Chapter Six: Lessons from the Shadows
Catalina Montemayor adjusted the away ibbon in her hair as the family driver opened the car door.
Her new school uniform was crisp and white, her bag filled with notebooks that still smelled like the store. She didn't smile. School meant early mornings, annoying teachers, and being forced to sit still when she could be dancing or eating chocolates.
"Bye, Mama," she said flatly.
Doña Isabella kissed her forehead. "Study well, hija."
Don Ricardo only gave a nod from the breakfast table, too deep into his stock reports to notice anything else.
By the time the car rolled down the driveway, Mira had already finished wiping down the windows in the back patio. She paused, watching Catalina wave lazily out the window.
She looked at the bag in her lap.
School.
Mira could almost feel the chalk on her fingers, smell the classroom. But it was just a dream.
Each day followed the same pattern.
Catalina would go to school, come back dragging her bag like it weighed her down, then slump into a chair as Miss Rina, the tutor, arrived by 4:00 p.m.
And every day, as the warm afternoon sun poured through the lace curtains, Mira sat just outside the window, behind the potted plants near the study.
She never got too close. Just enough to hear.
"C-A-T," Miss Rina would spell.
"Cat," Catalina groaned. "Ugh, again?"
"Yes, and D-O-G?"
"Dog. Boring!"
Mira mouthed each word silently, mimicking the sounds in her head.
Cat… Dog… House… Sky…
Sometimes, Miss Rina used picture cards or told stories from children's books.
When Catalina got bored, she flung the cards aside or tossed the old worksheets on the floor like trash.
One evening, after the lesson ended and Catalina skipped off to eat mango popsicles, Mira tiptoed back to the side of the house and peeked through the bushes.
There, in the wastebasket near the tutor's chair, were crumpled pages, unfinished spelling sheets, and once… a whole thin workbook.
She pulled them out gently.
A part of her worried someone would catch her. But another part of her—stronger, louder—was hungry for every word.
By candlelight, in her tiny room, Mira smoothed the pages with trembling hands.
She traced each letter with her finger. Whispered the sounds. Matched the pictures. Guessed what she didn't understand. Memorized everything.
Every. Single. Word.
Her favorite was a torn page with a big letter "M" and the word "Mother" underneath.
She folded it carefully and tucked it into her locket.
A week later, Miss Rina began teaching simple poems.
Catalina rolled her eyes.
Mira whispered them softly outside the window, line by line, with her eyes closed.
One afternoon, Doña Isabella happened to glance out the window as Miss Rina packed up her things.
Her eyes caught a flicker of movement behind the bougainvillea bushes. She stepped quietly to the side.
There, hidden in the shadows, sat Mira—knees to chest, listening with her whole heart.
She wasn't making noise. She wasn't stealing. She was just… learning.
Isabella said nothing.
But something in her chest stirred.
Later that night, Catalina complained as usual.
"Miss Rina talks too much. And the books are old. I don't care if I read or not."
Doña Isabella stirred her tea silently.
Then she whispered to herself, almost too softly to hear:
"Some girls would give anything to have what you throw away."
End of Chapter Six