“You know, Catholics don’t like gays.”

The soapy rag I held squeaked to a halt on the delicate glass window of the Graca Chapel. My hands tightened around the rag, trembling a little as I turned to glance at the janitor. I glowered at him, jaw tight, and he shrugged.

“I’m just saying the truth,” he said in his gravelly voice.

I unclenched my jaw enough to say, “I’m not gay.”

The janitor raised a brow. “But you’re in love with him.”

I struggled to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not in love with anyone,” I said through gritted teeth.

The janitor stared at me for a second, his brown eyes pensive, as though he were trying to figure out if I was lying or if I truly believed what I had just said. When he reached his unspoken conclusion, he shrugged again. Turning his back to me, he dipped his mop into his bucket and continued to work.

I gazed at him for a second longer before smothering a sigh and carrying on with my cleaning. I was on the first floor of the church, tasked with cleaning the antique and ornate stained-glass windows lining the hallway.

The chapel was a big place, and while the janitors and cleaners employed by the church were sufficient on a normal day, it was impossible for them to handle all the work when a deep cleaning was needed. That was where we, the orphanage kids, came in. Once a month, on the last Sunday afternoon before the last mass of the day, we strolled over to the church and paid our proverbial dues. Two or more kids were assigned to each member of the cleaning staff and assisted in their work. I had the misfortune to be paired with Old Man Rodrigo, whose eyes and ears were as sharp as his hair was grey. I sighed again and then, to prevent another accusation, kept my eyes on the glass.

As I wiped down the second to last window in the hallway, I heard approaching footsteps. I didn’t turn; I didn’t have to. The creak of the floorboards was rhythmic, and the soldier-like stride could belong to just one person. The object of my earlier observation: Elias.

Sure enough, he came to a stop beside me, and seemed content to watch me swipe the ratty rag up and down the glass.

After a minute of silence, I turned to him. “What do you want, Elias?”

He gave me a small smile. “Are you almost done?”

“Is there a problem?”

He pointed to the sky outside the windows. “Evening mass will soon begin. Are you almost done, or do you need me to help you?”

I shook my head. “I’ll be done in about five minutes.”

Elias smiled and leaned forward to pat me on the back. “Good job, Caio. I know how much you hate this.” He straightened. “I’m done over there. I’ll wait for you at the back door.”

I nodded, and Elias left—the floorboards began creaking once more. I gazed at him as he walked away. Those broad shoulders, straight back, long legs. I could have stared at him all day. But I didn’t have all day, and if I hadn’t been staring at him so blatantly earlier, Old Man Rodrigo wouldn’t have caught me, and I would have finished the cleaning already. So I focused on what was left of the windows and hastened my actions.

Ten minutes later the church bell rang, its peal almost deafening in the historic building. I looked out the window, down to the parking lot in front of the church. Members of the laity were arriving, trooping into the church for the evening mass. A few of them paused, tilting their heads back to take in the sight of the chapel. I could understand why. Graca Church was a grand structure. The sprawling building had just one storey, but the tall spires, crowned with ornamental silver crosses, more than made up for the lack of height. The colourful windows were beautifully juxtaposed against the blinding white exterior of the church.

I was certain I would have been more appreciative of the church’s splendour if I hadn’t been told to clean it so often.

I remained at the window for another minute, watching the couples and families smile and laugh as they walked into the church. Love and family—two things that kids who grew up in an orphanage couldn’t comprehend.

Turning away from the scene, I quickly put away the cleaning materials, washed my hands, and jogged down the stairs. On my way to the back door of the church, I didn’t see any of the other kids. They must have finished their work and returned to the orphanage.

It was getting late. Would Elias still be waiting? I turned the corner, and there he was, squatting at the rear of the church, next to the rickety back door. My heart thumped when I saw him. It was only a little gesture, but I was glad that he had waited for me.

“You’re done?” he asked, straightening from his squat.

I nodded and said, “Let’s go,” then reached for the door handle. But Elias’s hand shot out to wrap around my wrist before I could open the door. I gave him a questioning look, and he replied with one of his own.

“Caio, did you finish cleaning up? Like really finish?”

I scoffed and pulled my hand away. It was beginning to smoulder. “I did finish up.” I couldn’t blame him for his suspicions, though: I hated cleaning. Not that I was a slob, I just didn’t like being told when and how to clean. You’d think that spending nearly half of my life in an orphanage would have changed that, but my attitude toward unsolicited instruction had always remained the same. “I cleaned everything, Elias. Now, can we leave?”

He squinted at me as Old Man Rodrigo had done, and I rolled my eyes.

“If you’re not going, I am.” I opened the door and stepped out of the church. The soft evening breeze danced over my face and fluttered in my hair.

In front of me was a finely designed quadrangle. The church was the largest of four buildings enclosing the four-squared garden. Directly opposite was an administrative building, and on the left was the orphanage where Elias and I had met and lived together for eight years. To the right was the school we attended.

It had been difficult to see from inside the church, with all the stained windows, but the sky was getting cloudy. It might rain later in the night.

We veered to the left, towards the large, three-storey orphanage. It was a two-minute walk, and, shoving my hands into my pocket, I fell into a rhythm beside Elias.

“I saw you talking to that girl. What was her name again?” I scrunched my brows, pretending to think. “Marina, was it?”

“Martha.”

I snapped my fingers. “Yes, Martha. You looked like you were having fun. What were you talking about?”

Elias waved dismissively. “Just stuff. Nothing much.”

It was obvious that he wanted me to drop the topic. However, I was addicted to hurting myself, so I pressed on. “Do you like her?”

His jaw tightened, and I smirked.

Jabbing him with an elbow, I said, “I didn’t know you had it in you. We’ve been roommates for years now, and I’ve never seen you getting it on.”

Elias didn’t answer. Instead, he quickened his pace and walked past me, through the main door of the orphanage. Instead of following him inside, I paused at the entrance and looked up.

The large signboard hanging over the door read “San Maria Orphanage” in flowery letters. The building was painted a sickening white and blue, and whenever I looked at it, I got the feeling that everyone who laid eyes on it knew it was an orphanage without even reading the sign. Unlike the church, there was nothing impressive about the building. It was wider than it was tall. The ground floor was the general area of the orphanage. On one side there were offices and quarters for the staff, and on the other were the dining hall, kitchen, and common room. The upper floors held the rooms and baths for the children, girls on one side and boys on the other.

I pushed the door open and stepped in. The interior of the orphanage was as unassuming as its exterior. The furnishings were basic: sturdy and clean, but cheap to replace. Most of the walls were painted a dull grey. Upstairs the rooms were all of equal size, with four kids of similar ages in each room. The bathrooms and toilets were located on either end of each floor. The top floor, however, included an unusually small room, due to an error in construction. This was the room Elias and I shared—the room we had shared from the very moment we met.

Typically, the younger children got put on the lower floors, but they had been under renovation at the time of our admission to the orphanage, so we’d been put in the small room and given a promise that they’d move us out once the construction was done. Then, when the construction ended, we refused to move. More accurately, I refused to move. At that point I couldn’t understand my desire to keep Elias by my side. Using the excuse of his night terrors, I persuaded the matron to allow us to stay together in the small room. We were nine then. Now we were seventeen.

As I climbed the stairs, younger kids dashed by, some running upward and others racing down. All were in differing stages of excitement. One of them stopped to tug on my shirt. “Irmao, school is starting tomorrow. Are you excited?”

I smiled at the little girl and reached down to ruffle her hair. “Yes, I’m excited, Rita. I understand that you’re excited as well, but make sure not to trip on the stairs.”

I kept the smile on my face until the children were out of sight.

That’s right: school would begin tomorrow. Our final year of school, and our final year at the orphanage. Elias and I had been cleaning our room—preparing for this moment—when we’d gotten the call to head for the chapel.

The door to our room was open. From the hallway, I could see Elias standing at the foot of his bed, his brows furrowed in indecision.

“Want to see how the kids are doing?” I asked.

His head snapped up. “Caio? I didn’t hear you.”

“Of course you didn’t.” I stepped into the room and shut the door. “You want to see how the kids are doing, but you still need to clean up.” I plopped down on my bed and stared at him.

He sent me his cutest puppy look. “I’m sorry to ask, Caio. I know you don’t like cleaning.”

I waved the apology away. “It’s fine. I’ll finish up here.”

“Thank you so much.” He clasped me on the shoulder on his way out. “I’ll make this up to you somehow.”

I sighed and shook my head.

Our beds were identical in size, with mine closer to the door. Beside each bed was a small desk where we studied. Opposite the beds was a wardrobe where we kept our sparse belongings. The room was small, but it managed to contain our personalities and properties. My side of the room was fairly chaotic, though I had no problem finding my things. Elias’s side, by contrast, was always tidy. Neat rows of worn-out books lined the tiny shelf over his table. His notebooks were stacked primly, and his pens and pencils were placed in a cracked porcelain cup on the table. In this way the room always seemed divided in two, neither side encroaching or conceding to the other.

I crossed the invisible line and opened Elias’s side of the wardrobe. Then I glanced at the clothes splayed on his bed and pursed my lips. If they had belonged to me, I would have chucked them into the wardrobe without a second thought. But they belonged to Elias, so I folded them carefully and slid them into his cupboard. Among the clothes was his school uniform, already ironed. Somehow, even with his responsibilities and our extra cleaning work today, Elias had found time to iron his uniform.

We were so different, in almost every way. He liked books; I liked comics. I liked rock music; he preferred slow songs. He believed that God loved all humans; I was certain I was the exception to that rule. His smiles were gentle and loving; mine were mischievous—so much so that the matron had an unconscious habit of patting her pockets whenever I smiled at her. His skin was dark, his hair cropped short. My skin was lighter, and my hair grazed my shoulders when it was wet. He dreamt of being a priest, and I dreamt of sinking my teeth into his flesh.

Arcs of lightning raced through the clouds like electric snakes outside the window, drawing my eyes and interrupting my thoughts. Rumbling followed, and I breathed a sigh of contentment. There was going to be a thunderstorm tonight.

Storms held a special meaning for us. One of the few things Elias and I had in common was the circumstances in which our parents had died: just after we were born, a few months apart in the same year, all four of our parents had perished in accidents due to bad weather. My parents had died in a fiery plane-crash on their way to a business convention. Elias’s parents had died when their car lost traction on a slippery bridge. Unlike me, Elias was with his parents when the accident occurred. He was the only one the rescuers reached in time. On nights like this, when the heavens thundered and the rain pelted down in rivers, memories of his parents’ death dripped into his mind like rain into a house with a leaky roof.

The door squeaked, and I turned to glance at Elias as he entered the room. Our eyes met briefly before he looked away. In that instant I could see fear, apprehension, and weariness in his eyes. I turned away, pretending to be busy with the covers on his bed, giving him time to school his expression. When we gazed at each other again, our masks were tightly in place.

“I just saw the kids.”

“How are they?”

“They’re fine. All tucked in.” He looked at the freshly made bed. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll go shower now.”

“All right, I’ll join you soon.”

I picked up my things and left for the bathroom. When we were younger, we had always gone to the bathroom together and washed each other. But that had ended with the onset of puberty, when sinful dreams and images began to plague me. I think Elias was a little hurt, but someone like him, who slept with a Bible under his pillow, could not possibly understand the depths of my depravity.

I entered the bathroom and shuffled into the first stall, then pulled the curtain closed, undressed, and tossed my clothes and towel over the showerhead. I showered quickly. I would have liked to take my time, but I was working under the threat that Elias would be here soon. The other kids would all have showered when they returned from the church; we would be the only ones here. And I knew firsthand—I didn’t have to imagine—what hearing him taking off his clothes would do to my brain. That hell was second only to the torture of hearing a sponge sliding up and down his skin. I would be useless for at least two days.

With dread spurring me on, I finished washing and tied my towel around my waist. As I opened the bathroom door to return to our room, I came face to face with Elias.

Ever the gentleman, he stepped back to allow me pass. “Is the water still hot?” he said as I walked past.

“Yup,” I replied, ready to dash away.

A bolt of lightning and an accompanying thunder peal riveted me in place. Elias flinched and without thinking, I took a step towards him.

“Are you o—”

“You should go.”

We spoke at the same time, then stopped to let the other person speak. We watched each other in silence. Then Elias repeated, “You should go. I’ll be out soon.”

“All right, I’ll be in the room.”

Dinner was a quick affair. Elias and I weren’t the only ones preparing for the new school year, and no one lingered. We ate and returned to our room within thirty minutes.

When we had finished arranging our textbooks and stationery, we were set for bed. We burrowed under our blankets—it was getting cold—and settled in for the night. Ten p.m.—lights out.

“Are you excited for school tomorrow?” I asked, in between the peals of thunder.

“Yes,” Elias replied, his voice strained. “It’ll be our last year together.”

It’ll be our last year in school together, I wanted to say. We’ll be together after graduating from school and ageing out of the orphanage, right?

My lips quivered with the effort to keep those words unspoken. I must never allow my desperation to show. Instead I asked, “What do you want to do after this? Do you still want to be a priest?”

I heard the rustle of his blankets and tilted my head. He’d turned to gaze at me, fear dissipating from his eyes.

“Yeah, I do. You know, I spoke to Father John, and he told me he knew some other priests who would assist me in my seminary school applications. He said he’d introduce me to them later in the year, when they come for the special Thanksgiving mass.” He spoke in a rush, eager to share the information, although he’d told me several times before. “I’ll begin applications in December.”

In summer. Heart full, I swallowed and murmured a “good night” before turning away and hiding my face in my pillow. There was nothing left to say, and with time the room fell silent. Elias’s breaths softened.

I couldn’t sleep. I was too afraid. The dawn would bring too many things to light—including the desperation buried in the dungeons of my mind. I paced back and forth in my head until the discord in my mind reached a zenith. Then the heavens, as if waiting for this moment, opened, and it started to rain.

When writing this book, more than anything I wanted to explore loneliness. Humans are social animals, and no matter how introverted we are, we still desire and seek out human interaction. We want to forge a bond with others, we want to love and be loved. Anything to avoid loneliness. So I asked myself: does the death of a person’s parents affect how they love? After all, love might be more desperate when it’s built on devastating loss and a constant feeling of loneliness.

SUMMERTIME AT THE CATHOLIC ORPHANAGE follows Caio, a seventeen-year-old orphan, who struggles with his attachment to his best friend and fellow orphan, Elias. Together they have spent the last eight years in the San Maria orphanage. This year, however, is different: this year they will age out of the orphanage. Our story starts with Caio pondering the implications of their inevitable separation. Then, when Elias falls in love with one of the church workers, Caio realizes that their separation might come sooner than he had thought—and in a different form.

Throughout the novel, the theme of loneliness is explored in as many ways as it is felt: from the death of one’s parents, abandonment, unrequited love. Summer and its attendant emotions play a huge part in the novel, as it was the season when, years earlier, visits from the boys’ relatives finally dried up and the nine-year-old Caio first realized that the promises made to him about being reunited with the rest of his family would be broken. It is also the season when, at age seventeen, he understands that his loneliness might become absolute.

I write about desperation too, a sister poison to loneliness, and love, its only antidote. I write about acceptance, separation, and the elusive pursuit of happiness. I write about two boys, orphaned and abandoned, fighting the terrible loneliness that summer brings them.

It is my sincere wish that you enjoy reading the story of Caio and Elias as much as I have enjoyed writing it.