POV: RENATA SILVEIRA.
The noise from recess still seemed to echo throughout the school. The type that was a classic signal of the moments where the school was in class time. But between these periods, the noise was replaced by silence.
And, at that moment, it was the best time to study.
Even after the strange incident with the boy, who actually ended up in the hospital, the classes the next day went on as normal.
Of course, there was the usual whispering throughout the day, but nothing more than a little buzz.
The subject apparently died down after that...
'At least we hoped so…'
After all, regular classes were already over, and we were simply waiting for Miguel's class to start that day, which would only begin in the afternoon.
So, for the time being, we sat at the tables in the courtyard, where snacks were usually served.
The school had all sorts of rules about staying in the off-hours, but since I had studied there for years, getting permission wasn't hard.
Special classes became just another extracurricular on the long list we'd made in recent years.
The courtyard was peaceful at this time, the lunch ladies started preparing the afternoon snack, while teachers came and went, heading out for lunch.
There were trees around the bench and table where we sat, their full canopies swaying in the strong wind, keeping the heat away.
I realized how much I was lost in thought, so I opted to open my notebook and start reading exercises that I needed to solve, but my head was pounding.
I sighed and massaged my temples.
"Literary hangover again?" Helena asked with that teasing smile she could pull off without sounding mean.
I nodded. "Yeah, I devoured Curry's book in what, less than a week?"
She laughed, but I knew it wasn't an exaggeration.
Literary hangovers always came when I overdid it.
And it was something normal, after all, as our teacher Andressa used to comment in class:
"A book hangover is nothing more than a magical overload released in your brain, the faster you read, the more energy your brain has to process," she said, while writing the definition on the board. "The result is exhaustion and a headache."
After a few moments, when the throbbing subsided, I was able to focus on my notebook, adjusted my posture, and continued.
"But it's all right. It'll pass soon."
"You're crazy, Rê." Helena shook her head. "It takes me weeks to finish a book like that."
"I just can't stop. It's like the text grabs my attention beyond my control."
She shrugged and started scribbling some notes.
That brief silence was broken when we remembered Ms. Andressa's Geography of Enchantment assignment.
"Oh, right!" Helena said, lifting her head. "Have you thought about what you're going to write?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Hard to forget. That IBGEL question, right?"
Our last class had been about a fact from the Brazilian Institute of Literary Geography and Statistics:
More than 86% of registered literary marks in the country were international books. Only 14% were from Brazilian authors.
It was almost a cruel portrait of our cultural inferiority complex.
"And the assignment was like... What, listing national literary marks we know, right?"
I saw Helena rest her hand on the table, seeming to ponder the subject.
"Actually, it's how many holders of Brazilian literary marks you know," she corrected me.
"Three, counting myself: Professor Francisco, you, and that's it," I replied, grinning without humor.
She raised her eyebrows. "Seriously? Just that?"
"Yeah," I said, answering the questions on the sheet. "And the worst part is, people always cite the same authors when talking about Brazilian literary marks..."
Machado de Assis, Jorge Amado... always them.
No one mentioned Lúcio Cardoso, Hilda Hilst, Carolina Maria de Jesus. It's like there were only a handful of names.
"Maybe because the others are a pain to read," Helena laughed, lightening the mood.
"Oh, get lost—" I threw an eraser at her, which she dodged, still laughing. "If that were the case, no one would read Shakespeare either."
"Yeah, but Shakespeare is well written..." she retorted dramatically, as if the name were sacred.
We burst out laughing together, catching the attention of two security guards passing through the courtyard, who probably chose to ignore us, since they just kept heading for the gate.
For a moment, that genuine laughter made me forget my headache and the constant sense that Brazilian literature was always second-rate.
"Better get back to the assignment, I don't want to have to carry you in exams again, like last year," Helena said, playfully.
"Poor thing... As far as I remember, I had the highest average," I rolled my eyes but smiled.
"Of course, being Professor Francisco's favorite, anyone could do it..." she shot back.
"If you're going to complain, send an audio..."
"Oh, we'll see in this year's exams then..."
POV: HELENA IVYRA.
Renata was still laughing at the joke she'd made, and I just shook my head, pretending to be offended.
Of course, deep down, I agreed with her.
It was sad to see how certain authors just seemed forgotten, as if literary memory had been far too selective.
"You know what's most ironic in all this?" I began, tucking my hair behind my ear. "We live in a world where reading literally gives you power."
"And still, they choose to pretend it doesn't exist..." Renata finished, already knowing where I was going.
Renata raised her eyebrows, as if expecting me to say more.
"It's almost like a fairy tale plot... or, I don't know," I laughed to myself. "Plot of a web novel?"
She gave me her usual skeptical look. "Helena, sometimes I think your mind is a mix of fanfiction and paranoia."
"And are you wrong?" I shot back with a smug little smile.
But leaving paranoia aside, it did have some logic.
Maybe the problem was the genre where Brazilian authors made their mark.
Most didn't write high fantasy, didn't create shonens, or epic comic book universes.
Their strength was in old-style novels, poems, chronicles, beautiful styles that just didn't have the same popularity among young people who flocked to digital platforms for international sagas.
In the end, the most coveted enchantments came from abroad.
It directly reflected how we consumed literature
E-readers flung open the doors to international content, but Brazil... oh, Brazil tripped over its own feet.
Between the slow adoption of technology and years of governmental stupidity, our national literary industry grew ever more fragile.
And now, with the new law in effect, the gap would only get worse.
I took a deep breath, closing my notebook for a moment.
"Moral of the story: it's not enough to be in the pit, Brazil still manages to dig deeper..."
"So typical of us," Renata snorted, covering her laugh with the hand..
"Classic Brazil," I agreed, trying not to let the weight of the realization kill the light mood between us.
So we carried on, laughing at tragedy, like true Brazilians.