just smiled, crossed his legs to form a tail, and dove
underwater. He ­didn’t care to know how to play. He d
­ idn’t
say he’d play only if he could be a merman. He merely went
along with my silly fantasy and we swam like mermaids u
­ ntil
dusk. It was the best day ever.
­A fter that, every­thing went by in a blur. As I grew up, the
shame of wearing a Speedo in front of Caio grew with me. I
­didn’t quite understand what I felt, exactly, but I know that
when I was twelve, I started wearing a shirt whenever I went
to the pool. And a­ fter I turned thirteen, I never set foot in the
pool again.
At thirteen my body began to change, hair started grow­
ing everywhere, and I had this urge to kiss someone on the
lips. And I wanted that first person to be Caio.

10
 It was ridicu­lous how hard I had fallen for Caio. But he’s
way out of my league. It’s like being in love with the lead
singer of your favorite boy band: All you can do is watch
from afar and dream.
Now do you understand my despair? Fat, gay, and in love
with a boy who ­won’t even acknowledge my Good morning
in the elevator. Every­thing could go wrong. Every­thing ­will
go wrong. And I d
­ on’t even have time to come up with an
exit strategy, ­because the doorbell is ringing. And my mom is
opening the door. And I, of course, am covered in sweat.
So it begins.

11
ORDER YOUR COPY!