Fall 2021 Contest Finalist
The Pastriless
My childhood’s biggest regret
Tânia was the first person I ever lent money to. For the last twenty years, she’s had an outstanding debt with me of 1 euro and 20 cents. A part of me still expects her to show up on my doorstep one day to settle that debt. And another part of me expects her to show up pointing a gun at my face, accusing me of destroying her life.
At the age of ten, I started 5th grade in a new public school in my hometown of Coimbra (Portugal). I was especially excited because I’d get my first taste of financial independence: a weekly allowance of €5. I had to spend €3.60 a week on school cafeteria lunches, but the remaining €1.40 was mine to splurge on whatever I wanted.
I usually spent my extra cash at the school cafe during the morning break, when lunch felt too far away, and breakfast was but a fading memory. Every day, between 10:00 and 10:15, a swarm of students would invade the cafe. We’d bitch about teachers, show off sneakers, and most importantly, contemplate the freshly baked pastries on the shelves of the glass display counter. Pressing our faces against the glass, we’d admire the buttery sausage rolls, the glistening mille-feuilles, and the melting chocolate croissants. A hole would form inside our stomachs, screaming, YOU MUST FILL ME. The only way to resist such an urge was if you had no money. So your socioeconomic status could be inferred by whether or not you could afford delicious pastries.
My classmate Tânia was one of the pastriless. She was tall, slender, tanned, and her shaggy hair was a shade of gold most Portuguese women would kill for. She looked like she could be a model, maybe in another life. Though the baggy sportswear she wore told the world that she didn’t want the attention.
Tânia lived with her grandmother in a tiny village I’d never heard of. To get to school each day, she rode the bus for one hour. Her lunch was free, courtesy of a government program, and her grandmother felt she didn’t need any extra cash. So Tânia would watch from a distance as the kids with means shouted their orders at the lady behind the counter like stockbrokers.
A couple of weeks after the start of the academic year, she saw me buy an éclair.
“Could I borrow some money from you?” she asked as she sped towards me. “Just enough to buy a pastry. 30 cents.”
I was in the group of students who could afford pastries, but with my tight €1.40 budget a week, I was at the lower end of the scale. So I reluctantly opened my wallet, pretending I needed to check if I had enough. I considered saying I didn’t have it, but it would have been hard to keep up the lie. And it was only 30 cents after all.
“Do you promise to pay me back soon?” I asked.
“I promise,” she said, her eyes still fixed on my fingers.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, “OK fine.”
I handed her the coins, and she skipped to the counter, grinning from ear to ear. I recorded the 30 cents in my mind.
For the following year, we’d develop a financial mating dance. Every week Tânia would ask for a few more coins, and every week I’d remind her of exactly how much she owed me so far. Sometimes she’d return part of the money, probably borrowed from some other sucker, but the next loan request would quickly follow. I’d say no at first, then give in to her pleases and I’m so sorrys.
I took every opportunity I could to remind her of her status as in my debt. If in math class she asked me to help her calculate -5-3, I’d answer, “Imagine that you owe me €5, and I lend you an additional €3. How much do you owe me in total now?”
Our dance continued back and forth until one morning in 6th grade. After carefully examining the baked goods on offer that day, Tânia turned to me with her expertly developed puppy eyes, “Lara — ”
“No,” I said, with as much determination in my shaking voice as I could muster. “I know where this is going. I’m not giving you any more money before you pay me back the €1.20 you owe me from last time. All of it.”
“But please. I swear I’ll pay you back later. Please.”
It had been weeks since I last got anything back. I was sick of being a pushover. This was MY money. I worked hard at being a wonderful child to earn it from my parents. It wasn’t my fault that she was poor.
She is not my problem, I thought.
Tânia tried a couple more times in the following weeks, but I stood my ground. So she eventually stopped asking. She also started skipping class, so I saw her less and less. I’d sometimes spot her smoking with some of the well-known troublemakers at school, and I’d think, Wow, she can afford cigarettes, but she won’t pay me back my €1.20 — the nerve.
One day, as I walked home from school, I passed next to a wall that used to be completely white. I noticed, however, that someone had spray-painted large black letters on it. I walked two steps back and read:
TÂNIA SANTOS FROM 6M IS A WHORE WHO SELLS HER PUSSY FOR €2.50
I re-read the words a few more times. It was her name. It was our class. This was pastriless Tânia.
No, it can’t be true, I thought, standing petrified on the sidewalk.
Tânia was just a shy 11-year-old. She was my age, and I’d just gotten my first period the month before.
This must be some disgruntled ex-boyfriend making stuff up to embarrass her, I told myself, still staring at the aggressive black lines on the wall of shame.
Yet, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that €2.50 was so specific. Too specific to be made up. Why not 5 or 10? Even if you wanted it to be insultingly low, you’d at least round it off to a whole number — not 2.50.
That amount, half my allowance, would have been a lot of money to Tânia. She could have bought a whopping eight pastries of her choice.
I remembered the last time she’d begged me for a few measly cents at the school cafe. I remembered refusing. And then it hit me.
Maybe I drove my 11-year-old classmate to prostitution.
I never built up the courage to ask Tânia about the words on that wall. What is one supposed to say in such a circumstance? Are you a prostitute? Are you selling your body? I didn’t want to make her feel worse than she probably already did, having those huge letters graffitied 500m from school.
To this day, I don’t know if it was true.
I didn’t see Tânia much after this incident. She rarely came to school anymore. When I moved on to 7th grade, she had to repeat 6th grade. Then she disappeared from my radar. I often imagine the hardships she will have been through since then and how I could have prevented them all. If only I’d been less of a selfish asshole.
Ever since then, I never underestimate the difference a croissant can make in someone’s life.
